Further Adventures of Rocketblog

Administrative test #3

2010-01-06T11:53:00.001-05:00

Another test

Administrative test #2

2010-01-06T10:28:00.001-05:00

This is another test. Keep having a nice day!

Administrative test

2010-01-06T09:31:00.001-05:00

This is an test. Have a nice day!

ghost baby

2009-12-27T19:48:00.005-05:00

I wonder if anyone else gets the feeling that there's a baby they should have had? And that nonexistent baby is following them around through the holidays, inserting thoughts of "should have been" into some very strange places?

Today was my first full day off, and I slept in, went to church and went to the gym. None of that would have been possible if ghost baby were real.

Sorry ghost baby. Maybe next Christmas.

happy holidays

2009-12-26T19:45:00.003-05:00

Blake has been gone for 7 hours and I've already started binging on the computer. Ahhh. If only my modem wasn't a piece of crap and if only I could wrap up this silly Homestar fan pattern I wrote this fall. The pattern is all written, but. I'm spacey from sitting in the basement for most of the afternoon and my hands are cold. Still, I'm very happy that I get to mellow out this much today; it's been a long string of late nights and early mornings. Today is for knitting, writing, and sorting through Christmas pictures.

Yeah, it was a good Christmas. Every year gets better. On Christmas Eve Blake sang with the children's choir at church, the choir I somehow found myself directing this October. Blake has been practicing with this group for the better part of two years, but he has never made it to performing. I don't really mind. He wants to sing with the kids; he doesn't want to be in front of everyone with them, and that's much better than the reverse. And this year he's been singing with them. On Christmas Eve he scored a hat-trick: he stayed in one place, he kept his fingers out of his nose and I could hear him singing. A mother could not be more proud.

I made the genius decision to bathe him before church, so all we had to do when we got home was change into pj's, set out the cookies we'd baked for Santa, and go to sleep. Good thing we made 20 cookies; between Santa and my brother they were all gone by Christmas morning.

korknisse guards the few remaining cookies

This year Blake got a fish and some books and a foam sword and a shirt with a rocket on the front. I got a knitterly necklace and a book on regency sewing and the first Smiths album (on vinyl, my latest drug) and a quarter-year subscription to a yarn of the month club. Mason got old books and new books and a luxurious knit neckwarmer and a shirt with an evil cupcake. Someday soon he'll get another custom calendar, full of this year's concert photography.

And all of us got Homestar for Decemberween.

Yesterday we had dinner at my parents, which was very small but very emotional. This is the last big holiday without my grandmother, as she had a stroke on New Year's Day last year and our last memory of her in health was at my house for Christmas dinner. Mason was there with me, which helped. Blake and Nic got into a few scraps, which didn't. And when it was all over we packed up and went to Mason's sister's house to visit after their Christmas dinner (none of us could have eaten anything more if we were paid. We still managed to have cake, though.)

This is where Blake got to run around with his almost-cousins and receive all the noisy, battery-operated toys that I avoid like the plague. My favourite, and his, was a huuuuge Clone Trooper helmet with a very loud voice setting. He took it with him today for the 1 ½ hour car ride to see the Boy's aunt. I'm sure it will also be his father's favourite toy by the end of that ride. Hee.

This year I find myself nostalgic for lost family, dead and separated by feud or distance. This year I miss long-gone parties with my friends in-between family dinners; bread dragons and 3 a.m.'s in the Dance Cave. This year I listen to people talk about how much better Christmas is when you only go to one place, and I just nod politely. What I have gained in tranquility I can never get back in bustle. I love my house, but this is the time when I wish I was around for brunches and drinks and coffee in the city. And that's what Christmas is for too, I think. Nostalgia and melancholy are alright, as long as you don't binge on them. Me, I'm just trying to stay away from the chocolates and I figure that the sadness will take care of itself.

decorating itch

2009-12-20T19:49:00.002-05:00

I have the afternoon off while Blake is decorating my parents' tree, which allows me to get caught up on my digital tomfoolery. I'm glad he's doing it for his own sake; I thought that boy would explode with the need to decorate. We bought our tree on Thursday, which meant that it needed at least a night to relax. His first question when he woke up on Friday: "can we decorate the tree?" No, son. I'd love to know the code for calling in Festive, but it's a closely guarded secret. So yesterday, despite spending most of the day booting around downtown until Mason & I were thoroughly wrung out, we got out the precious red tote and started the tinselling.

Why were Mason & I so spent? It might have something to do with the fact that we were in pubs from school's end to well past midnight. It was a perfect storm of bar-crawling, starting with a staff function, sailing on through Brampton Drunken Knitting (with a brief dinner visit by Blake & my dad before they went off to see the Olympic torch in a nearby park), and finishing off at the Artful Dodger for a res reunion. It would have been even more difficult to get out of bed on Saturday if I had been able to put down the car keys at any point, but that's the problem with an inter-city booze expedition: there really can't be all that much booze if I don't want to have my car towed to some nearby, put-upon friend. So I watched the old crowd get loaded instead of participating.

(I'm really not sure that I could have stood back from this 12 years ago, put-upon friends or none. I suppose that means that I'm growing up. Or? Really tired.)

Everyone was feeling cozy and sentimental, and my ancient velour Christmas dress went over well, as the later it got no-one could stop petting my arms. (People love that dress. It is by far the most popular thing I've ever worn. Maggie M in particular thought it was worth building a time machine so that she could do as my mother had, and order it from the Sears catalogue in the early 90's.) I spent time catching up with Pete, Cranly, Steven, Seth & Kat, without wondering too much about when I would see anyone again. That may be the other thing about not drinking: I was able to appreciate seeing everyone without getting anxious about the fact that we never ever see each other any more.

I also found it interesting how easy it was to talk to Cranly, as I had to literally corner him to talk to him 6 ½ years ago, and I haven't been able to keep in touch since. Now he frequents the Dakota (for bluegrass), nearly joined the Peace Corps and has had a parallel experience with being seduced by bands in the BSS family. When I was younger I used to think that my friends then would like the same things as I did pretty much forever; now that I'm older my biggest surprise is that sometimes, they do.

No pictures, because I never went home for my camera. And also, I was talking too much. But to know what it looked like, you just have to picture everyone in my photos from the first days of the journal, only with beards. Yes, even the ladies.

Especially the ladies.

sixth! birthday! party!

2009-12-12T19:51:00.007-05:00

or "Things I Discovered at Blake's 6th Birthday Party (whether I wanted to or not)"

or "How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Basement Accordion Party"

Be very specific as to times. I am used to waiting hours for my guests to arrive; Blake's friends arrived 5 minutes before the official start and their parents were at the door 10 minutes early. This means that the cake must be cut on time or parents will stack up in the hall.
Two hours is not enough; three hours is way too long. We compromised with 2 1/2.
Don't make tonnes of adult food. Blake's classmates' parents won't stay, and our parent friends had other plans. We'll be eating chili every meal for a week.
Rehearse giving prizes to avoid a meltdown. Pin the Tail on the Donkey should not end with tears and clawing.
Carry your camera or you'll miss the whole thing.
Grandma makes the best cake. Twice.
Musical chairs is a game best played with LP's. And it can go on forever if you let it.
First graders can spend a half hour smashing ice chunks and kicking a soccer ball around the frozen backyard; no extensive programming required.
The coffee table makes an excellent kids' table.
The Greater Brampton Downstairs Accordion Recital Society Lives!

busy like a zom-bee

2009-11-07T20:51:00.007-05:00

Still incredibly busy, although on Tuesday, when midterm reports go in, I should be able to breathe a little easier. Tonight I gave up Friendly Rich to spend the night marking Nineteen Eighty-Four essays; I appear to be breaking out in a rash of responsibility. I was in the process of packing Blake off to Camp Grandparents when it hit me: I could spend my time marking instead of having fun! So I did. It sucks but at least I won’t be as anxious as I’ve been.

Why all the anxiety? Throughout most of the fall season I’ve been struggling with a cold that lingered improbably long. This has put a serious dent in the amount of marking I’ve been able to complete at work, as most of my “free” time is spent preparing for lessons I might otherwise have faked my way through were I feeling shipshape. Also, I can’t pretend that I haven’t been dragging myself to extracurricular activities in addition to the Amy Millan concert: I had two dance recitals in the week leading up to Hallowe’en, I lurched through my second Toronto Zombie Walk, I dressed up for work, and I sewed my best costume yet (about which more later). The arrival of Hallowe’en was a desperate relief: for the first time in days, I only had to worry about Blake’s costume and not my own. Sweet.

The crowning touch was that two days before Hallowe’en, Mason’s car died and I had to scramble to buy a new car. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday were a nightmare, but now I have a car. It’s black, as Henry Ford would have wanted, and it smells good and it’s mine. It’s the first car I’ve owned since the ill-fated Mustang Scotty. I'm very proud.

This coming week will be all about insulating my bathroom so that my upstairs bathroom doesn't grow any more mold, sewing a purple outfit for my NEXT dance recital, and perhaps attending to the dishes more than once a week. I'm excited.

And, without further ado, Hallowe'en!

I'm pretty sure that the weeks of stress leading up to this night were more than worth it.

come home and the birds will bring you honey

2009-10-18T20:27:00.002-04:00

Yes, it’s been awhile. And if I didn’t forcibly carve out some time while Mason cooks and Blake sits in a time-out, there wouldn’t be this entry, either. My life is so stinking busy that I often have to make time for laundry and returning library books. There is so little relaxing that writing time is completely sacrificed. It sucks. I’m not happy about the fact that stories have been building in my head and pictures on my camera; both equally likely to fade away before they are noticed and dragged into the light.

Still, Wednesday was special and I want to spend those precious moments when I should be making a Hallowe’en costume or – heaven forfend! – marking, to think about them.

You will, by now, be prepared to roll your eyes when I tell you that we went to a concert by another member of the BSS family. (All I can say about our monomaniacal focus is that at least I like music again. Musical appreciation went into eclipse for just about all the years that the Boy & I were together, revived only by periodic pilgrimages to StanFest and the brief non-goth clubbing experiment of 2002-3.) It used to be that I only broke school-night curfew for something as epic as a Nick Cave concert; now that I’m in love with a smorgasbord of local and semi-local musicians, these “epic” nights come closer and closer together. I would have made arrangements for any night of the week (as I did for the Hidden Cameras gig last month) but Amy Millan’s Wednesday concert was particularly well-timed: every Wednesday during the school year, Blake spends the night with his dad and I am, if not responsibility-free, then responsible only for myself. Responsibility-reduced, I suppose. So we bought tickets last month and prepared for something, well, epic.

I’ve only been to the Mod Club a few times; despite living a block down the street, I don’t remember it being a concert venue then. The first time was to see Daniel Johnston, the second for They Might Be Giants, so I associate the place with eclecticism and a devoted crowd. The location also gave me a chance to introduce Mason to Kalendar, a restaurant from the old days that I visit now all too infrequently. Mason drew my attention to the Shiatsu School of Canada across the street, and the idea of massage gripped us (heh) until after supper. Mason has a number of permanent conditions and has been looking for a good legitimate massage for a long time (as opposed to the kind that are advertised in the back of local papers and take place in trailers). He got an appointment for after supper; I was so full by this time that I was more than happy to curl up on the waiting room bench and close my eyes until he came out of the room.

He emerged sweaty and disheveled. “That wasn’t a shiatsu massage,” he pronounced. Oh no! And the place looked so classy.

Yeah, well. It wasn’t one of those massages, either. It was acupuncture and cupping, which is one of those things that remains completely exotic to me. It helped, though; Mason was pain-free for at least a day which is a new record. He was comfortable enough to suggest walking to the club, three or four blocks away in a night that seemed anxious for winter’s official start. I have yet to harden to the cold. But it was fine.

We got there too late to get a booth seat, but early enough to bag standing room on stage left, where we stayed for the whole night. I was glad for both the close-up view and that we were cut off from the comings and goings in the back of the room, so we could concentrate on the music and not crowd-watch. This made it a complete surprise at the end of the night when the room thinned out and every second person was a musician or in the BSS family.

But! That moment was at the other side of two hours of fairly quiet music. We saw the Bahamas last June, opening for Zeus, but this was the first time we’ve been able to see him without a wall of hipsters in the way. Mason bought the album back then, so this time we actually knew a few lyrics. It was a listening audience, quiet and supportive, clapping along when asked and staying silent when not. Afie struts and preens like a hair-metal lead guitarist, but it’s packaged in jeans and a button up shirt, with quiet melodic lyrics and a creepy dad mustache. It’s fun to watch.

Amy came out with many of the same people as in Harbourfront, with the notable addition of her sweetie and bandmate Evan, who decorated the stage with flowers a la a Stars concert. It was a beautiful concert, full of little stories and gentle sweetness. It was quiet, too; standing next to the amps wasn’t even an issue. It’s hard to describe how soothing and lovely she sounds live; she sets such a high standard that it’s easy to take it for granted. I honestly didn’t think that “Bruised Ghosts” could get any better than the album version, but when Feist bounded out of the wings to sing back-up and Evan and Doug Tielli sprayed us with two trombone parts, a wave of joy flooded my body.

Seeing the family was incredibly surreal. I went to the bathroom while Mason waited to talk to Evan, and when I got back, Ron Sexsmith was getting hassled by security as he walked backstage. “I’m with the band!” he protested. Is Ron Sexsmith gonna hafta choke a bitch?, I thought to myself, amused. Finding it difficult to decompress, I decided to stall for time by picking out some merchandise. I realized that Kevin Drew was behind me, talking loudly to his parents. Be cool, I thought, and went to the bank machine. We had come to the venue with 7 dollars, and had spent that on a single beer. I’m not complaining, as it left us clear-headed for what happened next.

The merchandise table had no change, so they sent me to the bar with my wallet in my hand. As I turned around to go back to the table, a guy asked me for ten dollars. We started to banter back and forth, introducing ourselves, talking about money and being a teacher (me) and how he had thought about it but didn’t care about teaching (him) and I realized that he looked familiar because he plays bass in Metric. Mason was still carrying the book around after having Evan sign it, and Josh found the one picture he was in to autograph. Jimmy Shaw wandered over to see what we were doing and exclaimed over the book. “That’s my picture! I took that on my camera!!” So we had him sign it, and we chatted about the New Year’s Eve dance party which he claims to only vaguely remember, “but not because [he] was drunk.” Smirk. So that’s why they were so nice to us. I’m not proud, I’ll take it.

Brendan Canning was also wandering around beardless, and we found the opportunity to apologize to him for invading the dj booth during the dance party. He was gracious and sweet, which is the first time I’ve been able to see up close what everyone says about him. All is forgiven, I hope.

There were still more autographs to bag, but at this point we were so overwhelmed by the rapid succession of meetings that we decided to leave. We were a block away before I realized that I had left the camera, full of lovely close-ups and photographic proof of the very special guest, somewhere in the venue. I ran back, but it was just sitting on the stage, waiting for us. The place was full of musicians, so who would have stolen it anyway?

We were still lucky.

precious little class

2009-09-08T19:47:00.003-04:00

Today was my first day of classes for the year. Well, there are several generalizations in that statement. 1. We had two full days of meetings last week, so "first day" is a little unclear. 2. I spent the entire day, less an hour, working a Grade 9 BBQ with Teija, so I smell like propane, meat & sweat instead of anxiety and shampoo and there was precious little "class." (Is there ever?)

There was still an hour in there where I had to shine, even though I was trying to shine through weariness and grease. On the long-ago advice of Lucretia Nightshade, I have begun every class of my career in identical fashion: with an alphabetic seating plan denoted by nametag index cards on desks. The idea is that I would set up the room for them before the bell and stand at the door to greet them. Every student gets a handshake, a smile and direct eye contact as we introduce ourselves. Then they get a slip of paper, directing them to write certain facts on their name card.

Every year I start this way. In the beginning it was hard to smile because I was so nervous. In my first years I would kick out early birds so that we could do the whole thing in one go. Now that I'm into my 8th year, I'm getting so incredibly confident that I don't even do it at the door anymore; I can wander around the class getting people set up while kids trickle in. For a class like my current crop of 11 Faiths, this is crucial as they do not arrive at once.

I have come such an unbelievably long way.

I'm still trying to take care of myself in a manner befitting a girl who spent a summer getting trained in her backyard. Yesterday my whole family went to the beach for my end-of-summer ritual of not-thinking on Labour Day, and by the time I got Blake to bed I was completely fried. I did not want to do anything but sit on the couch and feel sorry for myself. Somehow I managed to keep a training date with Nic. So while I sweat buckets and the mosquitoes bit again and again, I practiced my jabs until all I could think of was my form. It was better than a sleeping pill.

Today was also Blake's first day of Grade 1, and his first day of all-day school in a long while. My parents are more keyed up about it than Blake; they're obsessing about his lunches and if he can handle staying in with his friends. Personally I would rather go through the stress of packing lunches and give him a chance to see his friends in other classes, than break up his day. I suspect that the trial period of lunches in my kitchen are more for my parents' sake than Blake's, but I suppose that everyone needs to get used to the new year, all the way down the line.

On a considerably more frivolous note, I made Blake ice cream for breakfast. As in, the yarn kind of ice cream, with silly smiles. Pictures soon, plus stories of my Sunday with Owen Pallett and the scary guy who harshed my mellow!

painting

2009-08-23T16:05:00.000-04:00

Painting the basement with Mason has been exceedingly quick and painless. This would be a good thing at any time; now it's an especially good thing because Blake comes back tomorrow and all this stuff was supposed to be done in his absence. That's just my own personal anxiety, though: he'll be thrilled to see the basement all re-arranged, with painting to be done. I'm not sure how I'll keep him away from the worksite. Long, exhausting play dates? Extended periods of time in the backyard? Bribery?

At any rate, it all has to be done before the end of the month, when my brother may be moving in. Why do my summers always begin with infinite space to grow and end up squinched up and stressed?

tattoo

2009-08-20T16:00:00.000-04:00

Nine years ago yesterday, I got married. This year, with my divorce slowly working its way through the legal system, I celebrated my union and subsequent abandonment by getting a tattoo influenced in equal parts by old sailors and Oscar Wilde's letter from prison, "De Profundis."

It's big.

In tattoo tradition, the swallow is a harbinger of the approaching shoreline, and is used to commemorate 5000 nautical miles navigated. In lieu of sailing experience (except for that afternoon when I was 18 when I caught my first and last fish), I choose to use it to represent the romantic passage of the last eleven years, and the hope for a safe homecoming at the end of it. Hence the scroll, which is Wilde's imperative for those who are loved.

Most people live for love and admiration. But it is by love and admiration that we should live. If any love is shown us we should recognize that we are quite unworthy of it. Nobody is worthy to be loved. The fact that God loves man shows that in the divine order of ideal things it is written that eternal love is to be given to what is eternally unworthy. Or if that phrase seems a bitter one to hear, let us say that everyone is worthy of love, except he who thinks he is. Love is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling, and Domine, non sum dignus should be on the lips and hearts of those who receive it.
- p. 82

I promise, that's the last time you will see my write about Special Meaningful Meaning of this tattoo. I may be pretentious, but I hope I'm well aware of the depths of my own pretention.

It's still Too Hot. I'm getting a false sense of coolness when I move quickly from room to room, which instantly evaporates as soon as I sit down. Ugh. At least I managed to figure out the bathing thing: hair requires baths, tattoo requires showers, but it was time to wash the hair so I put the tattoo first today. I need an old fashioned shower cap. And a quilted bathrobe, maybe. I already have a wooden rolling pin.

so hot

2009-08-17T15:58:00.002-04:00

It has been unconscionably hot for the past few days, so hot that I'm making use of my vintage desk fan to be comfortable enough to write this entry. It's a single speed energy gobbler that smells like burning dust and features an attractive wire guard that's more than large enough to accommodate small curious fingers reaching after the metal blade. And yet, here we all are: me, the computer and the outdated office equipment. What can I say; I like to live on the edge.

How hot is it? It's so hot that even if the wasps weren't making pests of themselves, I still wouldn't want to be in the backyard. It's so hot that on Saturday I enjoyed a visit to Bakka Phoenix more for the air conditioning than for the chance to be with My People after a week's separation. It's so hot that Mason & I slept in the basement last night, wore as little as possible, and tried not to touch, yet still were almost unable to sleep. 31 degrees in the basement is just not right. I'm getting a petition together.

The good news is that I'm blue again.

retreat! retreat!

2009-08-14T14:32:00.001-04:00

Today I was far less productive than yesterday; I blame the heat. Mason & I retreated to the basement throughout the day, emerging only when we had to help my dad finish off a few things started yesterday.

I have hopes for tomorrow: a market morning, a frame for my limited edition Gaiman poster, and maybe even a re-bluing (I've gone silverback). I'll let you know.

building

2009-08-13T14:32:00.004-04:00

I spent all day helping to assemble useful Things. One is a bookshelf for Blake's closet that will allow me to get all of his books and magazines off tables, nightstands and high shelves; also, I can move his board books to a different location altogether.

The other shelving unit was for the kitchen. I had an idea that I'd put up a corner unit that would hold my cookbooks, but what I took home from Ikea turned out to be only big enough for trade paperbacks. Fail. So I filled it in with a small cookbook, a food memoir, a weight loss memoir, a biography of a food writer, etc. It was so much less satisfying than I thought it would be, and yet I probably created a good home for the goldfish I plan to buy at the end of the summer.

