A perfect summer night, in March.

I'm a true believer that the best days are the ones that happen completely by accident. 


Today was one of those days.


After a planned afternoon of entertaining my friend and her adorable 3 month old in my apartment, I rushed off to a hair appointment, and thus started a perfect night out.


First, let me set the scene: It's March, in Nova Scotia, but by some amazing yet slightly horrifying twist of global warming it's a gorgeous 22 degrees. Everyone on the streets downtown are sharing a communal fantastic summer attitude. Shades on, sleeves up, summer shoes, iced coffees in tow. Needless to say, amazing weather after a miserable winter. 
Everybody is Happy.


I settle into the chair and chatter away while my winter shag is transformed into a blunt-banged hipster do. The conversation drifts effortlessly from Vietnam Tourism, Indian food, horoscopes, ghosts, parallel dimensions, time travel and Coronation Street.


Best. Stranger. Conversation. Ever


I pay and stop by Dalhousie's Sexton Campus and meet my old friend T who's in the process of building a robot with friends for a competition. I sit on the floor and watch two grown men sweat bullets and fret as they trouble shoot a robot designed to lift and move eight wooden playing blocks to spell a word: Profound. It succeeds in less than three minutes, and there is much rejoicing.


I manage to drag T off for a bite at the local south end BBQ joint Boneheads. We proceed to devour two plates of pulled pork and mac and cheese, chased with glass bottle ginger beer and coke. We close the place out and then leave for a wonderful spontaneous walk through the south end.


Highlights of the night included:

• Moseying up streets and (mostly me) chattering about houses and architecture.
• Ducking down an alley and showing T a secret part of the city he'd always biked by but never really saw.
• Spotting this house:

Hello Jetsons!

• Sitting on a bench at the corner of Spring Garden Road and watching people strut by in their hipster spring-wear lovelies.
• Wandering over to the Library front steps and catching buskers swallowing fire and spinning devil sticks.

We finished off the night sitting on the church steps at Pizza Corner and listened to a heavy metal band practice through an open apartment window. As we sit and goof off while watching more packs of people manoeuvring in the cool summer night, we see the band emerge from the apartment, lugging gear. They look like a proper stereotype: Long grisly hair up in bandanas, scruffy facial hair, sleeveless tee shirts, spider web tattoos... And thats when we saw them load all their gear into the back --- of a brand new Silver Dodge Caliber...

I guess even the metal heads need reliability and storage in a midsize car.

Over all, this spontaneous date was just what T and I both needed. Sometimes it's not what you do, it's who you do it with, and then sometimes it's both. 

As I waited for the last bus to take me home to Dartmouth I thought about all the great days that stand out in my memory: Spontaneous picnics, beach walks on days that had no business being beach days, conversations on verandas that last into the wee hours, road trips to nowhere, surprise guests and swing sets.

On nights like tonight, with the air smelling of dusty summer, and my heart all warm and fuzzy I feel content. Content and optimistic. 

They say everybody associates certain smells with deep feelings, and I've always associated that warm scent of summer dust and new grass growth with hope.

And tonight reeked of it.

Death and Taxes.

Doing your taxes sucks. Super sucks. 
Especially if you're me and you're eyes start to cross at the sight of numbers. 
Especially if you're me and you graduated high school having failed the provincial math exam. Especially if you're me and you freelance in an industry that pays in cash at the end of the job. And Especially if you've worked close to 20 jobs in the past year. 
Yeah, taxes suck.

So here I am, sorting through a year's worth of T4's, pay stubs, cheque photo copies, invoices and receipts, eating something that claims to be risotto out of a plastic bag (My Mom would be so proud). Who am I kidding? I've done my taxes for ages, and I have a solid track record for doing them wrong each and every single year. So this year I surrender, I'm going to the mall and having a professional in a booth do them. 


Stuff I know: If you're not a mechanic don't fix your own car, and if you're a math idiot don't do your own taxes.


I love being an adult, and if I keep saying that to myself enough I may start to believe it.

Funeral Songs.

