Katitude

Got a little note from VinNay, saying he was ready, are there plans in the works? Thanks for the reminder - was losing track of the year already (which considering it’s now February, does not bode well for the rest of the year).

I’m taking it as my cue to get my ass in gear and start working on a plan for Eh Vegas IV. I’m looking for some initial input on:

Who’s interested in coming? It’s open to anyone and everyone.
When would be good? The choices are:

• 27/28 of March. yes, I know it’s just after Mastodon and just before Easter. It’s also the last weekend of my March Break which will give me ample time to plan.
• May 22/23. It’s the May Two-Four weekend! Monday is Victoria Day, celebrated with beer and fireworks. Plus there is a fairly strong chance that Loud and The Handsomest Man In The World will be on this side of the world.
• The last weekend of June.
• Labour Day weekend or the weekend before. It does seem like a long way away, doesn’t it? But I figured I’d throw out some summer dates when the weather is warm and the bar patios are open.
• a case can be made for just about any weekend, but I am limited in when I can take time off from school, limiting the pre- and post-weekend party/recovery cycle for me.

I first heard Lhasa de Sela in 1998. At the time, Keith was occasionally looking after the audio at the Top O’ The Senator, a small jazz space above The Senator Restaurant downtown. It was still early in our relationship; we were in an on moment in our on-again-off-again dating cycle.

I remember that I was just hanging around my apartment, goofing off with no plans of doing anything else for the night. Keith called me after the sound check, around dinner time, and asked if I wanted to catch the show.

“If I can’t get you on the list, I’ll pay the cover. I think you’ll like her.”

Knowing even then that Keith would not voluntarily pay a cover to see just anyone, I grabbed my bag and headed downtown.

And he was right. I did like her. There was something about that smokey voice that was so seductive. She seemed to pour herself into every song and then with a sly smile and mischievous look, would pour the song into you.  She sang in Spanish, French and Russian; I didn’t understand what she was singing but in a way I cannot explain it made the experience even better.

She was one of those performers that I never grew bored of. I made sure to check her website often, so I could catch her whenever she played in Toronto. I made Keith call in favours to get me on the guest list for her sold out show at the Toronto International Jazz Festival. Her music has always been in steady rotation in cd players and in the iPods. It smooths some of the more jagged pieces of my soul.

Tonight I heard on the news that she has passed away from breast cancer. She was 37 years old.

The loss of that smokey voice has affected me. The manner of the loss brings memories of other losses, and has me reaching for the iPod to look for something to smooth out the jagged edges.

These are among my favourites taken in 2009. They may not be particularly good photos, but I like them for one reason or another.

January 09 - Horseshoe Falls, Niagara Falls, ON

April - Crown Point, NY

May - goldfinch in the reeds at the Brickworks

June - Red Door

July - Abandoned Centre Island Skyride

July - Dad's boat

August - Mississagi Lighthouse, Manitoulin Island

August - at the Ex

September - Graffiti Alley

October - late afternoon cello practice

December - Neon Boneyard, Las Vegas

If the first day is a good barometer for how the year is going to shape up, then 2010 is going to be a good one.

January one, I woke up beside someone who loves me and feeds me coffee. He gave me the keys to the car, kissed me and said have a nice time.

I meandered out to the Martini Goddess’ place, exploring a few roads that always looked interesting but never seemed to be on the way anywhere. They still weren’t really on the way, but that really isn’t the point of exploring, is it? I put the iPod on shuffle and heard some music that I forgot I had and some music that I have no idea how/when I acquired it. Seriously…when did I buy anything that had a banjo in it?

I arrived bearing gifts, and received gifts (mmmm….Mexican vanilla and a hot pink bra!). We spent the afternoon and evening chatting over martinis. The conversation meandered all over the place, as good conversations do. The martinis were, for the most part, delish. There were a few missteps in the experimentation - watching my cocktail curdle was enough to put me off Amarula for life. As in all experiments, you keep the good, throw out the bad and move on.

We re-created the Black Martini from the now-defunct Wish. Gone is the patio and the killer brunch, but the cocktail will live on.

1 oz vanilla vodka
1 oz Kahlua
1 oz espresso
1 oz cream
Shake with ice, strain into martini glass. Garnish with cocoa and espresso beans.