Mason installed his magnetic knife strip on the cupboard so that the big deadly knives can get out of the drawer. And then we put up rod holders so that I can have curtains in my bedroom. They'll be hemmed quite short to accommodate the bed directly below the window, but in the summer I move across the room to free up the heater so I can have different, longer panels. I wonder if having two! two!! two!!! sets of curtains will be as exciting and fulfilling as I think it will be?

anticipation, fulfilled

2009-08-12T22:47:00.002-04:00

The week before WorldCon sort of sucked; somehow I contracted an inner ear infection, so one part of my brain would say one thing and the other, another. It wasn't painful, but it gave me dizzy spells and it couldn't really be medicated, so I spent the week staying still and losing all the good effects of July's boot camp program. But I managed to get everyone packed and ready for Montreal, where I would be attending my first World Science Fiction Convention, Blake would be tagging along for free and Mason (who wasn't that interested in sf or, as we came to call it, "convention-nerd-ing") came along to keep us company and do some food tourism.

And I had no need to pack my most important asset: on the day Teija got married, I followed a dream about her wedding I had in June and dyed the front part of my hair blue. It's been the most fun hair I've had in years, and it was the perfect no-stress accessory to take to my first WorldCon...if I wanted people to remember me. And I did.

We got into the car on Thursday. I had tried to get everything packed the night before, but there are always 7000 things to do at the last minute, including cleaning up the stacks of dirty dishes so that I don't return to a toxic waste dump, packing the books and toys Blake will need on a 6 hour car-ride, and making sure that the adults are sufficiently caffeinated for the voyage. So we were a few hours late. Still, I'm proud of myself for getting out the door and only forgetting one thing (extra balls of yarn, which wasn't a problem because I had a second project. Of course.)

We had lunch in Trenton, at The Blue Room, a restaurant we picked in tribute to my hair. It was a lucky lucky find: an old school diner with real milkshakes and jukeboxes at each booth. Blake tried to use our juke to call his dad, which would have been more effective if his dad were Conway Twitty. And when we got change for the box, we found that the numbers gave up random selections, and we got a huge kick out of hearing the single the juke would deign to pop up. No, you don't really want to hear that, do you? Here's this instead.

"Blakey don't dial that number / It's a jukebox, not a phone…"
- random FM radio meets our lunch time memories

We zipped into Montreal at great speed, thanks to the prescience of Google Maps and a happy soundtrack of Apostle of Hustle. I was thrilled to discover that the expensive hotel I'd booked at the last minute was a posh pagoda-clad Holiday Inn on the borders of Chinatown and kittycorner from the convention building. (I didn't realize then that the Palais de Congrès is enormous, and I would spend most of my time in there walking from one end of it to the next and up and down floors in search of something vital: food, bathrooms, my child, an exit. Having an entrance close to the hotel was just a statistical likelihood, given its size. Still, it came in handy on the one night when I was alone.)

As soon as we got the car stowed and luggage hauled up, Blake & I went across the street to get registered. The first cool thing was the Voodoo Message Board system, which entranced the both of us. In brief: everyone who paid for a membership is listed alphabetically. When you check in, you circle your name. If someone has a message for you, they write it on the slips of paper provided, file it in a small box with eccentric alphabetic divisions, and put one of the red push pins next to your name. It's great fun to walk by and scan for red pins; as much fun as I've had since we used General Delivery to get our mail in Wolfvegas. Blake wanted to add his name, so I did on the second day. On the third day, he got a pen long enough to re-write his own name, which pleased him enormously. I only really needed this system for a couple of days, as I was able to find Souzan that first night walking through the hallway to a bellydance costuming panel. Juuki left us a message on the second day that let us find her in a steampunk panel (that took itself far too seriously, by the way; they shushed Blake so aggressively whenever he whispered to me that I was ready to start a fistfight by the time we got out. One, it's not church; two, if it were, people would treat him better. Argh.)

All of that being in the future, we left messages for both ladies and went to the desk to get checked in. Blake is only five years old, which means that he got in free and got his own "Kid in Tow" badge, which identified him both as belonging to the convention and entirely my responsibility; next year he will be theoretically able to roam free. Shudder. His biggest thrill came when they told him that he could pick his own name for his badge. He wanted "Winona" after the Rubbadubbers whale, but he was persuaded into an alternate: "The Batman." This is actually a terrifically sensible idea, as his real name was hidden from any potential abductors and he was at least twice as excited about attending WorldCon as a superhero.

We stared walking the halls; our first attempt to exit the conference hall with any sort of speed was frustrated, but at least we got to people-watch. A first day impression of WorldCon included surprise that there were so many nerds there. Hee. We met Souzan in a hallway, tried out the bellydancing panel, and then quickly went home to investigate our hotel room. In theory I could have ordered up a cot, but I decided to establish a one-off decision as a genuine family tradition: as the third person in a suite booked for two, Blake slept in a sleeping bag behind a chair, and thus Fort Sensible was re-established.

Fort Sensible! I honestly didn't see this coming, although in retrospect it's obvious. Technically it should have been Mason who slept in the Fort as the last person to join the expedition, but Blake genuinely enjoys the sleeping bag and this way Mason would be free to explore the city instead of spending the day trying to work the kinks out of his body from a night next to the air-conditioning unit. The second Fort was smaller than the first, and its occupant had to fall asleep without the benefit of toxic amounts of alcohol, but once again it did its job and Blake remained un-trod-upon the whole weekend.

On Friday Blake got up very very early, but I chalked that up to the novelty of the Fort and the delightfully unclose-able curtains. Besides, I planned to run him ragged: there was no way that the next day he'd have the energy to read aloud from Land of Nod: Rockabye Book at 5:45. I hoped. So we got dressed; him as a normal kid and myself as a girl who fully expected to meet Neil Gaiman at a signing that afternoon. (That meant that I wore my Scary Trousers shirt over a flowered skirt and makeup. I also wear the band shirt when going to the concert, and is that a problem for you?) To be up front: although there were many interesting and humbling writers attending WorldCon, when wrangling Blake all day I had energy for exactly one other thing: panels with Neil Gaiman on them. So if this account seems a little Neil-centric to you, well, so was my weekend. Imagine what it's like to be Mason, who had to hear all these stories, plus panel highlights, every day for 4 days.

We wandered a few blocks into Vieux Montréal and found an open café where I was able to get a full meal for Blake and myself. Getting Blake to eat a whole piece of quiche was important to me; I wasn't sure if we'd have the time or ability to get a good lunch, but I figured that if we had a solid breakfast and met Mason for a big dinner that we'd be in good shape for the evening. I was smug as we breezed past the long line of Tim Hortons postulants in line for their morning communion: I had eaten a proper Montréal breakfast in the Old part of the city, and I wouldn't have to depend on the local fastfooderies later as my boyfriend was going to suss out the best/cheapest places for supper. Ah, the smugness. If only comeuppance wasn't waiting in the wings.

Mason walked us to the signing ticket line before going off to experience the best of local breweries. The line was long. It was nowhere near the lengths I have navigated for a Gaiman autograph, but I've never done this with a small one in tow and I was anxious about getting a ticket. Fortunately, a signing lineup is an excellent place in which to meet people of similar temperament, and Blake immediately made friends with a woman behind us while I struck up a conversation with the mother-and-daughter in front.

(Blake's ice-breaker was "why are you in that [wheel]chair?" and the rest of the conversation was based on a mutual love of Strongbad, who was spending the day with us. Sometimes he amazes me in his ability to inspire love from random strangers with nothing but pure energy and random child charm. On the other hand, when I put it that way, it's hardly amazing at all.)

After we had successfully gained the magic ticket, we headed off to find what would become Blake's favourite place in Montréal, let alone WorldCon: the Children's Playspace. (He had difficulty understanding that if we ever came back to Montréal, this room would not be set up for him; that he was participating in a global gypsy caravan that had as much physical permanence as his own Fort Sensible.) I flopped down in a chair next to Andy, pulled out my baby sweater and thought about our next move. I stopped knitting to break up a scary fight between kids that threatened to erupt into fisticuffs between parents. (The solution? Take away the wooden train tracks. Without track the territory opens up and everyone can make up their own circles. I had to let kids use my legs as a train tunnel, but it was a small price to pay to keep the screaming and crying to a minimum.)

I also stopped knitting to herd Blake away from the toys and into the activities: he got his face painted as JetCat, and joined me in learning how to write our names in hieroglyphics. But mostly, I knit.

I was told that Free Food was available to everyone in some magical land called the ConSuite, and all I had to do was walk three measly blocks to the Delta to claim my free lunch. Despite Heinlein's sensible approbation, our free lunch was pretty good: bread and coldcuts, with some excellently sour pickles and acres of stale sheet cake from the previous night's birthday celebrations. I felt ridiculously ahead of the game by the time we wandered back to the convention. Nothing like free food to bolster one's morale.

We got back in time for me to settle Blake on the floor at the back of the room for a panel called "The New Media." There I was able to hear several delightful people including Neil Gaiman (who composes his books using "joined-up writing"), Cory Doctorow (who figured out a way to track changes in ever-malleable manuscripts and managed to drop the Six-String Nation Guitar into the debate, which made me feel like I was back in a folk festival), and Melissa Auf der Maur (who fetishizes vinyl as much as Mason & I seem to, a sentiment that made me break the listening silence with a whoop of appreciation.) Blake did the absolute best thing he could: he read Nod to himself until he fell asleep, and I was able to drag him to an empty chair near Souzan about ¾ of the way through the panel. The panel ended while he was still sleeping, and I was able to use Souzan as temporary babysitting so that I could go to the front and introduce myself to Cory Doctorow.

I read his book Little Brother this year for a library program at Bat Masterson (somehow I always end up reading the sf-fantasy book; last year it was Ysobel by GGK) and was absurdly charmed when I finished the book, looked him up and found out that he orbits the earth in a hot-air balloon in goggles and a red cape. (Or, you know, not.) He was pretty thrilled with the how and why of knowing him through the library program. And yet, "people keep giving me goggles and capes," he confessed to me. "I have six of them now." "Your daughter will enjoy them," I assured.

I went back to the seats, where Blake was just waking up somewhat disappointed to still be in a grey conference room. This is what apple juice is for, so I gave him some, and then we went back to the Children's Room so that Blake could learn to be a Jedi. This, of course, is geek double-speak for "a bunch of boys will try to whack eachother's heads off with paper weapons," which I should have anticipated. Nevertheless, Blake did have a lot of fun even though Mommy had to speak to a boy about his salty language and keep the same boy from blinding Blake with a paper sword. Ah, childhood.

