Thursday, October 18, 2012

Reason #76 I Love PEI.

On PEI, drivers pull over for emergency vehicles. Of course they do. Ambulances, police cars, fire trucks. [shrug] No big deal. Everyone does this everywhere civilized driving takes place.

P.E. Islanders also pull over for funeral processions.

There is an understanding that there is nowhere you have to get so soon that is more important than expressing condolence for a community member. It's a nod. It's a bow. A doffing o' the cap.

I've joined my community members in participating in this tradition both on the streets of Charlottetown and out on the highways, pulled over in a long, stationary queue along the soft red shoulders.

Hearses don't have sirens. The don't look different in your rear-view mirror from a black car. They do have little blue flags and dozens of mourners driving behind them. They don't ask you to pull over. We just do.



Sunday, July 22, 2012

GD Clarinet Guy.

Holy Effing Christ.

At the Box Office at the Confederation Centre of the Arts, we have a parasite problem. We've had the same problem for years.

Clarinet Guy is back.

He's a busker. He plays clarinet. Loudly. And shrilly. And interminably. 

At 10:35 this morning, 10:35 am on a Sunday morning in downtown Charlottetown, this guy was out there. My co-workers and I heard the first shrill refrain, looked at each other and groaned. "Really? So early? Today?"

He stands outside our theatre, driving us absolutely nutty, feeding off the traffic in and out of our doors. People throw him a quarter, or a loonie, and go on with their lives and forget about him, but for those of us who are a trapped audience, it's agony.

The Box Office is at the bottom of a concrete stairwell leading down from the street. He perches at the top of the stairs, and the concrete bounces his caterwauling back and forth until it is amplified and funnelled through the doors to our last raw nerves.

I don't claim to have an especially trained ear, but I think I can generally tell when something is good or not. The thing is, all the bullshit improvisation and glissandi make it sound like he's skilled, but I tend to think of it as all flourish and little technique.

Right now, he's out there playing "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes" for the 4,000th time this year.

You may think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. He plays three songs. "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes," "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," and "La Vie En Rose." He stretches out each song to about 12 minutes. Three to four hours a day, three songs, five or six times a day... ok, I'm clearly exaggerating, but still! A lot!

I've been told he's the only busker to hold a licence in Charlottetown, and it's specifically for our corner. I've also been told he has chased off other buskers in the past. I assume complaining to the City of Charlottetown will be fruitless if he is licenced. There was an awesome banjo player there last fall, and Clarinet Guy ran him off. Bah.

So, in closing, residents and visitors of Charlottetown, I implore you: please don't throw change in his hat. It only encourages him.

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Body Movin'.

In the last couple of years, much to my glee, Charlottetown has installed some roundabouts. You might know them as rotaries or traffic circles. Like my post on revolving doors, there are practical and environmental implications.

I flippin' love roundabouts. I am a big fan. Nothing moves traffic like a roundabout. They cut down on idling, unlike traffic lights. Charlottetown is notorious for having a surfeit of traffic lights. I've heard that truckers hate the city, because they have so many gears, and it takes forever to get back up to speed.

(I am convinced that in about ten years' time, a scandal will come to light showing that politicians on PEI held stock in a traffic light production company. They're lining their pockets as we speak, punctuating our streets, all under the guise of traffic safety. Mark my words.)

I learned how to use roundabouts when I lived in England. Driving all backwardsy, of course. Anyhow, here on the Island, I just have to scream at people who cannot seem to understand how to use them.

Here are the only rules:

*When you're in the circle, you have the right-of-way.
*When you're entering the circle, yield to those in the circle, because THEY HAVE THE RIGHT-OF-WAY!!!

Something Prince Edward Island drivers have not cottoned on to is that you have to treat roundabouts like any other intersection and indicate your intention. If you're turning left or right at the roundabout, let the drivers around you know with your indicators, and also indicate when you're leaving the roundabout, too. Wikipedia has a great animated use-of-roundabout guide, complete with indicator use.

Sunday, June 10, 2012

10/365.


Today, the title track from Madman Across the Water, Elton John's fourth full album. Madman has "Levon" and "Tiny Dancer," which we all know "very well," but I think "Madman Across the Water" is a real star. It's kinda like Elton's version of a slow jam.

It starts with typical John sound: quiet, with some agile vocals, piano, drums, and a recurring theme climbing on the low end of the fuzzy guitar.  But at about two minutes in, the strings come in, and they are not there just for moody effect. Listen to the nimble orchestrations at 2:20, playing back and forth with the guitar and organ. The low-end of the string sting! punctuation at 4:30 and the purposeful dance of the instruments at 5:00 make me crazy. I can picture the furious, strong bowing of the musicians (although they may be synth in this song, I'm not sure).


We know Elton John is a musical visionary, but "Madman Across the Water" makes it so clear that we can't just listen to his greatest hits. There is so much to find in the other tracks.

Apparently "Madman" is a left-over track from Tumbleweed Connection (probably my second-favourite Elton John album), an album I strongly urge you to listen to. When you do, you'll be able to hear similarities, although "Madman" was re-worked for Madman.

PS: Tonight is the season finale of the season 5 of Mad Men. Coincidence? Actually, yes. If I were less transparent, I'd try to make it seem like design. Alas, no.

Omnibus

1/365.
2/365.
3/365.
4/365.
5/365.
6/365.
7/365.
8/365.
9/365.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Snaps.

When I started working as an usher at the Confederation Centre of the Arts, we had an honest-to-goodness electromagnet in our office. It was used to wipe clean film without manually opening a guest's camera, but mostly, we just played with it. My favourite game was to see how far we could hold the magnet from the metal waste-paper bin to make it clatter across the floor and slam into the device.

It was very unusual to have to destroy film. It rarely came to that, and when it did, it was the manager's Schadenfreude-filled responsibility. As the theatre-goers arrived, we told them not to use their cameras, there was a bilingual announcement before the show, and if a flash went off, we ushers were trained to descend like samurai and tell them to knock it the hell off. It was only the defiant repeat photographer that had his or her camera confiscated and the film destroyed.

The core problem involves the image, of course. The set, the lighting design, and the staging are all protected by copyrights, and the performers are very hesitant to not have control over their images.

Besides the more legal stuff, it's hella distracting to an actor when a flash goes off. If you've ever been in a spotlight, you know that you're working half-blinded; the lights flood your retinas to the point where the audience disappears into an inky abyss. When a flash comes out of that void, it can be very discombobulating. I mean, these performers are seasoned professionals - they're not going to wander, dazed, fall off the stage and into the orchestra pit - but it takes a lot of mental energy to do these shows, and a distraction is a distraction.

It's different, now, with accessible digital cameras and "cameras" in every phone. Where the image was the primary problem and the flash was secondary, now, we have a tertiary issue of audience distraction from glowing LCD screens. Our lizard brains (moth brains?) are so drawn to glowing screens, no matter how amazing the show is, live, on stage, it's very difficult to look away from the tiny-but-shiny glow three rows ahead.

Let me end with this thought: as a spectator, why must we document shows?

Is it to remind ourselves we were there? Maybe the show's not worth going to if we're worried we'll forget.

Is it to share the experience with others? If so, is even a little bit of sharing also showing off? Honestly?

If it's because we're enjoying the show so much, we'll want to see it again, let's consider what quality of experience that will be: the person recording the show is cheated out of the real deal, distracted by the task of recording a tiny, 2D image instead of enjoying the live performance.

Maybe we do it simply because we can. Perhaps soon the novelty of "document & share" will wear off and we can watch a show like a Greek in an ancient open-air amphitheatre would have. I have to be patient. We may come to our senses in a few decades.

I kinda like thinking about the fleeting beauty of a live experience. It's bittersweet, but I love the bittersweet.



Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Bombshell?

I started watching Castle this year. It was purely to sate the Fillion Withdrawal I felt after finishing Firefly. I don't usually watch what I call "murder shows," but Castle had some charm and humour, so I was satisfied.

(Beef that has since been resolved: Castle was dragging out the will they/won't they trope way too long. I didn't care if they ever got together, and it was getting hamfisted. Also, the whole "Castle's-family-is-mirroring-a-situation-from-the-precinct" stuff is played out.)

I recently read an article that referred to Fillion's co-star, Stana Katic, as a "bombshell."

I started thinking about  that word, bombshell.

When I think of a bombshell, I think curves. I think pin-ups and victory rolls. Katic is tall and extremely slender. Bombshell is not an adjective I would use to describe her. Willowy, maybe.

Scarlett Johansson, Salma Hayek, and Joan Holloway* qualify. Katic has cornered the market on a strange girlish smoulder, but not bombshell.

Fillion's still a hunk. No argument there.

*Yes, I mean Holloway. Not Hendricks.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

"Yeah, That's Right: My Name's Yauch."

I thought I was having a fever dream when I heard that Adam Yauch had died. I was travelling and had come down with a virus, so I woke up from an afternoon nap in my hotel room, clammy and achy and I turned on the TV to see what time it was. It was on Much Music and the super in the bottom right-hand corner said "RIP MCA." I really thought I was dreaming. I left a fevered, rambling phone message to my closest Beastie Boys fan friend, M.

In 2009, Yauch announced that he had cancer in one of his salivary glands and not long ago denied reports that he was cancer-free. He didn't attend the recent Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction of the Beastie Boys, and all three Boys have been conspicuously missing from the first two videos from their newest album, Hot Sauce Committee Part Two. I didn't put two and two together - I just thought they were being reclusive. I didn't realise it was because MCA was so ill he couldn't appear (no pun intended). I guess I wasn't paying close enough attention.

There are many reasons his death is tragic.

To begin, the very human loss of a young man with a young family to a cancer that he understood was very treatable. Yauch also had a noble social conscience. A Buddhist, he was active in Tibetan independence protests and worked to support Tibetans in exile. In all the tributes I've been reading, the affection that friends and fans felt for this man are so moving.

Then, musically. Yauch was a third of the Beastie Boys. The symbiosis between these three men is one hundred percent part of their identity. They would trade off performing verses, and words, and syllables. I'm sure, over the years, performing their parts became a muscle memory, and now, it's bittersweet to listen to any Beastie Boys song, because MCA performed one third of it.

The remaining Beasties must be devastated. They had been friends and partners for over 30 years. They grew together, three bad brothers we know so well. They evolved from misogynistically rapping about "Girls" who do their laundry for them to penance by "[offering their] love and respect to the end" to "the mothers and the sisters and the wives and friends" in "Sure Shot."

I feel like I'm rambling, but it's been three weeks since Yauch died and I'm still blue about it. It's different from when Amy Winehouse died. She was just as important, musically and culturally, but she was a solo artist. I feel like a limb has been removed from the Beastie Boys. Two limbs. Or maybe just a piece of the heart.

Link: The Hollywood Reporter's nice compilation of regrets.

I'm so glad I got to see the Beastie Boys live when they were touring for To The Five Boroughs. They performed with such joy and energy! They seemed like they were having so much fun, rapping and dancing and playing, you could forget how good they were and how hard it is to do what they did so well. I'm mixing up past and present tense, I know, but I'm unsure of the group's future without Yauch.


Seeking solace through friends, I wrote a good man, Michał, telling him I was bummed, and he replied with exactly what I wanted to hear: "MCA. It hasn't sunk in yet, but if Ill Communication was any indication, he's with Buddha now. Or he is Buddha." It made me smile, and it made me happy. Thanks, Michał. Thanks, MCA.

Monday, April 23, 2012

Springtime At The 46th Parallel, In The Gulf.

PEI is greening up again. I’m sure spring is just lovely in most places that enjoys all four seasons, but there’s something sweet about spring on Prince Edward Island. The air is always sweet here, no matter what time of year it is. I know I’ve written about this in the past, but there’s a damp fullness to PEI air that is intoxicating, especially when one is arriving from a vast, dusty metropolis.

PEI’s soil is rich and red and absolutely glows in spring showers, but what you can really smell is last year’s mulching crops being munched by awoken worms. In April melting ice pours off the fields, dragging away nutrients and colour. I love watching the water run. I go out to Pownal and stand on the side of the road, my shoes squishing in the muddy grass, sun on my neck, fascinated by the lacy rivulets losing potential energy. I could watch them for hours.

Springtime is also a fantastic time to remind yourself that you’re never terribly far from farmland on PEI. Even on campus at UPEI there are times you whiff farm, and by “whiff farm,” I mean “smell shit.” Well, manure, technically, I suppose. I drove up West with my mum on Friday and I saw a farm implement I’d never seen before – it was like an automated manure flicker. It had a flat conveyer belt-buggy on the back of a tractor, which moved manure to the end of the buggy where a long rotating brush would catch the bit about to fall off the end and propel it in an arc onto the field.

Well, what I should address, I suppose, is how much I love the smell of manure*. To some, it may just be shit, but no – it’s fertility and tradition and home. I spent a lot of time between PEI and Nova Scotia’s Annapolis Valley when I was young, and farmers preparing their fields for their crops is a point of pride. I come from fertile soil**.

The grass is greening and the trees are budding their little yellow-green and rust-red buds. The crocuses are come and gone, and now daffodils and tulips are blooming alongside daylilies warming up their rhizomes. The ice is out of the harbour, the days are longer, and the salt trucks are parked for another seven or eight months. I’ll soon be reading on the deck and slinging tickets to tourists in town. Mum needs some help edging her flower beds while Dad sorts his gladiola bulbs, and I’ll sleep with the windows open, happy to be listening to screaming foxes.



*This love is not extended to liquid pig manure. That shit just straight-up reeks.

** Even Newfoundland, where I was born, has farms, of course, but I was rarely there in the spring, so mostly PEI and NS spring to mind when I whiff manure.

Friday, March 02, 2012

9/365.

I've been pinin' for Scotland lately. I was only there once, and it was for about a week-and-a-half, about 12 years ago, but I've been thinking about straight-up living there in the last couple of weeks. I expect it would be similar to Canada's East Coast, climate-wise, only maybe damper.

I've been stoking this fire by listening to The Proclaimers more. I know, I know... there are a lot of other Scottish bands I could be enjoying, and I know I've already profiled a song from another successful Scot band, Travis, but hey, I'm in a mood, ok? Back off.

I've chosen Letter From America for a few reasons.

It has excellent, inventive harmonies and great use of non-lead/non-lyrical, almost percussive vocals.

It uses some interesting tempo choices, too. It uses triplets at the end of the chorus ("Miami to Canada"). The triplet echoes a common tempo feature in celtic music. I love the use of triplets in pop music. Triplets always baffled me, but my life partner B. was never stymied by them. Damn him.

I am also a sucker for bittersweet stories, and leaving the homeland to travel to a far-away land for work is a story we're very familiar with on the East Coast. Nova Scotia is named so for a reason, for goodness sake! Immigrants came here and come here from abroad, and now, Atlantic Canadians are faced with the same issues: leaving home to find work further afield.

One thing I'm increasingly obsessed with is watching how active their mouths are when they make the [r] sound! Look how the tongues dance off the roof of the mouth!

Friday, February 17, 2012

A No-Win Sitch.

So, three times in the last three days I've called people out on spelling, pronunciation, or typographical errors.

To be fair, I was straight-up making fun of two of the three.

The third one, the pronunciation gaffe, was an FYI to a broadcaster. Twice, on two separate episodes, I had heard him pronounce "row" (as in an argument) the wrong way. He pronounced it as in what you do in a boat, or what you call lines of veggies in a garden, not rhyming with "cow," as it should. I assumed he'd only ever read the word and not heard it said in UK movies, TV shows, or on radio, etc., where it's more commonly used.

The problem is, how do you express genuine concern for a broadcaster's reputation without sounding like a know-it-all asshole? I tweeted him, too. Now that I think about it, I should have sent him a message instead. Not everyone had to read that.

The internet is such a rabbithole of assholery. The anonymity is problematic, I suppose. This broadcaster in particular is putting out a weekly (or bi-weekly) free, fun, funny, and informative podcast and I'm sitting in my PJs, consuming it. Why can't I just shut the hell up and let him say the wrong "row"?

I guess I could let other people tell him about this mistake. Or professionals in the industry. Why should I take it on? It's just... one of the times, he said it in front of David Tennant, and I know he wouldn't want to make that mistake. Not in front of Ten.

I'm not one of those people that would complain that he uses the word "adorbs" from time to time, even though sets my teeth on edge. I guess that's because it's not necessarily wrong, but rather a strange little selection from his personal lexicon*. Apparently people complain he says "awesome" too much. I'd never noticed.

ANYHOW. This dude is taping his hour-long stand-up special this weekend, which is a big deal for comedians, so I hope he kills. I do think he's doing great work.

Right. Anyhow, the other two corrections were to friends and they know I'm a dick about this stuff, so they can just shrug and roll their eyes and go back to loving me a second later. Hopefully.

* Dropping all but the first syllable of a word and adding an -s makes me happy, for some reason. Maybe because a friend used to always say "probs" instead of "probably." My high school students used to do it so awkwardly... so cute. It's like we're nick-naming words. Dave becomes Dafs. Betty becomes Betts. Jackie becomes Jax. Probably becomes probs. "Adorbs" is an exception. The sound "-orbs" is just so amusical. But I digress...

Monday, February 13, 2012

Northern Touch.

I am from Northern stock. I'm not talking just Canadian. I'm talking Scandinavian.

And not very far back, either. My great-grandparents on my maternal grandmother's side came from Sweden to Newfoundland in the last century.