Karen concocted one that tasted like the birthday cake my mom would make on our birthdays, a chocolate layer cake with her home made raspberry jam in the middle.

The It’s My Birthday
1 oz vanilla vodka
1 oz white creme de cacao
1 oz Chambord
Shake with ice, strain into martini glass. Garnish with raspberries. Sip slowly; this one sneaks up on you.

I do love going to Karen’s. I’m comfortable there because I know I can truly be myself. I can say anything and I wouldn’t shock her nor would she judge me, and vice versa. There is a lot to be said for that kind of friendship.

And there is a lot to be said for a day filled with love and laughter, and some pretty kick-ass martinis.

Ganked from from Neil Gaiman’s blog, because he is much more skillful at this than I:

I especially like the last line.

It’s the last day of 2009.

Whoop-dee-doo.

Frankly I don’t really see what the big deal is about New Year’s Eve. This day is really no different than the next day other than a calendar needs to be changed. I used to pretend it was a momentous occasion, to watch this man-made construct we’ve overlaid on time edge towards the end of year and slip into the next amidst drunken singing of an auld Scottish song that no one really understands.

Of course, it could be that being a waitress and working twenty of my forty-seven New Year’s Eve’s have helped burn the sense of occasion out of me. AlcantHang called it right; amateur night indeed. It’s even worse than Oktoberfest. I could tell stories (insert *eyeroll and *headshake here).

However, I recognize that I am in the minority. So for those of you stepping out tonight, may you have as much fun as you can handle and make it back home safely.

Cheers!

About a month ago, the man and I were out to dinner at a surprisingly quiet Caplansky’s (mmmm…knish). While we waited for dinner, I watched a young family at another table waiting for their meal. There were two young boys, happily colouring away. It triggered a memory of when I was a kid, and I told Keith about how I always wanted, no, longed for, the big pack of Crayola crayons with the sharpener on the back. I made my desire known to Santa, but I think he must have misheard me. While I did get a big pack of crayons for Christmas, it was a disappointment. They weren’t Crayola (which as every kid knows, is the perfect waxy hardness for drawing on any surface) and the box didn’t have the sharpener on the back. The desire remained unfulfilled.

We don’t make a big deal out of Christmas. This year, we gave each other a 3-night getaway at a cottage by a lake complete with fireplace and hot tub. However, we still collect small treasures for each other and do a stocking to open while we are drinking the Christmas happy coffee. Wedged inside my stocking this year was, you guessed it, the Crayola 64 pack.

With the sharpener on the back.

I am surprised by how pleased I am with this gift. I have yet to actually use them in any way; I don’t even know if I will. I am entranced by that pecurliar smell that is a combination of wax and paper and childhood. I’ll pull one out, any random colour, and spin it between finger and thumb to read the name in three languages (macaroni & cheese / maccarones con queso / macaroni au fromage), then close my eyes and hold it close to my nose. In one whiff I am eight years old again, laying on the floor of the rec room and arguing with my brother over the last broken bit of good red.

Keith laughs every time. And wonders if I’ll ever wear them down enough to use the sharpener on the back.

Sent by my brother and nieces.

Every year I write a little less about the Vegas gatherings. I no longer feel the desire to craft the four part recap. Actually at the rate I am going, next year’s might be one sentence. I am reluctant to throw out a lot of details, there are others who have done that better. The phrase discretion is the better part of valour * pops into my head but that’s not quite it either. Lazy? Perhaps. Probably.

Truth be told, I wasn’t going to write one of these at all. But it keeps tugging at me, like a little kid sitting in the grocery cart tugging at a mother’s shirt, pestering her for the sugary cereal. Sometimes it’s best just to give in and move on.

**********

I drank a lot, but not as much as in past years.

My first WPBT hug was the longest, the hardest, the best, and was accompanied by a very sweet and completely unnecessary apology.

I talked to everyone I wanted to talk to, but not nearly long enough in some most cases.

I kissed some people. And didn’t kiss others.

I tried to hug everyone.

I had a number of delicious meals with good friends accompanied by conversation, banter and laughter.

I revised my opinion of a number of people. Upwards.

I took a tour of the Neon Boneyard, something I had put off for years. It was more than I’d expected and the accompanying friends made it even better.