At two we headed down to get in line for the Gaiman signing. Later I was glad that we got this out of the way on our first full day, as two hours of watching me inch around a linesnake while making grownup friends was just barely doable. He does find ways to amuse himself, though: first he read more of the Rockabye Book (Godsend. That book was a godsend. Dav gave it to me for my birthday exactly 10 years ago, declaring that it would change my life. Instead it SAVED my life; I could never have made it through the weekend without it. I owe you 1000 thank you's, Dav.).

Then he lay on the ground on the red carpet in the vendor hall. Then he made friends with other little people whose parents were helping to co-ordinate the line. So by the time I was at the front of the line, he was deeply involved in cleaning up by carrying plastic stanchions to the corner. But I insisted that he come over to meet Neil, as he always wanted to and never has. This will most likely be his only opportunity until he's old enough to have a personal distracting device; it's clearly nonsensical to expect a five-year-old to stand with me in line and I could only pull it off without bloodshed once in a lifetime, and only by stretching the definitions of "standing" and "in line" to the point of meaninglessness. But meet him Blake did; and I was proud of his manners.

Also: I got Neil to sign my copy of Vanity Fair, as I have often felt the need to redeem Todd McFarlane's 12 year old signature on the back of it. (This is also known as the "you're not Marilyn Manson, but you'll do" autograph.) This makes me happy.

Next! Dinner & staggering drunkenness! Angry silences! And using the con to balm my spirits. Read it all and more in tomorrow's installment: "Fifteen Samples?? As in, One Five?"

Remember the part when I was smugly counting on my epicurious boyfriend to suss out a cool dinner spot? The part when I almost felt sorry for my friends who had rented a hotel room with a kitchen, because they weren't as free to sample the beautiful bounty of Montréal cuisine? You must have realized that there was a smackdown in the wings. I didn't, and thus was totally surprised when Blake & I got back to the hotel to find Mason the worse from a day of beer tasting. He did not have any idea of where to go to dinner, but he did want to tell me about the hibiscus beer he sampled. He wanted to tell me about it many many times.

I must point out that it was not totally his fault. He went to a brew pub that, after 5 samples, ordered him to go to a different brewery because it was "so much better." At the second pub, when he wanted to stop drinking, they egged him into "finishing all the testers." So I blame the brewers, filthy sots that they are. Regardless, my dinner was effectively ruined, so I dragged both boys out to a local plaza where we ate a functional but unimpressive cafeteria-style supper and then returned Mason to the hotel to sleep it off.

I took Blake back to the con so that he could build a pig puppet in honour of Wolves in the Walls, and so that I could sulk in peace. Thanks to his nap, he was still in great spirits and not particularly tired. So we crafted, and he played, and we watched a bit of Yellow Submarine while I improvised another geektopus out of free convention yarn.

I had put him in his pj's before we left the hotel, as they were showing Coraline in the auditorium and I thought it would be a good place to pretend that we were in a drive-in theatre. Unfortunately, problems with the Blue Ray system delayed the movie for at least a half hour; this plus the long introduction to the movie by Neil himself meant that by 10, the Blake's head was in my lap and the movie still hadn't started. So we left. I had been able to ask a question about the Coraline Boxes during the Q & A period which made me happy; I didn't think it was worth sticking around so Blake could fall asleep five minutes into the movie. It's not like we'll never watch Coraline again.

Next!! A late morning! Photographs both flattering and not! A summer-weight cape! Noodles in the park! Losing underwear for the novice con-goer! A regularly scheduled Neil Gaiman naptime! Crazy Hair and the promise of glory! All this and more revealed in tomorrow's installment: "The Littlest Nerd Has His Day."

The next morning was our first late rising of the vacation, but no one felt rested. Blake & I ate a couple of snacks, then headed into the con building to scrounge up breakfast. Our first stop after finding Blake a smoothie and checking the voodoo boards (oddly addictive) was Kyle Cassidy's set-up in the hallway. Kyle is the principle photographer of Who Killed Amanda Palmer?, which features pics of dead Amandas and text by Neil Gaiman, and he was taking pictures of convention-nerds. I love a good picture, so I decided to get in on this. Unfortunately, wrestling with Blake, who was (as usual) fixated on my breasts, didn't leave me a lot of attention left over for presenting myself in a flattering light, and my half of the portrait is not attractive. Also, he refused to give up the empty smoothie cup, which adds another random unflattering element. So that wasn't the sop to my vanity I had craved. But the next moment made up for it.

As I was slinging our possessions about my body, I realized that K82 & Andy were coming by for their picture. Blake immediately grabbed K82's hand and refused to let go, talking a mile a minute. So when she went to her mark, he came with her, and they made the picture of the previous entry, which may just stop your heart with cuteness. What the hell, here it is again:

DSC_2036
Originally uploaded by kylecassidy

Once that was done, we all went back to the children's room to see if Blake could get in on some kamikaze koztuming. But we were late to the party, and all the black cloth and adult helpers were spoken for. I spent some time trying to figure out how to piece together two black jean legs before giving up in disgust, finding a short length of cosmic-printed cloth, and tying it around Blake's neck.

"It's sort of short," Mason commented at lunch.

"That's all the material they had," I replied. "So I figure it's his summer-weight cape." It was more durable than the facepaint of the day before, which transformed from Jet Cat to raccoon to chimney sweep before I washed it off entirely before dinner. And unlike a dramatic, sweeping cape it wasn't a danger to its wearer. Take that, kamikaze koztuming.

We met Mason at the registration desk for a picnic. One thing that Montréal definitely has over Toronto is the proliferation of small parks with fountains. After one and a half days walking the labyrinth of the convention, I was desperately in need of some time outdoors, with the soundtrack of water and birds instead of people. We got endlessly-customizable noodles from a restaurant in the convention, and went across the street to the first park we could find. Of course, Blake was about 10 spoonfuls into his soup before he announced his need of the bathroom. So Mason took him – where else? – back to the convention to find a bathroom, as I couldn't handle going back in that building so soon after leaving it.

They were gone for such a long time that I began to worry. What if Blake ran off? Or they got mowed down by an aggressive driver and no one knows that I'm over here? This is the thing about being in a strange city with your son glued to your hip: you crave a break from constant vigilance, but a break makes you all the more paranoid. They came back eventually, of course, a victim of Blake's tendency to take off half his clothes and relax whenever he spends time in the bathroom. He sees no need to rush himself; we wait by the sinks, bored, for him to emerge in his own sweet time. Later we would wish that we'd paid more attention.

At two we went back to the convention for a Gaiman reading (me) and a nap (Blake). The nap was not without its cost: before falling asleep Blake had to be shushed from reading his comic book out loud, then we had a whispered fight about using up my notebook to draw pictures. Finally, worn out by my infuriating attitude, he passed out. Thank heaven. It freed me up to listen to the reading, and it made everyone smile and sigh over his sleeping body when the reading ended and they all filed out. This time I had him in my lap, having learned the hard way the day before that he would be kicked and tripped over if he wasn't protected. There are, um, a few mobility issues at that convention, let's say. And people aren't always sorry when they boot your baby across the room. So in the interests of avoiding a punching match, I kept him safe. Everyone wins.

When he woke up, we went (where else?) back to the children's room for some playtime. By this point I was getting seriously buggy with the children's room, a windowless warren of 4 rooms where kids 6 and up seemed to be abandoned, free to form nasty cabals and wage war on other factions. So we tried some time in the dealers' room, but that was a bit of a no-go as there were too many collectables to be handled while my attention was distracted with nerdy t-shirt slogans.

Eventually we gave up and headed back to the Children's Room, where we could both be satisfied by a reading and re-enactment for 5-12 year olds of Crazy Hair, Neil Gaiman's semi-autobiographical poem of tonsorial confusion. Neil himself was to be there to read, answer questions, and set us up to create our own crazy hair collage. Needless to say, I was pretty excited about this, so when I was immediately challenged as to my qualifications, I got a little pissed off. "I'm with him," I pointed to my son, and muttered "just because I have blue hair doesn't mean I can't read the signs." After all that time in that windowless quad breaking up fights between kids and their parents, not to mention lolling around bored in the chairs, it was a little much to have someone get in my face about my right to be there. Fortunately, this anecdote, as with all my WorldCon anecdotes, did not end in a brawl.

(Apparently I have issues.)

Neil introduced himself as the writer of Coraline, and asked if anyone there had seen it. Hands shot up. Then he asked who had been scared. Blake immediately volunteered his experience, and at Neil's urging, showed how much he had been scared. Already weakened from the Kyle Cassidy photo, I was dying from the cuteness.

Neil read the story, then left with a cloud of interviewers so that we could create the collage. I worked feverishly for an hour: knitting tiny things with q-tips, gluing a sock onto the centre, drawing the Tick's floating hypnotized head, and encouraging Blake to draw and glue at top speed. The sock was a particularly divine inspiration; it drew so many comments that I was forced to pretend modesty. Blake & I also collaborated on a tableau that dramatized my own entrapment in the hair, and his diligent rescue attempt. By the time Neil came back, we were exhausted. I was, however, thrilled to overhear Neil & the woman who had challenged me in conversation about my crappy art.

Woman: what is that?

Neil: (insert charming English accent) It looks like the Tick.

He knew it was the Tick! This pleases me more than I can say.

While he was making his way around the table and talking to a few of the kids, a woman approached me from the cloud of interviewers. She introduced herself as from the NY Times, and flattered me all to hell by saying that she'd noticed my interesting question the night before and how I kept popping up at the events. I took a second at this point to send Blake over to Neil with his copy of Coraline. And really, I should have been taking pictures of Neil & Blake, but I was too dazzled by the idea of being in the Times to pay attention to my child meeting my favourite author for the second time in two days. Clearly, I need to rearrange my priorities.

Next!! Unusual shepherd's pie! Handicapping Neil's dinner! And the Accident that ended the Night to the Relief of All! All this and more revealed in tomorrow's installment: "Fireworks Should be Heard and Not Seen."

When the Crazy Hair excitement had subsided and I was able to remember my responsibilities, Blake & I packed up our stuff and went across to the hotel to meet Mason for supper. Abandoning completely the idea that dinner decisions would be made for me thus sweeping me into the fabled heaven of Montréal cuisine, I picked up a con-generated restaurant guide and used it to narrow down our choices. Restaurant Vallier looked interesting, and it would allow us to make another foray into Vieux Montreal, so that's where we went.

It turned out to be an excellent choice. Their specialty is retro food with gourmet twists; I had the duck comfit shepherds pie, Mason had the lamb burger and Blake had the mac n' cheese n' bacon. (Halfway through, Blake asked when he'd be getting a cookie. "This isn't the kind of mac n' cheese that comes with a colouring menu and a cookie," I warned.) Dinner went a long way toward calming us all down. The rift caused by the beer tasting day was starting to close, and the strain of caring for Blake all day in an unfamiliar environment was easing in the presence of another adult I could trust. I was cautiously optimistic that we would make it to the Masquerade that night.