My dad's family, we think, were Swedes, too, by way of England. In fact, we think my family name is anglicized "Swede."

This is all to say I should be more comfortable in the winters on the 46th parallel of Prince Edward Island. It should be in my blood.

Instead, I feel the cold straight to the bone. It's -15C today, and that's not including a 30km/h wind making the windchill painful. I've been in colder weather, but I'm just sayin'. Hella cold.

I would seek warmer climes, but unfortunately owing to my genetics, I am woefully deficient in melanin. I was born with pale blue eyes, light hair, blindingly white skin with freckles, and an acute sense of irony.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

A Thriller.

The Woman in Black is a play I saw in London in 2002. It scared the tar out of me. It was great to see a horror story played out live on stage. It featured 2 actors and was incredibly well done.

I see they've made a movie of it, starring none other than Mr. Radcliffe, who, after impressing people after HP on Broadway, seems to be going the right way to not be shackled to one character. Good - I'm glad, because he seems to be a genuine talent, and very funny, too. Well, funny, anyway.

Well, Woman in Black seems to be opening in early February here in Canada, and while I'm not usually one for scary movies, I think I'll have to take it in. I wish Sparklin' D and I still lived in the same city... Not that she'd go see ol' Danny Radcliffe in a movie with me...

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Hunx.

I like to think of myself as somewhat enlightened. Sophisticated, maybe? Maybe not, but enlightened works. I assume most people consider themselves enlightened, too. I doubt most people would straight-up consider themselves dim-witted without comparing his- or herself to someone else.

Anyhow, I've said it before on this interminable missive that I'm uncomfortable describing a man as "hot." It's demeaning, and, because I have self-esteem issues regarding my own looks, I would like to pay the opposite gender the courtesy I hope it would pay me by not reducing a man to superficial blah blah blah, you get the point.

I think I'll start using the term "hunk." It's old-timey and therefore somewhat harmless, and maybe doesn't put quite so fine a point on it.

Kate Beaton's rendering of two hunks. My birthday's coming up. Just sayin'.

Sigh. I've been thinking about this subject again because I've given myself some sort of proto-bedsores and already put myself behind in my courses because I've spent the last few days tearing through the entire (albeit truncated) series Firefly and its feature film. Yeah. About 12.5 hours.

That's not cool.

I mean, it's not cool for several reasons. Reason the First: I am a grown-up and I should be able to say, "That's enough. You have things to do." Reason the Second: when the phrase "pressure ulcers" comes into one's mind it should be enough of a clue that one had sat on one's ass long enough. Reason the Third (and this is the most true-to-the-meaning of "cool" of all the reasons): I should not be so into sci-fi*.

This all comes around to me once again talking about hunks. The new hunk in my life? Oh, Mr. Fillion, of course. He's just fantastic. I have to watch more of this man. (It's a little too early to include him in the illustrious Husband List. I have to do my sue diligence and start watching Castle.) Mal Reynolds was a great character and I love the bittersweetness of never getting to really see him again. Wheadon et al. were just starting to tell the story and we were just getting to see what the hell was up with River.

And then it was cancelled. Bleh.

Happily, I didn't watch it when it was actually on the air - I guess I was in grad school and sans TV. The cancellation may have been traumatic.

Then, today, this little exchange-du-hunque went on on Twitter, and I lost my mind for the timing of it all.


Nathan Fillion

Watching #Community. Haven't laughed out loud this much since (fill in blank).


Joel McHale

Dear @NathanFillion, the cast would like to say thank you & that they love Castle, Serenity, Firefly, your big hands, dreamy face, & body.

Anyhow, please, friends and random strangers, don't judge me for my susceptibility to hunks. Higher reason doesn't have anything to do with this. Look lovingly at your steady partner as you enjoy a meal together and say, boy, I'm so glad I'm grown up and don't let my mind wander to the broad shoulders and strong arms and I am a contributing member of society. 

Wait - maybe normal healthy people think about hunks all the time, but just don't discuss them. That would be nice, if that were true.


It's probably more likely that I have some sort of endocrine imbalance.


*I was chatting with S today, and she said something about how awesome Wil Wheaton is but how funny it is that when he was on TNG everyone hated him. I told her he was the reason I started watching! Hey, I was in the early throes of puberty and I thought he was cute and it was cool that there could be such a young, clever character on a show. But I digress. Sorry that a discussion about hunks ends with Wil Wheaton. Some (not necessarily me) might consider that a buzzkill. Let's never speak of this again.

Thursday, January 05, 2012

Come On, Sorel!

I know Sorel shoes are better known for their quality and functionality than aesthetics, but when they name a boot after me, you think they'd consult. 
They're pretty cool, I guess... Well, no. I don't like them. Or, at least, I don't think they look like something I could pull off. I don't tuck my jeans into my boots, so all that business going on above the ankle would be lost.  

Well, it's my bad luck. Camper? Your turn.

Wednesday, January 04, 2012

University Semester #29 (Or Whatever The Hell It's Up To By Now).

A new year, and a new semester of school. I'm still trying to get into a Speech-Langauge Pathology program, but I'm now applying in the States, and for a Master's prep program called a Post-Baccalaureate year. It's for people who don't have an SLP background to get all the brainy goodness of a 4-year SLP (or, more accurately, Communication Sciences and Disorders) undergrad in one year. I think I'll be in Massachusetts next fall, if all goes to plan.

I guess that means I'll have to learn how to spell Massachusetts without looking it up.

So, these coming months will be applications and researching hoops about how to get into Yankee-Doodle-Dandy-Land as a student, and so on and so on... In the meantime, I'm still in a couple of courses that will hopefully make applications pretty sexy for when I do apply for the MA portion of this odyssey.

I'm tacking on another psych this semester. That's Psych 102. Yup, like 101, but two-ier.

I really wish I could take the second half of Astronomy this semester, but, while I killed in the first half (89%, yo!), I can't risk tanking in the second half for a course I don't need. (I only need one physics course to study SLP in the States.) It sucks, too, because Saturn was behind the Sun last semester but will be visible this semester, and UPEI has a 40cm telescope. Ballin'. I wanna see Saturn! Wah!

Ugh. I don't like the turn that last paragraph took. Still, I'm going to leave it because it tickles me.

This morning I had my first class of this semester's Linguistics course. The prof said unless we'd taken Differential Calculus, this will be the hardest class we ever take. This probably isn't hyperbole, because Linguistics is a fascinating but extremely precise science, and most of the people in the class are English majors who read shit and write about other shit they read and it's all pretty subjective. (I was an English minor, so I know these things.) The prof is a Newfoundland firecracker and doesn't suffer fools. I love her.

Right. I should do some reading. I'm also in a course through Athabasca. It's called Psychology as a Natural Science, and it's reviewing a lot of stuff from Psych 101 so far. Fine by me. [shrug]

Monday, January 02, 2012

2012 Resolution.

I want to work on being less of an asshole bully. Making someone feel small is just cheap and sad and I do it too often.

I'm especially dickish to my mother. Living at home puts me in close personal contact with her little tics, like the way she easily gets worked up and agitated, but then denies it angrily when it is suggested she chill. Sigh. Right. Back to me.

Anyhow, can I please just not indulge it, or react, or poke the bear and respond in a way that I might respond to a stranger? Actually, maybe that's not a good plan, because I don't suffer those reactions from the general public, so maybe I should be more patient with the public, too*. 

This just happened: I asked Mum whose coat the broken zipper pull on the kitchen window sill belong to. She said, Dad's coat, but then came over to the window and started to get worked up because she couldn't see it. (It was behind a small bottle; I could still see it.) I said something like, "Why do you have to see it? You obviously know which zipper pull I'm talking about." She got pissed off, shifted 4 inches to the right and saw it, and then got POed because I didn't just point to it. She suggested that there could be two broken zipper pulls on the sill and she might be referring to the wrong one.

So, this irrational anger and stretch of statistics is something I clearly felt I had to be a dick about it. Why couldn't I have just nudged aside the bottle or pointed to it? No, I saw a moment where I had a weird, sad, advantage, and I didn't relinquish it, but had to get some mileage out of it. What a dick.

I want to be a little more adult and quicker at recognizing when I'm falling down the dickhead rabbithole and pulling myself out of that nosedive.

My insecurities should not leave my little brainpan, and I have to remember that making people feel small only makes me feel smaller.

And, if anyone wants to comment on this, can you leave suggestions on how to apologize about being a dick without going into my full psychological profile?

*Actually, I think I proved that I am the fucking Heavyweight Champion of the World of Patience with the general public after working the 2 weeks of the BOGO sale for next summer's Charlottetown Festival. People of PEI: please do your research about what show you want to see, when you want to see it, and what the prices are, so I don't feel like I'm making you take out a mortgage to see high-calibre live musical with seats that cost no more than $71. Compare if you dare. (Dancap, Mirvish.)