I'm packing. I'm packing. I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing. I'm packing. I'm packing. I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing. I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing.I'm packing. I'm packing.

Getting all my ducks in order. Thailand, brb.
-Side of the Han Tan River. Watching bungee jumpers, June twenty-eleven

Fitter, happier, more-productive years

Nineteen eighty-eight, put another candle on the cake. Grew no higher, maybe wider, flung feet further from the farm. Landed in some far-off suburb outgrowth of one of earth’s largest cities, ancient land and foreign tongue.

Come new friends to celebrate old years, order pints of brew. Dish out birthday cake to every patron in a Japanese style bar. Take the party early morning to the corner store by the river and order more.

Break out a bottle of scotch and cheers to another year of good grave taunting love.

Tech support

Broken Mac cord means no photos or blog posts. Typing away now in a PC Bang with the blasts of Sudden Attack behind me. The fix comes soon. I've been busy in Busan, burning on the beach and getting lost in markets. Unconnected, life.

Mother's Day

The first Sunday in May here is designated for both parents. But with the custom of Western wishes, we celebrate just the mother. For the one who traveled cross the globe chasing a son who long left the home, I snuck out the hotel to buy a flower.

Here I’ll put it simply for the lovely Donna: thanks for being my mother.

Escape to the city for the weekend

The Super Suburbs

It was high hot noon when a black car pulled up and popped its trunk; the driver packed in every last belonging. Straight south towards the exit and onto the highway, the wheels rolled out the city.

Up and over the clouds and back down again, land and load at Y-W-G. With the skyline cleared the eye takes in clouds and stars and sunset. We drive past strip malls and parking lots and grocery stores, rows of houses covered in stucco.

So we land at the summer stead, a sisters’ condo to sleep at. Long roads lead in all directions to buildings built out not up, spaced across the prairie. Between the small town and big city left short and long ago, here now are suburbs never before lived in.

And with the tracts and cul-de-sacs comes a character to navigate them. Enter Superman of the Suburbs, ready for the summer.

*Photos by Andrea Dyck. Art direction is all yours truly.

Twenty-two reasons

As a teenager my birthdays were always big productions. At fifteen I rented a limo and made my friends wear suits and dresses (pictured above) even though we dined at a restaurant in the parking lot of the mall.

Sweet-sixteen was a trip to the bustling metropolis of Grand Forks for a Dashboard Confessional and Get Up Kids show. For my seventeenth birthday I held a rural bush party, which would have been great were it not for all the mosquitoes.

At my second seventeenth birthday in Winnipeg (at this point I was holding two) I had all my friend attend a show at the Graffiti Gallery. The lineup: Buried In Denmark, Dolphin Striker, The Recovery and Abbott Prison Blues. Totally classic.

Eighteen and legal in Manitoba was the biggest and the best. We rented out a room at the Osborne Freehouse, then took over G-Martini, and ended the evening dancing at Mod Night at the Pyramid Cabaret.

At nineteen I let it die. Today I turn twenty-two. The plan? I've scheduled a job interview.

Forever fifteen

We pretended we could drink

So he sang: Hands down, the best night I can ever remember

Seventeen and green eyes. Krysta and Zach.

TJ gave me a shout out on stage.

Freehouse birthday cake

Eighteen and dancing with Lisa on stage

On the Pyramid patio

Eighteen reasons adulthood is less fun

The case of one too many Russes
*This is Russ Martin's butt

The headline hurts.

It reads, “Russ Martin: Paid Millions Not to Work, Bored.”

It certainly isn’t about me. I am paid next-to-nothing, always busy, juggling unpaid labour and other writing. Some guys get all the luck.

Enter Russ Martin, a 49-years-old disc jockey from Dallas, Texas. Martin grew up in a working class neighbourhood called Pleasant Grove, has a handlebar moustache, and owns a collection of replica cars from famous films. He owns two Batmobiles modeled after the 1966 live action Batman and another from Speed Racer. He even has an orange General Lee from the original Dukes of Hazzard.

Did I mention he’s paid to do nothing? As far the things Texans talk about on the radio, Martin has spit them all. Religion, sports and country music: Russ Martin has always has an opinion. At least he used to. According to NBC’s DFW in Dallas, Martin was dropped from his radio gig despite high ratings one year ago, but remains on company payroll to the tune of an annual $1.1 million. In the spring, he got a 10 per cent raise.

Now he’s bored. “I'm not really being productive. I'm pretty much a burden on society,'" he told the station’s website.

Here comes the bad stuff.

As the story goes, Martin pulled a gun while screaming threats at his wife, but never pointed the gun, or pulled the trigger. He also says he did not hit her, and the two are still together, the NBC story says. But he’s not speaking to the Dallas Observer, which reported his wife moved out of their $3 million dollar home and gave back his $30,000 engagement ring.

The Observer also says he’s faked many of his Howard Stern style gags, claims staffers on his show hated him, and reminds readers Martin is the type to say things like, “Only stupid people are poor.”

But domestic abuse and crown douchery aside, it still stings there a much, much more successful Russ Martin than me. Only in Texas, I sigh to myself, forcing my eyes away from the page.

I click close on the window and think:

You asshole, this is what you get for Googling yourself.


*This post is dedicated to Irina, queen of all that is Bizarro