Friday, June 30, 2006
If I ever met Rob Gordon, I think he and I would have a longish conversation about how MP3 CDs are killing the art of the compilation album. I'm currently ripping a variety of miscellaneous stuff to make a CD for the boy and, who are headed to Toronto this weekend to attend the wedding of a friend. It's only an hour and a half drive, but I think this CD is going to be quite a bit longer.
It's a difficult process, this, as the boy and I have fairly different taste in music. I tend towards melodic, folk influenced indie pop (with a smattering of punk, 60s rock, and of course my weakness for the 80s) and he is a former rave kid who adores techno, particularly house. We find common ground in 80s new wave, a lot of the time, though both of us try to be fairly open minded.
The unfortunate part is that now my dad and I share something in common--we both have partners that enjoy music by listening to it over and over and over and over and OVER again. This occasionally ruins our appreciation for certain musics (particularly if it's something that both the boy and my mother enjoy, such as the soundtrack to JOseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dream Coat, because then I get a double dose of hearing it all the time--I could probably perform it acapella, singing all the parts myself, I've heard it so many times).
So, while the 'soul' and 'continuity' and 'cohesion' of the compilation CD is somewhat lost (it's hard to be cohesive when you're smushing 100+ songs together), it does have the added advantage of having a much longer replay value.
My dad is quite thrilled by this technology; he now has a CD that covers his entire Beatles catalogue, minus the 2 German tracks, the greatest hits, and Revolution #9. He also has the world's longest Bob Dylan CD and an entirely 80s one (which is awesome because there are a few 'crap song' skeletons in my dad's musical closet that have been exposed by this).
Go see Superman Returns. Bryan Singer, Bryan Singer, holy shit, Bryan Singer. If only he hadn't Xed off.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
I want to tell you a story. A few years ago, I took an honours seminar class on the works of Timothy Findley. The world of Mr. Findley is one of infinite wonder and madness, family and frenzy. I admire his work very, very much, and I truly wish I had been able to meet him before he died. I like to think that he and I would have much to talk about.
After I took this class, my mum began to pick up his books for me whenever she would see them in her trips to the Value Village, the Goodwill, or even at yard sales. Unfortunately, she's never remembered which books I already have, and as a result there are a few titles that I now have 3 or 4 copies of.
She bought me a copy of 'Stones' a few weeks ago. It's one of his short story collections (the one we actually read for my class, too), and the copy mum bought was the basic mass market paper back, which is substantially less pretty than my trade paperback. As a result, I didn't really pay much attention to it, and the book wound up 'hanging out' on our bar for a few weeks.
After my graduation from the BEd last week, the boyfriend was over for post-convocation shenanigans (er, supper), and as he was looking through the collection of junk that our bar attracts, he looked at the copy of 'Stones' a little more closely than my mom or I had.
As it turns out, neither my mother nor I had noticed the inscription on the title page.
I like to think about books and their previous owners. I wonder who this one was signed for, and why they were able to give it away. How strange that it should come to me...
Saturday, June 03, 2006
I haven't written here in a long time. That's mostly a good thing. I don't have words anymore. Not even for myself. I'm too pragmatic to be cryptic like this tonight. I feel bad and I want writing to make me feel better. I don't know if it will. I've spoken so much French these past few days that half my thinking, c'est dans une autre langue, so this may not even make sense.
The big things I can't write about. They aren't mine to write about anyway.
I wanted to have a party next week. I graduate from the BEd Friday morning, and the NB Rock City is sufficiently far from most everywhere that the majority of people will come into town the night before. So I figure that Thursday night, we have a few drinks at the University House(tm) and then head up to the pub to dance the night away. So I send out an invitation, via email, and ask people to email me back if they are coming.
As this was several days ago, and I've heard from no one...
I don't know what this means. Part of me wants to say that everyone hates me. I know (god, I hope) that isn't it. but surely someone would reply, even if to say "I'm coming over in the morning, so I can't make it"? I know I was not necessarily that well-liked this year--but I didn't think that it was like this.
If it is, though, I guess I'll just have to deal with that. I wish I knew how.