My good friend John Clarke over at The Rector's Blog, posted a comment in response to my post about "Psycho Killer" yesterday: "I want the Talking Heads song "Home: Naive Melody" plays just before my funeral starts." 


Which is cool all by itself, but what makes that even cooler is that John's the Rector at St. Paul's Anglican  Church in Charlottetown PEI, and when I was a kid he was the minister at my church in Bridgewater. He was a really positive role model for a awkward pre-teen growing up in a small town, and even though I haven't seen him in years I still site him as one of the adults that mentored me into being a decent human being.


I still love discovering what music we have in common, and I guess it never ceases to amuse me when you get to see someone as more than their occupation. Finding out your minister likes bands like The Clash, Talking Heads and M.I.A. is like finding out your math teacher is a demolition derby driver on the weekends. It kicks their awesome spectrum up a notch for sure. 

This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody) - Talking Heads

John's comment got me to thinking about funeral songs. Something I doubt very many people think about, especially 23 year old immortals like me. Ask any woman with an affinity for daydreaming and I can guarentee that she's probably already picked out the music for her wedding. I'll admit I've done it, how cool would it be to have a first dance to Brian Ferry's "Let's Stick Together", nothing says romance like boogying to a lyrical plea of sticking together for the sake of the children. Party. 

I think the songs you'll have played at your funeral are far more important in the grand scheme of things, I mean, you only get one shot at that playlist. Statistics show you're probably going to have a few weddings, chances are you're only going to die once.

Think about it, this is your last chance to show off your obscure music tastes, and unlike sharing a video or song on Facebook, your 'guests' have to listen to the music you picked. Have to. It's not negotiable. This is undoubtedly every music snob's wet dream.  Like throwing the ultimate party, you get to completely set the tone. My favourite example of this was in the film Love Actually: "Bye Bye Baby" by The Bay City Rollers. Brilliant. Absolutely Brilliant. Tongue in cheek all the way.

Maybe it's the maritimer in me but I think a funeral is a celebration of somebody's life, and shouldn't be all stiff and stuffy. Bring on the fiddles, I want to see drinking and eating, story sharing and laughter, and goddammit, there had better be little cucumber sandwiches at my reception or somebody's getting a poltergeist.

As far as what I would want played at my funeral I have no idea, but I know "This Must Be The Place" is a top contender (Yeah, I know that makes me a hack, funeral song thief. Guilty as charged.) I also know that I'm going to need to throw a hymn in there to make the old fogy's happy, so here:

Lord Of The Dance - Dubliners

This was my favourite hymn when I was a choir kid.What's not to like? Not only does this video give me serious beard envy, it's also catchy. It's a cheerful galloping little melody with a chorus you can pick up in no time, a rhythm you can clap/stomp to, AND you can swing around and around in a circle with somebody till one of you pukes. 

So essentially this hymn is the perfect drinking song, and therefor a perfect addition for my Dream Funeral. 

Inappropriate things I shouldn't have said #1:

Describing that pang of jealousy that sneaks up and diddles with your sanity:
"I feel like somebody just vacuum aborted my heart through my belly button"

Tricks my brain plays on me #1

Went to bed last night with thoughts of long-distance-relationship-induced-paranoia dancing around in my head. 

I dreamt I learned how to play the electric base, but the only thing I learned to play was the opening rift to "Psycho Killer" by the Talking Heads. Clearly this is some subconscious cry for help, because nothing says "I'm a sane, calm, cool adult" like starting the morning with this song implanted in your imagination. For the rest of the day all tasks warranted me singing this to myself under my breath. Vacuuming has never been so intense.

As far as I'm concerned this is the bad-assiest songs ever.

The only cold cure that works:

*Cough*Cough*Cough*

.... mummy....

Calling your parents and asking them to sing "Soft Kitty"is not surrendering, it's a survival move, and possibly the smartest thing I've ever done. In fact it was the only thing that made me feel better in nine days... Take that drugs.

The original soft kitty. Leo.

They need to bottle that crap. I'd pimp that on school yards.