I’m only a Van Halen fan in passing but there were some bright moments, partially eclipsed by the bizarro ones. David Lee Roth is a character, that’s for sure. Unconventional openers Kool and the Gang kind of stole the show, though.

Read my review here.

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Growing up, I never appreciated the prairies. It wasn’t until I moved to Toronto for a few years that I realized Alberta was, in a lot of ways, an amazing place. One of the most wonderful things about it is its history – and although it’s disappearing pretty fast, some of that history can still be found, abandoned and rotting away in fields and forests throughout the province.

A couple weeks back, a friend and I went for a winter weekend drive to see what we could discover. It’s much easier when the trees are bare – a lot of the time, decaying houses are hiding in little clumps of trees in farm fields. These were our first few stops.

No luck here – there were rumours of an amazing abandoned house right by the Vang Lutheran Church near Millet, AB, but when we arrived, it looked like it had recently been fixed up with new siding and had cars out front. Our source hadn’t visited in years, so clearly we’d missed our chance. But this church was super cool – I loved the way the paint was peeling from the edges, and the mismatched stained glass windows. Out back, there was an outhouse, and I asked my pal if it was useable. “It’s a squirrel’s mansion,” he replied. Huh? Upon investigation, the hole was overflowing with chewed-up pinecone flakes, and the floor was covered in them, three inches deep. FYI, I waited till we stopped for ketchup chips and fireworks at the general store in tiny Rollyview, AB.

No dice at this local near Bon Accord, either. The house had been burned off its foundation somewhat recently and the community seemed to be using it as a TV dump. However, there was a barn and a shed still standing. Inside the shed was a selection of cheesy teenage graffiti: anarchy A’s and slander against Jesus, the usual, doesn’t bear posting.

Finally, near Redwater:

Recently abandoned and in mid-demolition. This gem won’t be here for long. The low basement has a dirt floor and an old furnace branded “Coronado,” the name of a basically non-existant town nearby. Upstairs, one of the bedrooms still has bright purple shag carpet, and the bathroom is covered in mirrored tiles that created a spooky photographic effect. I hung out in front of them for quite a while. There was an alcove off the back entrance but the floor had already caved in so I couldn’t go inside.

These were just a couple of outbuildings behind the house. We waded through knee-deep snow to get to them.

Stay tuned for Part II, in which we find an even older, crazier house!

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He flew in yesterday from Comox, all by himself. And in a surprise move, after weeks and weeks of non-commital answers, my landlord came through and is letting him stay.

For those of you that don’t yet know Mortimer, don’t worry, you will. He goes by various nicknames such as “the boy” and “the pest” and variations of those, and is the greatest cat in the history of this planet. His favourite colour is pink and he is an Olympic athlete, completing feats of jumping prowess that take skill and flair. Oh, and he can comb own hair.

Adopting Mortimer

Five years ago, my then-boyfriend, Mark, and I went to the Toronto Humane Society on a free adoption day, browsing for a companion for Kitty, the white princess we stole from old roommates who weren’t getting her medical care when she needed it. I had planned on finding a sweet old lady cat, but a cage on the floor in a corner caught my eye.

Inside was one kitten. A super nerdy looking, scrawny black and white kitten with a deformed looking curly tail. As I stood there bent over looking in at him, alone in his cage, he coughed. “Weird,” I said, and moved on.

When we circled back, I stopped to peer in at him again. I flipped through his paperwork. His name was Nikee (what kind of a name is that?) and the notes section said “likes being combed.” According to his papers, someone had adopted him recently and then brought him back. He coughed again. Mark and I looked at each other, and looked at a humane society worker, and told the guy, “This cat is sick. It’s coughing.” “It’s fine,” he said.

I didn’t want to leave poor Nikee there all by himself, alone in a cage where someone had already adopted and returned him, and where no one believed he was actually sick. But we hadn’t planned on getting a cat that day. I was sad, but ready to walk out the door. Mark could tell, I guess, how much I really wanted to bring the little thing home. On our way out, he asked and I denied it. I said, let’s come back tomorrow. He wouldn’t let me off the hook, and even though he was so mean he made me cry, in retrospect it was for the best.

