last summer, revisited

In the cast iron pan the grease jumped up and down while the steak burgers popped and sizzled. Months of a regimented cafeteria diet had dulled the enjoyment I usually detract from eating a meal, which is unfortunate because every meal has the potential to be stimulating in both taste and social regards. At a residence dining hall eating is mutated into a daily function of routine, fulfilling no other purpose than filling the stomach. Being back has let me soak in the comfort one receives from homes small amenities, and on this evening the ability to cook my own food was such an amenity.

My mom was adjacent to me in the kitchen, cutting vegetables on the cutting-board in preparation for a Greek salad. We had spent the afternoon completing the requisite banalities one must tend to after being away for a while. ICBC, in predictable form, found a new way to empty both my wallet and hope for humanity.

The smoke being expelled from the cast iron pan spiraled up into the stoves fan, bearing a resemblance to the human made, education-based tornado Steve and I examined at Science World. Conversation had lulled and mother and son were going about their specific culinary tasks in content silence. Suddenly a thought perks up, there’s something she has forgotten to give me. Oh, mail, nothing exciting. T4 slips to remind me of how much money I once had and bank statements to remind me of how little money I now have. My mom is considerate and respectful of privacy - she left each envelope untouched, the security licking a transparent strip of glue provides remained intact.

But terseness could be sensed in her words and I have the feeling I am about to be prompted with the unexpected.

“I received a bill for an ambulance”

The events of late last summer taint and dilute the assured relaxation cooking food brings. I’m not sure why my mother chose to open that particular letter. It could’ve been the suspect sender coupled with my name. That would be enough to incite a combination of both worry and curiosity in her. She asks me if it had to do with drugs and I say no, which is the truth, but it feels like a lie.

I give her the Coles notes version and tell her that I have no long-term nuances as a result of getting hit by a car. For me the anecdote has become tiresome and I don’t think of it too often. She mentions that she neglected to inform my father and after I thank her we return to making dinner. The subject is dropped, probably for good.

back in the d.n.v.

You call a friend; he’s busy but “this weekend for sure dude”. Instead you end up at dinner with his sister, some of your friends (who are also his friends, and one of whom is dating his sister), and some of her friends.

Tomorrow is a professional day, no school! A ripe time to covertly consume a few sips of our sixteen dollar a pitcher honey lager. Could you order me a strawberry margarita please?

The dining establishment we are at serves Greek food/cuisine. I’m broke and the girls hand feed me a bit of souvlaki for two reasons: one, I cannot afford my own sustenance and two, the plate is not located within my realm of reach. They don’t hand feed me in the way that the Greek bourgeois may have eaten grapes, but still they hand me the food and this is enough to let my mind sensationalize things.

There’s a band covering Bob Marley, though they still raise their glass and shout “OPA!”.

hotClique at Hot Chip/underneath the bhodi tree

With what resonated like meaningful, genuine feeling, Alexis Taylor told the crowd that they were their most responsive one yet on this tour. We were all flustered by this, and happy about it; at this point in the show, the music was freeing enough to remind one they ought to have left all extant notions of Vancouver shows outside the doors, back on Monday night Granville street.

The movement in the crowd, filial and well timed to me at least, was much more appropriate, mature even, then the crowd at Justice's sold out performances, at the same venue, one and eight months prior. There weren't even that many tall people in my field of vision, though the four fairly short women that were with us might have had a little tougher time seeing. Regardless of the possible sight-line problems, they did not refrain from dancing at any moment.
As the show progressed, I kept hoping the Slow Songs would be played; I wished for the lamentations on poets of 'Whistle for Will', but once they began more down-tempo songs, the need for a slow dance hooked me, and, well, women and me are a story for another day. Where Hot Chip surpassed my expectations (which were quite high, I won't lie) were the allowances they worked with and the malleability with which they performed each song: as a good variation on a classical work ought, the hammering out, or exposition, of differences and maintenance of the original themes and pleasures kept the keen album-listener on his or her toes.

The continuity of Made In The Dark might not be obvious at first, chiaroscuro position of fun and bouncy pop-styled hits against all variety of love song possible (each song could easily be construed as a love song in one way or another), but after seeing the Chip live, I think I'm getting at it: Great honesty is something I admire in anyone, especially a public entity with as large a reach as a rock band. It's easy to feel with these cats.

Do it do it do it do it do it now

homecoming

The last days, weeks even, were a slog. Months of slacking and fucking around only manage to cultivate a desperate final campaign: academically, socially and mentally. Friendships are distilled when you’re all about to leave each other. Do you really give a fuck about them? That’s when you find out.

Are you concerned about grades? It all comes crashing down when you decide to glance at the syllabus and realize that assignment you “forgot” to hand in was worth 40%. Is this autobiographical? I’m trying to be general; the ailments outlined could plague any university student at this time of year. But I’ll concede and admit, yes, this is about me.

I had the hearts again too. I moped around some, smiled some, got some. The pursuit, the engagement of a romantic affair is distracting and taxing.

Let’s stop this.

It’s all behind me now, geographically speaking. I flew home yesterday and my parents picked me up, hugged me and promptly dropped me off at 4th and Commercial. Alex then collected me, hugged me and handed me a Hot Chip ticket. They opened with “Shake A Fist” into “Boy From School”. It was a great show.

HIATUS

WE DON'T GIVE A FUCK
We're offline till mondayish, as if waiting for us is a new thing.