11: It's only time and good sense that I lack

I'm back in the Beatles lately, although I never really left 'em. I go through increasingly rapid phases of infatuation with their music. I was at the height of one last fall when Joe participated in a tribute night that happened to extend it by way of seeing a 1965-era tribute act playing a number of songs I'd never heard, some of which I became quite infatuated with (primarily I Call Your Name.)

I bought a book yesterday called "A Hard Day's Write: The Story Behind Every Beatles Song." I'd heard about it sometime ago during an earlier fixation period, and while it contains very little that I didn't already know, or that I couldn't have found on the internet someplace, it's still an enjoyable enough piece of writing. Not an overly hard way to make a living. When I was in high school I read "A Day in the Life" a book that detailed the Beatles' history through their history, the author had spent a long while trawling through the Abbey Road archives.

It's been one of the more eventful weekends of August despite not much actually happening. This month really escaped me in a hurry and my entries of late have been tedious to write, let alone live, let alone let alone read.

So Friday was built around boredom and the generally sad nature of my life. Around midnight, Cary came on and asked me a strange question, whether it would be okay for him to show up at my house at like 1:30, and could he crash on my couch. Sure, I says, but why not just go further a block to his own parents' place? Doesn't want to wake 'em, he says. So I says okay, since I've slept on his couches numerous times this was the least I could do. Due to the rain he was a little later, so around 2 he's pulled up to my house by Vanessa Brown (why he did not simply sleep at Vanessa's, who knows, whatever. I take it as a compliment he just wanted to hang out with me) and we went down to the basement. I don't think it was Cary's first time seeing the place, but I don't have people down often, especially I didn't before Eric moved out, so maybe he hadn't actually been down there. He was impressed with the set-up, enough to justify my not having moved out.

He ate McDonald's, I played Super Mario Bros. 3, we talked about our usual bunch of topics. After an hour or so, he'd finished his food and I let him sleep for the night. I'd told him my usual routine of going for coffee with Manda on Saturday mornings, welcomed him along if he'd wanted to, but in the morning he ultimately decided to just go on home, sleep some more, then go furniture shopping (his actual reason for being in town.)

Among other things, Amanda and I talked for like a half hour about tattoos. It started as a general overview of body modifications when we saw a dude with those giant stretched-out lobes, and I wondered what the guy was gonna tell his grandkids fifty years from now when they ask their moms why grampa's ears are so gross and weird. This was actually me re-stating a thought I'd had earlier in the week but had nobody around to express it to, as is often the case with my random musings, most of which find their way into this blog. So anyway, the topic shifted to tattoos, discussing people we'd known who'd gotten them, the places on the body that were acceptable, and the suitable subjects.

I decided I could probably never commit to anything to a sufficient degree to justify tattooing it on myself. I joked about a few possible nominations for tattooing -- the first, a Watchmen smiley face with a bloodstain on it. Simple, iconic, meaningful to those who get it and with a reasonable explanation for those who did not. Filling those same criteria would be my second idea, the "runic" symbols from Led Zeppelin's fourth album. I don't love Zeppelin that much, but I do like them, and a lot of people do love them that much. I might consider that before I'd consider the logo of my favourite band, Aerosmith.

The third selection, along the lines of music, would be an elaborate, full-color reproduction of the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band cover, with me dropped in there giving the thumbs up or going for a high five or something.

The last idea I had was a full reproduction of William Carlos Williams' The Red Wheelbarrow, which would fit nearly on any acceptable tattoo location.

Oh, one more idea that gained very little traction with Amanda was a large rendering of the Grimace across my stomach. For some reason she did not think that an image worth tattooing.

For her part, Amanda had a design she had conceived long ago, an imaginary flower meant to represent things that had been developing in her life at the time.

I later spoke to my brother about it, and he reminded me of his idea if he were to get a tattoo -- which like me he would not do -- it would be a fork and knife symbol on his forearm, so that when people would ask him what they meant, he could just say "Nothing!" But I'll come back to that scene later.

Mom was cleaning the hell out of the place when I got home. She revealed that she would be renting the room out again after her home staging venture (unsurprisingly) failed to pan out. FOR SOME REASON this involved hauling out this couch-futon thing that had been stowed in our shed all winter, which meant Brando and I (not the must burly men ever,) had to move it all the way through the house, with furniture and dog in the way, and the thing constantly at risk of unfolding. My forearms are still sore. Oy.

So as if that wasn't pain enough, I had to go to dinner with dad the moment we were finished (har har.) Really though, Dad had told us Deb was away, so why not go out to Toronto, get Eric and eat at his hangout, Burger Boy? Well, I had complained to Manda earlier about how much I always dread going out to eat because of my stupid insane hang-up about eating in public, and though I wish it weren't so, it is a fairly irrevocable fact. But I don't like to press it on people, so on those rare occasions when dad wants to take us out to eat, I just go with it, pop a Gravol and get on with my life.

It was a nice little place. Although I had a salad at a time when I could probably have stood to get a bit more protein. Or just not seem like a woman. In the end I was okay, but only because I'm getting better at making it work.

Anyway, thanks to my stupid self-medicating, I got home and pretty well conked out after fighting drowsiness for a while. Then I drifted in and out before ultimately going to bed.

While writing this entry, I was listening to Invisible Invasion by the Coral. When I first listened to it I was pretty disappointed. I consider their first album their most engaging work, due to its reckless energy, but that their second album, Magic and Medicine, was a more likely target due to its smooth retro-pop sensibilities. It wasn't quite as listenable as that, or as evocative as their third album, Nightfreak and the Sons of Becker, but after my first listen I was really unimpressed and vowed to put it away, vowing to give it another listen someday. So I did, and I liked it. It's still not as good as those other three, a difficult listen to be sure, but a worthwhile one with a couple standout tracks (one, In the Morning, I'd heard prior to buying the record, and is completely unlike anything else on the album.) A while back, Ryan and I were on the train and they happened to come up because their song Dreaming of You had been used in an episode of Scrubs and wanting to know more about them he found some more songs from their first album, but nothing that satisfied to the degree that song did. I'd say there are a few really good songs on that album, but just nothing of that caliber, on that album or any others. Very few bands write a song like Dreaming of You, though.

Anyway, it's been a good night for bloggin'. We should catch up like this more often. except I should have consistently interesting things to say.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott