blessed are the easily amused

Wednesday, December 31, 2003

maybe it's appropriate that, as I cast about my head for a song to cure the boredom, the only tune that comes to mind is the simultaneously turgid and empty Barry Manilow classic: "it's just another new year's eve, another night like all the rest / and when we're through, baby you'll see / we'll be just fine." or maybe it's completely inappropriate. in any case, it's alarming how many bad song snippets are safely stored in my otherwise useless memory.

so there'll be a little party, and if we're lucky someone will bring cleverly designed snacks. we'll all know we should drink as aggressively as possible between 10 and midnight to douse the childish desire for something great to happen upon the witching hour, but we probably won't really have the heart to do it. someone will probably turn on the television at 11:45 to preempt the dread silence. we will watch americans celebrating.

now, now pollyanna; is that any way to greet the darling, vulnerable infant new year?

Tuesday, December 30, 2003

i guess i should start walking around wearing stylish outerwear and shoes that say 'salt-of-the-earth, no nonsense, no personality grown-up'. that way, when I stand in front of the library to get b roll for cbc, some mad cow librarian won't come out and furrow her literate effing brow at me and say, "i disapprove of you freelance camera people just going around and pointing your cameras everywhere without permission. i saw you pointing it into the library, at me."

ok, lady. is that the way you want it? you think you're going to get that book of short stories back? you probably don't like my toque. and that really hurts me. maybe you think someone like me, in a toque like mine, could never understand the printed word.

Monday, December 29, 2003

winners of the 2003 lisa festival of humanity:

my mom. she lived in a pumpkin shell for 35 years, maybe even more, and then socko. she became prairie mama extraordinaire, jumping out of airplanes, driving across the continent by herself, and generally not giving a shit. yet giving more of a shit than anyone.

trev. maker of pretty things. the world may never know how this man sings.

Monday, December 22, 2003

hot off the press - haikus that capture the delicate nuances of shooting and editing video. never again think that media people lack sensitivity.

tread cherry blossoms
into the muck
to photograph the tree

time code
a black silk ribbon
in my dirty hands

changing, charming face
inside, a tangle
of soldered guts

we edit gently
never jarring the viewer
from her drooling stupor

smug fat face -
an ardent plea
for a slap

soundup of cows
transports viewer to shityard
tape rolls on

outside i blink
at new quiet snow;
the sky has no corners