I hadn't counted on Blake's tendency to underestimate how much clothing he needs to remove when using the facilities. He emerged from the stall soaked, and I decided to take him home to change before dragging him back across the street to see the costumes. It was at this moment, when we were figuring out the cheque and getting our stuff ready to go that Neil Gaiman walked in with his group and sat down at the table next to us. I was starting to feel creepy; the reporter had noticed me at "every" event, and would she think that I was discreetly following them at a distance? It was even weirder to realize that I could successfully guess what he would be eating, based on his widely-publicized love of sushi and my memories of the menu. Sure enough, I overheard him ordering the salmon tartare. It was time to go.

Blake started acting weird, though, and we tried to figure out what was up. Did he want to go say hi to Neil? Kind of but no. He decided that he wanted to wave from outside the window, which was self-defeating because the window was set just above his head. He did manage to attract the attention of the party, who waved back, and I saw the reporter whispering to the person next to her. Dammit, I was not stalking him! We were there first!

I did kinnear him, though. I felt that both Steph and Amy would want me to.

I had a moment of clarity back in the hotel room when I changed Blake. I never let him stay up past 7 when we're at home; now I was thinking of dragging him out to a 2-hour even that started at 8? This was when I discovered that - cue dramatic music - he wasn't wearing underwear, and he couldn't tell us why. Or where. Or - anything useful, really. I gave up on the night then, and concentrated on getting Blake into the bath instead, wondering if it would be worth it to bother the Palais staff trying to find a lost pair of Curious George underpants.

The three of us fell asleep to the noise of a fireworks competition, which lucky convention-nerds could watch from a balcony. I felt luckier to be sleeping.

The alarm went off surprisingly early the next morning. Unlike most days at WorldCon, today we had something to do that couldn't be missed: morning mass in Notre Dame Basilica. We'd been using the Basilica as a navigation point all weekend, counting down the days until we could experience it as it was meant to be: ringing with French, scented with incense. It was a charming ceremony and pretty straightforward. When I couldn't understand for blocks of time, there was more than enough to look at. I even respected the traditions of the building and didn't accept communion. (The last time I was in a Catholic church I deliberately flouted the wishes of the hard-line Sri Lankan priest and took a wafer into my un-shriven, un-penitent mouth. If Agamemnon can't make me behave, what chance did that bozo have?)

When mass was over, we took a short tour through the church and lit a few candles. That was most likely Blake's favourite part, little firebug that he is. My favourite part was the stained glass depictions of life in New France and the life-size wooden statues of the prophets. I'm not sure if Mason had a favourite part; he was born into Catholicism and visits to these churches are both deeply satisfying and unsettling.

We walked back to the hotel for our car so that we could drive to an authentic wood-oven bagel breakfast. This was our first chance to eat proper bagels as we'd been walking everywhere and the good bagel places are far from Old Montréal. I have to say: it was worth it. If you're going to be a tourist in Montréal, you might as well stack up your church visits and your bagel sampling as close as possible so as not to lose the buzz.

We got back to the convention for our regularly scheduled Neil Gaiman panel, a conversation with Gary Wolfe. (You think this is repetitive to read? Try looking back on your weekend with dismay, knowing that you're never going to find a fresh way of introducing attendance to yet another Gaiman event and that's pretty much all you did. Oh well. At least this was the last day.) I'm trying to remember: was this the one where we had seats? Yeah, it was. For a change, Blake & I got to sit in metal seats instead of putting our legs to sleep on the floor. So that was good.

We returned to the playroom in high spirits, still full of bagels and rest. In fact, we were so full of bagels that Blake & I were able to share a single order of noodles for lunch. Blake wanted to know when Neil would be in the Children's Area; he had explained his shyness at dinner the night before by explaining that "[Neil] would be in the playroom tomorrow anyway." We smiled at his naïveté. Then we read that there would be a young person Q&A with Neil on Sunday, and we had to apologize to Blake for doubting him. But when that was cancelled, it was back to the regular business of the playroom: forming tribes, squabbling over train tracks and denying the need for bathroom breaks. I was glad to get out of there again at 2, for the "Private Passions" the Many Interests of Neil Gaiman" panel.

("Is this going to be about how much he loves having sex with his girlfriend?" Mason cracked, when I mentioned it the night before. "I hope not," I said. "The cutie love notes on Twitter are more than enough for me." Oh Amanda, you'll never love him like we do, i.e. too starstruck to speak, in 30-second bursts, 2 years apart. It's a forbidden love affair, or rather a non-existent one.)

I was counting on Blake having his usual 2 pm nap at the back of the auditorium, but with K82 holding his hand he was considerably more worked up. First they decided that they wanted to sit on the front, leaving Andy & I scrambling to catch up. Then they decided to leave. Andy offered to take them back to the children's room, leaving me with a blessed free hour. I slunk back to the front of the room and sat, knitting and listening, until my hour was up. It was glorious. But the effect on Blake was not as good: without his nap he became more and more difficult until I was ready to leave him at one of the public fountains. He would have amused himself: he was forever ignoring my orders and sticking his hands into the dirty water, then his mouth. In a city with as many public fountains as Montréal, this is a real problem.

Next!! Visits to hotel rooms! A birthday dinner w/excellent soundtrack! The Hugos! A girl who suffers fools, if not gladly! The dismantling of Fort Sensible! Our final day in la belle province (cue the smoked meat)! All to be detailed in the ultimate edition: "Those fountains are finally good for something."

I thought I could do some more time in the children's room, but I when we got back after the panel, I was pretty much done with the place. Also, I was hungry and there were car trip snacks in our hotel room, so I convinced Souzan to bring K82 to see our room. This turned into a lot of jumping on the bed and screaming, so we walked a few more blocks to Souzan's suite, which was bigger and could muffle their raucous play. I was really having trouble shaking my headache, and greatly looking forward to dinner.

We used the guide to find a highly recommended Polish prix-fixé restaurant in Old Montréal, which was exactly what I wanted for my birthday dinner. I don't often crave Eastern European food, but there is Russian and Ukrainian in my mongrel past and there are days when pierogi is exactly what my peasant heart demands. The atmosphere was also pretty spectacular: the first person to greet you was a pianist who spent the evening cranking out a variety of schmaltzy standards and unexpected pop songs (Björk? Really?) with plenty of sentimental flourishes. We were seated at a table for six, on big wooden benches that allowed Blake to squirm around to his heart's content. He and I split some of everything, which turned out to be just the right amount of food for both of us (in my admittedly limited experience with prix-fixé, I've never seen so much food in three courses. It was just this side of overwhelming.) We also split my almondy-licious birthday cake, which arrived with a candle and a piano song but without the lockstep dead-eyed waitstaff to make me feel self-conscious. Trust me, if you're going to be publicly feted, have it done at a piano bar. It's so much classier.

Mason agreed to take Blake back to the hotel for the night so that I could watch the Hugo presentations. (We had agreed on a big birthday present when we got home, but this was easy and free.) So I trotted back to the convention, entirely Blake-free for the only time that weekend. There was one seat next to Andy & Souzan, so I was able to totally relax in my folding chair: take my shoes off, knit on something screamingly orange, and make occasional witty remarks to Andy. (As in when Frank Wu was nominated for the Fan Artist Hugo. "Are they saying whoo or wu?" Andy shrugged. But when he won, we could say both at the same time.)

It was interesting to see who showed up to claim their Hugo. Pixar and Joss Wheedon both won awards, and both sent proxies; I have to wonder if they take ComicCon more seriously than WorldCon. The Hugo itself is drop-dead gorgeous this year, and the aforementioned Frank Wu did exactly what I would have done with it: run around the stage with his Hugo in the air, making rocket noises. Zoom!

I had left my camera in the hotel room before dinner, so my birthday dinner and the Hugos were the only events at WorldCon that I couldn't directly record. This paradoxically made the awards better: after the ceremonies, all of the winners and presenters get up on stage and the fans get a solid five minutes to take pictures of the group. In lieu of a camera, I just stood around with a goofy grin on my face, sneaking looks at the trophy up close and enjoying the good spirits. It was exactly like the moments that follow a wedding ceremony: with the important part over, everyone milled about smiling, taking pictures and feeling good. With my own camera in hand, I may have missed that moment.

I sort of wanted to go to one of the convention parties that I had missed all weekend, but I thought that would be poor return to a boy who was patiently watching my son so that I could enjoy myself on my birthday. 'Sides, that was the whole point of dragging him along to Montréal: to be together on my birthday. So I pointed myself toward the hotel, and was crossing the courtyard when I heard my name. I had been so focused on being responsible that I'd completely missed Mike & Juuki, who were standing in their steampunk gear and waiting for a ride. I started to tell them about my Polish birthday dinner when Juuki's…um…corset…reeled in a passing man as if by magnetism. He spent the next twenty minutes telling us about his life, his alcoholism, his desire for a family, and what he had been told by a palm reader. "Why can't I have a family? I'm a good lover."

"I was a good wife and my husband still left me," I replied, my hand creeping into Juuki's.

I'm not sure if we had a conversation, or if we just contributed comments to his monologue. He was also greatly impressed by my 100% fake palm reading. And why is it that I have so much trouble making eye contact with people I like, but when I'm on the streets at night I'm able to look directly at the rambling addicts without pause? Maybe it's a dominance thing. Maybe I just feel safer paying full attention to someone unpredictable. Maybe I'm just contrary.

When he finally wandered away, Juuki started laughing and kissing me on the cheek. "You. Are an Angel."

"Remind me to tell you about the cracked out prostitute who put an earring on me," I said shakily.

Monday was our packing up day, our "oh my God, look at the hotel bill" day, our "what do we need to do before we leave this city?" day. I had been planning to do a couple of non-Neil Gaiman panels and some shopping before we left, but I really had no energy for panels at this point, so we went shopping. I had hoped that they would let Mason into the Dealer's Room without a badge, but that was a no-go; instead we did the Taster Membership thing so that he could experience the con for $20. Granted, there wasn't all that much to experience, but we bought some cool t-shirts and Mason got to see the children's room with our collaborative Crazy Hair banner. Also, I was able to show him the bi-lingual sign that proved I had married Neil Gaiman, and that he had taken my name. (Suddenly French is my favourite language.) Mason seems cautiously interested in con life, so I may have a male friend the next time I dip back into the oldest of my fascinations. That was very worth $20.

After we did that, we tried very hard to see a museum that Mason had visited the previous day, but it was closed when we got there. Of course, this was also the hottest day ever, so we had the fun of struggling through broiling Vieux Montreal with an angry and hungry kid, only to tell him that we couldn't deliver on the spooky crypt as promised. So we had ice cream instead, and Blake got so messy that I – drumroll – had to rinse him off in the fountain. I knew those damn things were useful for something.

We took the car to the Main, my little slice of Montréal heaven, where we introduced Blake to proper smoked meat and the most delicious pickles in the world (sorry Toorshi). Whenever I go to or through Montréal, I need to stop at the Main and it's usually on the last day so that I don't want to eat there every single day. (That's my Canso Lion's Club Fish n' Chips Protocol, there.) And with our smoked meat quota met, we wandered out of town in the most inefficient way possible, on the highway home.

"Goodbye Fort Sensible."

"Blake, that corner isn't where Fort Sensible lives. Do you know where Fort Sensible will always be?"

"Yes." (he points at the sleeping bag.

"No! In your heart. In all our hearts."

"Uh huh." The 'whatever' is implied.

blake & kate

2009-08-12T21:13:00.002-04:00

DSC_2036
Originally uploaded by kylecassidy

My son at worldcon, with K82. Photo by Kyle Cassidy, of Who Killed Amanda Palmer? fame. There's a shot of me & Blake in this sequence, but it's sort of hideous.

no, i'm never gonna give in to you!

2009-07-28T08:53:00.005-04:00

Things I learned at Hillside Festival yesterday, in reverse chronological order:

You can get your car out of a swamp if you have 6 strangers to help you push. Also, someone needs to have figured out a route before you gun it out of the muddy parking lot. Thank heaven we received all of those particular blessings.
It's important to remember where you park. Or you'll end up taking the shuttle bus to the farthest overflow of overflow parking, ask kind strangers to drive you around, and then have to walk back to the other parking lots in the pitch dark, holding hands with your sweetie. At least we kept moving and our soaked cotton clothes were warm with body heat. We then hitched a ride in the back of a cop car, talked to the parking supervisor, walked around another parking lot, watched other people try to get their cars out of the mud, thought about going to Guelph for the night and coming back in the morning, and finally took the advice of a stranger to look in the next parking lot. There was the car, remarkably dry, looking like an oasis of sanity. Then, of course, we got stuck in the mud.
Owen Pallett is the bravest man in Canadian music. Those stupid lionizing house ads for Kim Mitchell on Q107 can just shut the fuck up, 'cause I saw the coolest, ballsiest guy last night in the middle of a truly frightening rainstorm. Forget the soi-dit "rock gods"; I saw skinny little Owen play down a thunderstorm, begging the sound crew for another minute to finish the song. The lightning crashed and he played louder. It rained harder and he went faster. All you could do was whoop and laugh and clap along as he raced against a short in the sound equipment. As soon as the song was over, the stage went dark and everyone in the audience started chanting his name and shaking their umbrellas in the air in celebration. It was the most awe-inspiring thing I've ever seen. There's a video of it here and despite the sketchy sound quality, hearing it again gives me full-body goosebumps; we were all the way across the field and it was just as electrifying as if we were in front of the stage. The title of this entry is the chorus of that song, a glorious sung defiance against the elements.
Patrick Watson is very cool, and I wish we had made it into his record release this year. (We were just going to see Laura Barrett open for him, and naively thought we could get a ticket at the door. Ha!) His band played the clouds away, which Final Fantasy called back immediately (see above).
Great Lake Swimmers are dull, and their shortlisting for this year's Polaris (ahead of Timber Timbre and Charles Spearin, I might add) is a crime against good sense. This follow up to Issa (see below) bored me to the point of crankiness and made me want to go home.
Jane Siberry appears to have completely lost her mind. Issa-what? Don't clap (or "let it leak") and I won't have to take a vitamin tomorrow? Not to worry; I wasn't planning to clap anyway.
Every time you see Gentleman Reg, you'll like the band more. Even if it's the third time in a week and a half (and the second time that weekend. Lately I see Reg more often than I see my parents). Also, you will have an awesome time singing, dancing and clapping along to "The Boyfriend Song" next to your boyfriend, who is doing the same thing, even more enthusiastically. When we put the album on this morning, we clapped along through sheer habit.
Watching a David Francey show is even better when you're huddled under the stage roof to get away from the rain and you find yourself beside his wife, who asks you to help her read the symbols on her camera. And it's pretty good to begin with.
Don't underestimate how much rain you'll get based on the festival's location. I've always thought that nothing could be as wet as StanFest, which joins other such famous generalizations as "it couldn't possibly be sunny enough at StanFest to need sunblock" but fortunately was not followed by a second degree sunburn. And I was trying, a bit. In deference to the previous day's wetting I wore a black hoodie, blue jeans, lace-up leather boots & a Tilley instead of a fancy jean jacket, black dress, thigh-high stockings & vespa boots. But that shit does not cut it in a torrential, all-day soaking. In fact, I probably made it worse for myself as my jeans and hoodie got sopping wet within an hour and never dried, meaning that I was uncomfortably cold and wet for most of the afternoon. At least my stupid impractical stockings are nylon and dry in a snap. The all-day wetness let to a sub-realization, which is always pre-wash your clothes before wearing them in the rain, as my new Amy Millan hoodie leaked black fuzz over my arms and black dye onto my pretty orange tank top, giving me the unlaundered gorilla look I so crave.
Do not become so excited by the lightning show that you stop caring how wet you're getting. If you do not have a change of clothes, you will be cold and wet all day. Stupid me wore all cotton, despite knowing the value of a good wool garment in a soak. I was worried about the camera; I should have been worried about the loss of body heat and the state of the knitting book I dragged through two days of rain. Knitting Vintage Baby Clothes will never be the same.
If you're knitting, you'll meet knitters. I didn't exactly learn this at Hillside, but it was proven there once again. My in-progress beret inspired the girl behind us to pull out her sock. We even met people who used to run an online knitting magazine called Spun. Of course, we were mostly chatting about going to festivals with young kids, and taking breaks from the conversation to dance to Gentleman Reg, but there was some yarn talk in there.
Drummers get everywhere. The Afrobeat session on the main stage included the drummer from The Happiness Project, who is also the leader of Samba Punk Sound System, the drumming ensemble at the Brampton Indie Arts Festival with whom I danced out my lungs last year.
Toting in a bottle of wine with the makings of a charcuterie & fromagerie plate is completely unnecessary. Delicious, but unnecessary. Apparently, they sell food at folk festivals now. It is, however, both important and fun to get your Hillside beer mugs & wine glasses as early as possible so that you're set for the rest of the day. Draft beer in the mud! I love it! Also, the ice cream there is better than most restaurants, and needs to be carefully planned to maximize the number of cones eaten in a day.
Listen to CBC on the way in to get amped about the place you're going. Stuart McLean has many interesting things to say about Hillside, including the fact that Jason Collett can fit into a tent. Diagonally, one assumes.

those lips i could spend a day with

2009-07-26T08:48:00.004-04:00

Everything continues to accelerate, and the fun keeps piling up with barely a moment to stop and write. I'll do my best before we have to leave for the next concert(!).

On Friday I convened the first in what I hope will be an ongoing series: Drunken Knitting, B-ton. It was a small turnout, and three of us came in the same car, but it was more fun than I've had at a Toronto edition in a long time. As the place brews its own beer, we started with pitchers, and ended up drinking a good deal more than we might normally. This is evidenced by the fact that it took me all night to cast on for a baby hat, and Jessamyn forgot to pay her bill on her way out. Hee.

Next month my minister might be in attendance. I feel like I'm at the start of something very very good.

I felt less positive the next morning, though, when the alarm went off at 7. We were getting up to help Jess at her jewelry stall. The summer Arts Festival is held in the lovely downtown Rose Theatre, site of the beloved departed Indie Arts Festival. And though it was early, and we had nearly four hours to fill before the second shift arrived, who doesn't like playing store? Especially when you get to wear jewelry samples all morning and play dress up with potential customers. I found a still-life painter that could be commissioned to do a sage canvas (in honour of Sage, of course) and fell madly in love with a Calamity Co., pendant maker who used vintage images and rescued text to create satisfyingly heavy work. I was attracted to the Alice in Wonderland pieces, then I discovered that a large selection of the pieces were knitting-themed. I bought a Red Cross Knit Your Bit pendant with a pattern on the back, and I think I may have found another recruit for Drunken Knitting.

Two weeks ago when we came downtown for the Broken Social Scene concert, we came later than we should and had to be content to stand. Consequently, we had decided to get to yesterday's Amy Millan show as early as possible and then camp out. What we didn't count on was the rain. There was a lot of it. There was so much that there were no tourists at Harbourfront, and we were able to get a parking spot on the closest lot. There was so much rain that by the time we went from the car to the shops, and the shops to the stage, we were soaked to the skin. And I, of course, was still wearing my jewelry-hawking outfit, which was a sleeveless black dress and thigh-high stockings, with vespa boots & my small-brimmed couture hat for extra stylishness. Nice.

We washed up like drowned rats at the front of the stage, in an almost-completely deserted auditorium. "Plenty of good seats still available," I gasped to Mason. He nodded, wringing out his Tilley. We watched an equally-wet band set up, and Amy caught our eye.

"It's wet," she called out. "Uh huh," we breathed, too stunned by the rain to say anything else.

"You're here early," she continued.

"We were here last week and we couldn't get seats."

"Well." She smiled knowingly. "That was a different thing entirely."

This set the tone for the afternoon: Amy would set up, talk to her band, and in lulls, come down to the front and chat with us. (And yes, I'm going to reproduce as much of it as I can remember, because the woman is amazing and I'm still astounded that we had so long to talk, and that I didn't say anything weird to fuck it up as I'm wont to do with Kevin Drew or my new target, Gentleman Reg. I'll try not to rewrite my dialogue so that I sound like Oscar Wilde, which I certainly don't in real life.)

She even tossed us some water she'd brought in for the crew, which I referred to thereafter as 'Precious Amy Water.' We asked her to sign our book, which she seemed happy to do. She, like Kevin on Wednesday, wanted to know who had signed it already. "Just Kevin and…?"

"That's Remedios."

She smirked. "Oh, Jeffrey." It is a little weird to be collecting the record label boss as part of the signatures, so I gave an extremely abbreviated version of our colossal disappointment, my loud ranty jackassery online and Remedios' out-of-the-blue email that let us in on the second night of the NXNE showcases. "We were so grateful that we asked for his signature," I finished.

"Wait a minute." She looked me hard in the face. "Are you Rocketbride?"

Oh. Dear. God.

Just as I thought that I couldn't be further humbled, that I was finally able to live with the idea that the people at Arts & Crafts are way more classy and generous than even I could imagine or credit, I find out that the reason it all happened was because a woman who I have loved from afar for a year, who is easily my favourite of the Three Graces, read my stupid, stupid posts and got on the phone to her label boss.

"People think it's all so private, that we never go on it," she said. "The truth is that I was supposed to be there that night for the book launch, but I had some sort of attack and I couldn't get out of bed. Evan and I – we're together – woke up, and I couldn't go. So I was looking online to see how it went, and I read your posts. I got on the phone to Jeffrey and said, 'look, we've gotta do something for these people.'"

"Thank you so much," was all we could think to say.

"Did you like it?" she said, flipping through the book. We nodded. She looked sideways at us, wide-eyed. "They left a lot out. And I kind of wish Stuart had shown me some of the things that Emily said. I didn't know she was going to go there; I didn't go there and I wish I could have commented on it."

"I used to write for Stuart at the Varsity," I offered. "My strongest memory of him is this one day when my girlfriend, who had a crush on him, wanted to go down to the newspaper office and seduce him. And I knew him, because I did all these little articles for the Arts section. So they got dressed up in French maid outfits and blindfolds, and I came along, and they tried to feed him cheesecake. But he was all awkward about it, and he said he was full, so I ended up feeding the cheesecake to this writer who was hanging around the office. We started dating the next year, we got married, we had a baby, he left me last year and now we're divorced. But that's how I remember Stuart, from that day at the Varsity."

Her jaw dropped satisfyingly. "Wow. Drama. Have you told him that story?"

"Nope. I've seen him at a couple of concerts, but I'm way too shy. He won't remember me and it'll be all awkward."

"You need to do it," she encouraged. "Don't be afraid of people." Which is, I think, the moral of every musician encounter I've had this summer and the way I can stop screwing it up and saying something dumb. Of course, they can't all be as nice as Amy. But it's a start.

When she went back to soundcheck, I turned to Mason. "Amy knows me," I whispered. "She read my stupid posts. And you were right, she and Evan are together. Can I see that picture you took? I forgot to put my chin down and I'm probably all neck."

He looked up at Amy, singing into the mic. "Actually, I think you have the same neck."

"We do. That's why she looks good and I don't. Her chin is down."

After that, the show couldn't help but be anticlimactic. I did love seeing Gentleman Reg walk out for his soundcheck and being comfortable enough to yell out, "where's your onesie?"

"It's not performance time yet," he admonished with a smile.

"Is it creepy that I know what you're going to wear?" I asked. He said it wasn't, but we all know better. This is what happens when it's been 10 days since the last time you saw someone perform: you get to know the stagecraft a little too well. It didn't matter in the long run; despite the creepy stalker factor, the onesie was put on and they did a rocking show that got a seated crowd to our feet and dancing in the aisles.

Amy's set was beautiful, just as we'd expected it. (And you can listen to the whole thing by clicking that link, courtesy Radio 3.) Her solo album was my February solace, my little fire to get me through the winter. Seeing it live was just about everything I wanted. We even got her to sing a song she wasn't sure she remembered, which involved a guitar part that would sometimes drop out when her hands got confused. The only thing missing was Evan on the trombone, but we got to hear the story of his sound check phone call, so that was ok. It's such a contrast from two weeks ago, when everyone was there sharing the stage, to Amy alone with only the stories and memories of her loved ones to keep her company.

"This little ditty I wrote with Kevin Drew. [audience cheers] Yeah, he's alright." - amy

summer, in summaries and snapshots

2009-07-24T22:15:00.005-04:00

Taking advantage of a short breather to write. I am insanely busy for someone who's not supposed to be working. Although I can't afford to pay my brother for daily workouts, I'm still seeing him about once a week and I'm starting to use my new gym membership. Mason & I have developed a passionate dislike of one of the fitness teachers, which always adds interest and excitement. I need that; working out with my brother is not only good for me, it's so much fun. He pushes me like crazy, and he makes me laugh while I'm trying to do one of his insane sets. He brought my plank up to a full minute in a week, which is just ridiculous. And he doesn't smell as much as his room would suggest. I highly recommend his services.

Wednesday was particularly busy. In the morning we joined a fitness class (see above, re: dislike) and in the evening I went to my first troupe practice in months. Since it was just Jessamyn & myself, we did a couple verses, ate dinner & then I took a bunch of pictures of the jewelry she's selling on Saturday. This would have been enough for me on a normal day, but since I've been full of summery ants in my pants, Mason & I decided to go out to see the Zeus show. I took my camera this time, and I have many lovely shots in that buttery Dakota light that makes everything look both cozy & epic at the same time. We had to leave early, which is probably just as well, since I managed to avoid the tinnitus this week.

write this down: z.e.u.s. zeus, bitches.

Yesterday I worked on recovering from the stupid exercise class of Wednesday and assembling my submission package for the Sock Museum. It's a little obsessive; I included 28 pictures, and that's after culling. Amy promised to take them with her to the Summit, so I said I'd meet her at the Purple Purl for what I thought was knit night. Well. Need I say that Mason & I stumbled into a yarn tasting? There were last minute cancellations, so we were able to stay the night. It was Mason's first tasting, and the lucky guy walked away with a skein of handpainted 80/20 baby suri alpaca/silk. I was no less blessed, as I managed to win a skein of new sock yarn that will be perfect for at least one of the baby berets I need to make this summer.

Honestly. I went there so that a knitting teacher could do me a big favour and deliver my socks personally, and I planned to buy the yarn for at least three projects. I walked into a sampling night with complimentary shortbread and a lovely discount for participants, during which I won yarn. Have I mentioned that the socks I delivered were knit from a donated pattern, from top-shelf yarn at a deep discount? My knitting life is so extraordinarily blessed that I can barely believe it. It's so very past time for a karma-balancing donation to KWB.

I spent almost three hours sorting through picture files this morning, and I'm still not anywhere close to completed. Here are some photos of the summer so far:

c'thulhu fhtagn, or something

2009-07-20T22:03:00.002-04:00

Just woke up from a dream in which I was driving. Saw a parade that I wanted to join so I could find Dirk. I pulled over, parked hastily and walked with the parade until it dispersed. Never did find Dirk, and by the time my dad picked me up, I realized that I had lost my car.

Yup, it's summertime: the time of my writing when I have the time, the leisure and the inclination to report on my inscrutable dreams. Aren't we all lucky. At least it's a break from Broken Social Scene fandom—honestly, it's like I've joined a cult.

Today we walked to the library and had lunch at the mall. I think the idea was planted in my head when I was doing some random reading about the city and discovered that those two buildings used to be joined by a tunnel. A tunnel! It's been closed for a number of years due to "safety reasons," which we all know is code for some horrible murderous scandal that's being hushed up at the highest levels of civic government.

What's in that tunnel? The bodies of rival candidates? Poorly-worded street signs that somehow encouraged street racing? Dead remains of sentient monster flowers that are the true reason behind the city's nickname and wait dreaming in R'lyeh (a.k.a. the basement of the City Centre)? I feel like the only thing that will answer my burning question is an irresponsible shenanigan. I'd better time it so that I'll be out of jail when Blake comes home.

it's not late; it's only dark

2009-07-19T22:05:00.001-04:00

Can't remember if I've mentioned this before, but Mason found a cool little brew pub in the tiny downtown where I live. It used to be a knitting factory, and they have spindles and sock forms up on the walls. This immediately made me hot to organize a local Drunken Knitters. The first one will be Friday, and now I'm just trying to get the wording right for the flyers, so I can post 'em on library billboards, which are notorious bastions of sobriety and hard work. (I'm not even trying the community centres, who need the flyers approved by the Mayor's office a month in advance. I'm not Friendly Rich; I don't have an in with Susan. So I'll just skip that idea.)

If you're a local knitbuddy who wants to come out and you haven't seen the postings, please contact me. The more people, the more validated I'll feel.

I found out about the need for mayoral approval this afternoon, when Mason & I bought new gym memberships. I was trying to give Jessamyn's gym a chance, but when I called to use the "free" 3 day passes, they insisted on administering a fit test and then tried to charge us $35 when we couldn't make it on time. I balked at the fit test to begin with; Nic refers to it as "some energetic asshole like me telling you you're unfit and trying to sell you personal training." I still remember how crushing it was five years ago when they changed my assessment from "healthy" to "unhealthy" with the stroke of a pen.

So we're hooked up with the community gyms, which are good for a number of reasons and attract far fewer asshats ramming around the parking lot in a dangerous cloud of impatience and testosterone. This afternoon we did our first session, which was productive but boring. I have to drop by Bat Masterson sometime soon so I can pick up my Walkman; perhaps listening to tapes made seven or more years ago will take the edge off continuous golf coverage on the monitors. Apparently? Older white men can still accomplish things. Who knew?

On Friday night Mason & I attended our third Arts & Crafts concert of the week: Timber Timbre. (I introduced myself to Stephan the merch guy, figuring that I now see him more frequently than I see my parents.) Timber Timbre is a skinny guy with a dog who plays stripped down gothic folk, or death blues as it is sometimes described. He and his live band – a guitar, a bass drum, a pedal steel, a sax & a violin – put on the scariest show I've ever been to. It took place in a pitch dark Anglican church, lit only by dozens of votive candles and the arc-sodium lights outside shining through the stained glass and turning Christ orange. Mason & I were in the second row of pews, right next to the sound board, and I could barely see my hand in front of my face.

It was an album re-release party, to celebrate a new signing with A&C. They played through the 8 songs with hardly a pause between them. I have to imagine that few people knew the album, as the merch table was mobbed at the end and Mason & I seemed to be the only ones who knew the words. Then again, I couldn’t see anyone so maybe they were all lip-synching along. During the first three songs, there wasn't a single bit of sound from the audience, and I was the first to shatter the reverent silence by whooping applause at the end of the third. People joined in, relieved to be able to make noise, I suppose.

Then again, people may not have been ignorant of the material so much as terrified by it. Again: it was the spookiest show I have ever been to, and I felt at several points that I had died and gone to hell, where my fears were being drawn out of me through purest art. The silences between notes were terrifying, and the melodies themselves almost crushed us with awe. It was a terrible beauty. I was glad that we had gone. But I was a little relieved when it was over, and I could take a break from fear and reverence.

how does it feel?

2009-07-17T09:43:00.002-04:00

One of the best – and most ironic – gifts this new training has given me is my reduced need for sleep. Summers are the time for me to really clock those bed hours, especially when Blake is somewhere else. Yesterday I got up after seven hours, because my feet hurt too much to sleep (more on that later). I expected to zombie through the day, but I did much better than normal, and although I went to bed early, I wasn't exhausted, just done. Cut to this morning, when I opened my eyes at 5:15, unable to get back to sleep.

When I was working, it was a constant trial to get up before 6:30. Granted, I always sleep less when the days are longer, and the constant dusk-till-dawn squirrel fights are incredibly noisy. (They're my most obnoxious neighbours, and I often find myself screaming at them to shut up.) And I did manage to fall asleep for a few more hours, after much tossing and turning.

If I can keep this up in some form during the school year, I'm going to be unstoppable.

So, why did my feet hurt so much on Wednesday night? It was a combination of sudden inexplicable muscle twinge and too much walking during the day. I got up early to get Blake out the door with his annoying, annoying father, and right away, I felt sore deep in my heel. So, although I was going to a funeral in the morning and shopping all day, I skipped the cute wedge sandals and opted for a pair of Fluevog boots that have never given me any trouble. Except, I guess that if you walk for 6 hours, you're going to get a different kind of trouble. In this case, I took off my socks at the end of the night and a layer of skin went with them. Ouch.

I was shopping with Scherezade & her friend Leah. It was a dumb route, all things considered: I had promised to meet Mason in Kensington at 6, after which we would have dinner, knit and proceed to the Dakota for a show. So, in the spirit of redundancy, I shopped at Kensington for 3 hours, then we went to Ossington for another 2, before I went back to the Market to start the whole thing over. I even went to Lettuce Knit twice, as I have the habit of using their bathroom whenever I'm in the Market. Redundant. And skin-peeling, apparently.

I did find some cute things at Good Egg, a store that is almost never open when I'm in the neighbourhood. In addition to a cool insulated lunchbag (I threw away my old blue one during camp week after it developed holes), I splurged on Kafka's Soup: A history of literature in 14 recipes & an eraser shaped like a peanut. The clerk even threw in a cool apple-spinner, which made me laugh because usually I don't get free things unless Blake is there charming the pants off everyone. We also visited Kid Icarus, where there is a pillowcase screen printed with a BSS logo that I visit from time to time. (For the rest of the day, I was heard to say, "that seems a lot of money for something that doesn't have 'Broken Social Scene' on it and come with a pillow.")

My lowest point came during an extended visit to Monkey's Paw, a bookstore on Dundas that I surely would have appreciated under different circumstances, but. My feet hurt, my stomach hurt, and the piles of carefully bagged literary detritus reminded me too strongly of the things we had only just recently liberated out of my late grandmother's closet. She would have hated that bookstore. Dirk, if he hasn't already been, would have loved it.

Soon after this, I backtracked to the Market for supper. Mason and I spend so much time together that 9 hours apart seems like a lot, and we were happy to be eating burritos together again. We ended up at the Dakota far too early, although we did have our pick of seats and were able to spend the next two and a half hours comfortably ensconced in barchairs, knitting and sipping on draft beer. We were so early that we were able to watch the headliners interviewed by some media organization. We were so early that we were just ahead of a loud, obnoxious quartet who refused to pay the cover and refused to leave. We were so early that the arrival of Stuart McLean went largely unnoticed (although it did make us wonder if we should recruit him to help us kick out those four louts. I was still seething from my conversation with the Boy that morning, and in the mood to take it out on some big loud jerks. We figured that if Stuart called down Rex Murphy, we'd be an unstoppable juggernaut, plus we'd end up in a heavily-disguised anecdote on the Vinyl Café. Sweet.)

Now that we're going to clubs to see the young kids play, we're running into some weird things. Our big puzzlement on Wednesday was seeing Labatt 50 fly off the shelves. Apparently shitty dad beer is a hipster thing? I don't know. Maybe it's a price thing. Maybe they really don't drink beer for the taste. Maybe they're reacting against the implied pretentiousness of local craft beer – delicious, delicious local craft beer I love you so much. My thought is, I own a house in a subdivision with a backyard and a young child. I don't need to pretend that I'm my parents; I pretty much am my parents.

Your thoughts on the 50 thing? It's making Mason nutty.

Despite our perhaps curmudgeonly focus on the beer-drinking habits of our fellow patrons, we did enjoy the music. For seven bucks we got to dance right in front of Gentleman Reg in his black "onesie", then get blasted out by Zeus. For the record, Gentleman Reg truly is a gentleman, as he caught my eye while packing up his gear, and thanked me for dancing. Aww. Both acts were pretty awesome, but 1 a.m. is late to be standing in the front row of a balls-out rock show, and I had tinnitus for hours. (During the encore I tried to wuss out. "I can't take it anymore," I whimpered. "Yeah, you can!" Mason grinned.) Ultimately, I think I enjoyed Reg more. But I'm just contrary lately. Don't mind me.

gave 'em all the slip

2009-07-13T09:42:00.004-04:00

Saturday's free Broken Social Scene concert was probably the best concert of my life. I say "probably" because it was operating on an extreme handicap: Mason & I had a dumb fight on the way in, and when I stalked off in a huff, the crowds of people guaranteed that I lost him for the night. I was sorry about 10 seconds later, but by then it was too late. Shit. So I spent a good deal of the next four and a half hours wondering how I was going to find him, and what I would do if I couldn't.

BSS concerts are supposed to be about Mason & I being with people who like what we like, not to mention surreptitiously stalking band members* while remaining too terrified to get close enough to wave. They're supposed to be about screaming and dancing and getting chills of beauty and howling lyrics to "Major Label Debut" in each other's faces. They are not supposed to be about stupid half-second decisions that make it impossible to concentrate on any of the good things. So this concert was under a cloud. The worst event is still a good one with Mason at my side; that this one managed to edge into the top spot is a testament to how many delights were on offer.

And there were a mind-blowing array of delights. This concert was very much a valentine to the fans, with each surprise wonderful on its own; overwhelming in the aggregate. The first thing that was awesome was that they were all there, with very few exceptions (Bill Priddle, Ohad, Leon & Torq were all I could think of). The core was there, of course: Kevin, Brendan, Charles, Justin, Andrew & Sam. And I've seen them with guests before. But this was the first night I've ever seen when nobody seemed able to leave the stage. Evan and Jimmy were there for the whole night, rotating between guitars, brass and percussion whenever possible (they always make me smile). Julie Penner stayed onstage after her violin parts were done, and rocked the percussion with a big grin on her face. Jason Collett was there, freakishly tall as always. All of the original three ladies--Feist, Emily & Amy--were there, plus Lisa Lobsinger who has her own songs at this point and more than held her own. There were also people I'd never seen up there, like "founding non-member" John Crossingham who was there playing percussion for "Fire Eye'd Boy," just like their Letterman appearance. I kept a running count, and by the time they played "Major Label Debut" for the third encore, there were 19 people on stage. It was unbelievable.

What made it more exciting than just the sheer numbers was the obvious way that they structured each appearance for maximum impact. First Kevin brought out Feist, who (with the exception of the NXNE gig) hasn't performed with them since '06, and who is on record as saying she might never play with them again. Then Amy, who performed a solo song with Evan doing the hiphop drums behind her. The two ladies traded off vocals on "Shoreline," a song I never thought I'd see with Feist at the mic. (She couldn't get it loud enough to suit, so she ripped off the cover early on. Still wasn't loud enough.) All of the girls backed Emily in "Anthems," a song so beautiful that it sends shivers down my legs.

The best part was that it wasn't just about Broken Social Scene songs. I could have gone home happy with a pure BSS concert, but clearly the idea was to give us a revue-style performance with each solo project getting their own moment of glory. This was first obvious when Kevin & Feist quieted it down, trading verses of "Past in Present" "Safety Bricks" & "I Feel It All" in beautiful, stripped down harmony. Then Emily, "the ninja" came out to sing a gently rocking acoustic "Gimme Sympathy," led by Jimmy and backed by the entire band. (Feist singing along with the rest of us, completely away from the mic and for the pure joy of it, made me love her even more. Amy's still my favourite, but Feist in front of BSS, wearing a skirt with pockets that she stuck her hands in from time to time when she danced like a five-year-old, was magic.) Collett came out and sang "I'll Bring the Sun," which is the loudest song I've ever heard from him and inspired some deep back bending that I haven't seen since the Heads' Tina Weymouth. Andrew and Lisa blasted us out with "Soul Unwind," which I last heard in a stripped down, essential oil version at the album release and which was a thousand times better with a gang behind it. Brendan and Lisa sang "Chameleon," chilling us all out.

It was like a dream of a concert, a show that had could go in every direction and might very well never end. I know that I didn't want it to end, and it was pretty obvious that no one on stage wanted it to end, either. The encores went on forever, full of Brendan's scissor kicks and the crowd screaming for more. Kevin kept trying to go home, but he was continuously overruled. Right before the third encore, he attempted to say goodbye.

"Who wants to hear KC Accidental?" Brendan yelled, cutting through Kevin's farewell.

"Okay," Kevin sighed. "But I'm going into the crowd for this one. I'll come up and sing, but I'm going into the crowd now." He did, and the band played through the fanfares without him.

It was overwhelming. It was a hundred plates of food from the best buffet in town. I was feeding song titles to a sweet group of kids on my left, one of whom had only heard BSS the day before, and trying not to dance-collide with the couple on my left, whom I later found out, met at a concert at the Drake in 2003. Free concert audiences are full of weird people, and I saw my share (like a woman who pestered for a close-up seat and sat, head down, the entire performance), but there was a lot of positive energy all around me and it elevated the night.

I needed that, worried as I was that I would miss Mason entirely. When Kevin led us in screaming apologies, and assuring everyone that "[we] still fucking love you," I choked. So, despite the parade of hometown heroes and despite the beautiful moments that threatened to crowd each other out, my best time was walking to the car in the dark, and seeing Mason walking toward me.

At the very first part of the show, Bruce Macdonald was there, to announce that he was filming the concert for an upcoming documentary. They want fans to submit footage from the summer, to piece out the story, and I wish I could recreate that reunion, to put it alongside the glory that was that show. I have the feeling that even if I figure out a way to do it, it won't get into the movie. That's okay. At the very least, I can buy the DVD and watch the whole thing over again. It's only been two days, but I can't wait.

* (And, just for the record, I managed to overcome my feelings for a spot of shy stalking when I looked around for Mason and found the Spearin family getting food. "It's Ondine!" I thought, and then I saw Lisanne, an original member of my prenatal group. By the time we were done chatting, I lost the target. I also approached Kevin's mom & dad after the show, as it seems I'm only shy normally. After a concert I appear to be flooded with endorphins and will ask anyone anything. It's probably a good thing for the Spearins that they didn't have to deal with two small children plus an insane fan while balancing plates of food.)

a paean to summer life, as experienced on my couch

2009-07-10T10:34:00.000-04:00

Sitting next to the stereo, listening to the second side of Feel Good Lost vinyl backed with the birdsong out the window. Knitting a classic Zimmerman design with Socks That Rock yarn, yarn so good that every stitch is a joy. Every time I knit StR, it's on a deadline. I don't care; I'm loving my big ribbed slab of leg. Blake is at his last morning of summer Nature Camp and I'm taking the morning off after a week of housecleaning and errand running.

If I could bottle this kind of contentment, I would give myself tiny sips during the winter and ration it until the new summer.