After filling out some papers, the little sicko was bundled into a box. We whisked him straight to the doctors’ where he was hooked up to an IV and prescribed a bunch of medicine. Finally, we made it home with him. He was like a purring machine. All you had to do was look at him. We renamed him Mortimer, after a cute old man on the TV and the Robert Munsch character (you know, “Mortimer, be quiet!).

Mortimer the nomad

Mortimer had two homes in Toronto before flying to Calgary to live for six months. Then, he came up to Edmonton and lived in two different homes here, too. It was while living in his second home, with feline roommates Josie and Jupiter, that he first experienced the luxury of going outside. It was a few months later, as well, that he disappeared for the first time. I put up posters all over the neighbourhood and far beyond, and cycled around on my old gold bicycle calling his name for a week. Then one night, Moira heard his unmistakable howl at the back door. Mort came strolling into the house, looking a little thin, but strutting confidently. The weirdest part? He was holding his tail straight.

During my period of pseudo-homelessness, Mortimer lived on Vancouver Island. If you read my last post, you’ll know that my mom just sold her amazing home and is entering a temporary state of pseudo-homelessness of her own. That’s why, yesterday around noon, she stuffed Mort into a kennel and dropped him off at YQQ to catch a Westjet flight to Edmonton. I met him on the other side.

Mortimer comes home

Now, Mortimer has a new home and we are together again. I am happy, and even though he has to leave behind recreational hobbies like bird chasing and tree climbing and catmint eating for the lazy comfort of a downtown apartment, I think he is too.

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My mom called me today to say that she finally sold her house. Downsizing was the key step to being able to pursue her dreams and get out of the rat race, and I’m excited for her and proud of her. But I can’t help but feel a little bummed as well.

It’s not as if her little ranch-style house on Vancouver Island, with its sprawling gardens, has been in my life for very long. In fact, she’s only had it a couple of years – two, maybe coming close to three. But it felt more like home to me than anywhere has in a long time. I thought this might be a place I could go back to again and again, so home it became. Her news, coupled with an email from my landlord hinting he wants my roommate and I out of our cozy and beautiful 1912 condo in the next month or two, got me thinking about the transient nature of my life.

I have moved 22 times over the past 14 years. I just counted. Twenty-two! Five during high school, five after high school, six when I moved to Toronto, and six since coming back to Edmonton in 2008. And that doesn’t even count the year of floating I did between Edmonton and Vancouver Island from September 2010 to September 2011.

Is that weird? Or is it normal? All I know is that I’m approaching 30 and the longest I’ve lived in one place since I was 15 is a year and two months. My reputation is such that even my own brother has stopped answering the phone when he knows I’m moving (my own fault, really: my book and record collections, combined with my fondness for third-floor digs, make moving my stuff a pain in the ass). And while I love the feeling of renewal and change that comes along with a move, at this point I wouldn’t mind living somewhere that didn’t come with an expiration date. I’m getting tired. As long as I could leave – often – it would be all right to have somewhere to come home to.

It’ll be a while before that’s possible. I’m sad that I’ll never visit the Vancouver Island house again, but I suppose that’s life. On a positive note, losing a special place has inspired me to purge some of my unnecessary possessions before I have to move again (including, yes, books and records). With any luck, by the time my lease expires (or the landlord gets his way), my brother will have forgiven me.

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Anyway, I came across some video footage of 1920s Paris on Robert Reid’s Tumbler. I couldn’t resist swiping it from him, and it inspired me to dig a little deeper for even more gems.

The 1920s were when Colette was writing and publishing some of her best work. The idea of seeing the Parisian cafe culture and spots like the Bois de Boulogne as they were, as they inspired her, is wonderful. I love the images of busy streets, crowded cafes, fashionable men and women, and that insane traffic. Oh, and seeing dogs riding in early cars is also pretty cool.

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