I took very few photographs beyond the ones taken during this outing. Luckily, other people did. I have two favourites out of all that I have seen, that describe my weekend without words. In one, I am been hugged by a strangely familiar man in a fake fur hat and purple-tinted sunglasses and we are both grinning like crazy people. The other is a group shot taken in a bathroom with a mirrored ceiling. The folks staring up are among my favourite people in the world.

By not going to Steel Panther, I missed out on an opportunity for a heavy metal bacchanalia. And while I regret that it cut into my hang-out time with those I cherish and see too infrequently, I don’t regret not going. Deeper connections were made at the MGM sports book. And metal makes me break out in hives and gives me eye strain from rolling my eyes so much.

I played poker in the WPBT tournament far better than I have ever done, coming in 19th overall. I do not remember any hands, won no bounties nor tournament cash. But it did help my Luckbox Last Longer team, the Hammer Girls, come in second for some sweet, sweet PokerStars money.

I learned the value of a rage solo. And wrote a poem to a cowboy in the process.

I forgot to Dial-A-Shot friends who could not make it.

I found I didn’t have to pretend to like/know/understand football in order to enjoy Sunday at Lagasse Stadium. Thank you to CJ for setting that up. IMHO, it was the best part of the weekend. It was like being at a house party where you can mingle and talk. And talk. And talk. There was girl talk, book talk, flirty talk, friendly talk, motorcycle talk, travel talk. There was sports talk, I’m sure, but it floated right on through me. The only bit I remember is being asked if I want to bet. “Sure. I’ll put a loonie on the purple guys. And maybe another on the orange ones.” I wasn’t asked again.

I remembered how nice it is to find that you can still surprise people. And yourself.

I let some things go, and was given other gifts in return.

And came home knowing that the impulse to sign up for the Saturdays with Dr. Pauly on that long-distant day has proven to be a good one.

Thank you, my friends. You have bolstered me beyond your knowing.

**********

* being curious, I went and looked up the origins of this saying. It pleases me no end that it came from Falstaff.

I was multitasking with the Loud one tonight, playing in a SnG while we chatted and she talked me off the ledge (again).

While we chatted, the conversation moved to Dyslexicon, the people who collected around it and how we became so close (think WPBT, but local and without the poker).  She mentioned that a picture of a party held at her old apartment had been posted on the DCon Facebook page and from there we reminisced about all the meet-ups. Parties, drunken nights at the Feenix, playing pool, going to Future Bakery for coffee, and something that I had completely forgotten about, the Est Fests.

I don’t really remember how it started. I think it might have been a backlash against a guys only sports night. I remember inviting all the estrogen-based DCon crew over and we proceeded to hang out, get slightly drunk and talk. And talk. And talk.

I think it was a DCon admin named Bozak that started calling it the Est Fest, short for Estrogen Festival. We liked it and it stuck. There were many Est Fests; one crazy night leaps to mind where we had the Est Fest at Loud’s place in the afternoon and then a party afterward. By the time the guys got there, we were all in fine form. I could tell stories. And if you think I’m kissy now…well, lets say it’s not a new thing. Again, I could tell stories.

Guys might mock this tendency of women to talk to each other, but it’s as necessary to our mental well-being as breathing is to our physical. I tend to go without it for too long; then the cobwebs start to build up and their sticky tendrils hold on to crap that should pass right through. And I start to get a little loopier than usual.

I have some pretty damn good girlfriends, bff’s that I know will make time when I say, I gotta talk. And they know all they have to do is hit me on IM or email or call, and I will drop all to return the favour. The only fly in the ointment is that none of them are actually in my city. Phone or IM are great in a pinch, but I miss the face time. So when I get a chance to sit over a cocktail or four, let my hair down and let it all out, I jump at it, even if the time and place are not ideal.

It’s been the kind of week where I wished I had the wherewithal to bring together some of the like-minded women of my acquaintance for an Est Fest, to get comfortable and indulge in cocktails and in conversation that would have us all laughing and crying and blowing out the cobwebs. Alas, I am not now, nor ever will be, wealthy enough for that.

So here’s to the virtual Est Fest. Thank gods for technology.

(Note: I’m tired as hell and more than slightly tipsy. If this makes any sense at all, it is completely through luck alone.)