- No, it will not be quite as mighty as that. That is why we have come up on the mountain, you stupid nit.
...with lots of love from Beyond the Fringe.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
My father's favourite line of all time.
- And will this wind be so mighty as to lay low the mountains of the earth?
- No, it will not be quite as mighty as that. That is why we have come up on the mountain, you stupid nit.
- No, it will not be quite as mighty as that. That is why we have come up on the mountain, you stupid nit.
The Happiest Time of Year, and What are the Odds?
...I ran into Ariel and Kelsey on the metro today. Same train, same car.
Now I shall read to you from my notebook.
O, loathsome March.
It begins innocently enough, with a slight lifting of temperatures and an odd quality to the air that can only be described as a different smell. The smell of spring. It rains a little, once or twice. The sun beats down on us with greater force. We do not often realize exactly what is upon us until about ten days in.
Then, the slush hits.
The slush hits -- a horrible grey mass, squelching as we stumble onto the street. The sky, seeking to parallel the dismal world below, fades to a putrid blankness, a cloud cover so constant it seems solid. The remaining snow, found tucked away in pockets in backyards and driveways, turns black and rots away, leaving behind last year's waste -- the squalor once shielded from us by the purity of winter. The tulips are found venturing boldly above the surface of the earth, as they have done for fifteen years, and the squirrels are found biting their flowers off, as they have done for fifteen years.
In April, there are rainstorms and snowstorms, and much of the foulness left after the snow is washed away. Then, at least, we begin to sight summer on the horizon -- one last breath, one last gasp of air before we are hurled into the abyss of grade ten.
It snowed today, too.
Now I shall read to you from my notebook.
O, loathsome March.
It begins innocently enough, with a slight lifting of temperatures and an odd quality to the air that can only be described as a different smell. The smell of spring. It rains a little, once or twice. The sun beats down on us with greater force. We do not often realize exactly what is upon us until about ten days in.
Then, the slush hits.
The slush hits -- a horrible grey mass, squelching as we stumble onto the street. The sky, seeking to parallel the dismal world below, fades to a putrid blankness, a cloud cover so constant it seems solid. The remaining snow, found tucked away in pockets in backyards and driveways, turns black and rots away, leaving behind last year's waste -- the squalor once shielded from us by the purity of winter. The tulips are found venturing boldly above the surface of the earth, as they have done for fifteen years, and the squirrels are found biting their flowers off, as they have done for fifteen years.
In April, there are rainstorms and snowstorms, and much of the foulness left after the snow is washed away. Then, at least, we begin to sight summer on the horizon -- one last breath, one last gasp of air before we are hurled into the abyss of grade ten.
It snowed today, too.
And I know I'll get there, because I will not be defeated.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
A small selection of Neil's bad music jokes
What's the difference between a violin and a trampoline?
...You take your shoes off before you jump on the trampoline.
What's the definition of a minor third?
...Two violas playing in unison.
How do you get a guitarist to shut up?
...Put some music in front of them.
Monday, March 12, 2007
The incredible story of a twenty-dollar bill
Quine's paradox: "Yields falsehood when preceded by its quotation" yields falsehood when preceded by its quotation.
We had photos developed a couple of days ago. This is a rare event in the Malcolm household, so by the time it happens we have six rolls of film sitting by the door. Five of which are mine. Some of them were from the fall, some of them were from Vancouver, and some of them dated back to Venice and Pisa. I was very enthusiastically going through them with my mother when I chanced upon a sign that there exists still in the world an honest person.
I believe it was the fourth of my rolls, the fourth envelope I opened to pull out twenty-four pairs of prints. As I pulled the smaller envelope out of the larger one, I was struck by the bizarre sensation that something else remained where the pictures had been. I reached inside and flashed my discovery at my mother. Twenty bucks.
Had it been an error? Upon closer examination, my mother concluded that the shape of the bill -- folded into a small square and slightly bent into almost a half-circle -- was the perfect one to be slipped inside a film canister. Indeed, as we were told when we called to confirm, this was what had happened. In one of my absent-minded moments (not that there are many, of course) I had placed it inside and completely forgotten it.
There, that's one story out on the net.
We had photos developed a couple of days ago. This is a rare event in the Malcolm household, so by the time it happens we have six rolls of film sitting by the door. Five of which are mine. Some of them were from the fall, some of them were from Vancouver, and some of them dated back to Venice and Pisa. I was very enthusiastically going through them with my mother when I chanced upon a sign that there exists still in the world an honest person.
I believe it was the fourth of my rolls, the fourth envelope I opened to pull out twenty-four pairs of prints. As I pulled the smaller envelope out of the larger one, I was struck by the bizarre sensation that something else remained where the pictures had been. I reached inside and flashed my discovery at my mother. Twenty bucks.
Had it been an error? Upon closer examination, my mother concluded that the shape of the bill -- folded into a small square and slightly bent into almost a half-circle -- was the perfect one to be slipped inside a film canister. Indeed, as we were told when we called to confirm, this was what had happened. In one of my absent-minded moments (not that there are many, of course) I had placed it inside and completely forgotten it.
There, that's one story out on the net.
Make your choice.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Nerdishness, or Things that Make Me Happy
-Look! Is it a stockbroker?
-Is it a quantity surveyor?
-Is it a church warden?
The reason I hadn't been blogging in awhile before the last post was so not because I was too busy watching sketches from Monty Python's Flying Circus. Ha ha. The more I watch these sketches, the more convinced I am that my father is convinced he is John Cleese.
Anyway, so I was not watching these sketches, right, and after awhile I arose and went into the bathroom, where I was taken aback by my reflection in the mirror. I look a lot better when I'm smiling, when I'm genuinely happy. This came as such a shock to me, possibly because I have so rarely actually seen myself smile.
To further enhance this portrayal of what makes me happy (definetly not Monty Python), I will be forced to drag the euphoria of skiing into it. I don't look forward to skiing. I hate getting up to go skiing, and the moment I sit down in whatever vehicle to go home is a very relaxing moment. I dislike lifts and chalets and ice and crowded trails and stretches that are too flat and stretches that are too steep (although I tell myself that none are this).
And yet. Skiing is a drug, a rush, a high. There is always one moment, or one length of moments, when I am unbelievably happy, coasting down the side of the mountain at what is probably far too great a speed, flying off the powder beneath my feet. A dream. I'm on top of it all, floating over everything. And that is what makes it more than worthwhile.
-Is it a quantity surveyor?
-Is it a church warden?
...No! It's Bicycle Repair Man!
The reason I hadn't been blogging in awhile before the last post was so not because I was too busy watching sketches from Monty Python's Flying Circus. Ha ha. The more I watch these sketches, the more convinced I am that my father is convinced he is John Cleese.
Anyway, so I was not watching these sketches, right, and after awhile I arose and went into the bathroom, where I was taken aback by my reflection in the mirror. I look a lot better when I'm smiling, when I'm genuinely happy. This came as such a shock to me, possibly because I have so rarely actually seen myself smile.
To further enhance this portrayal of what makes me happy (definetly not Monty Python), I will be forced to drag the euphoria of skiing into it. I don't look forward to skiing. I hate getting up to go skiing, and the moment I sit down in whatever vehicle to go home is a very relaxing moment. I dislike lifts and chalets and ice and crowded trails and stretches that are too flat and stretches that are too steep (although I tell myself that none are this).
And yet. Skiing is a drug, a rush, a high. There is always one moment, or one length of moments, when I am unbelievably happy, coasting down the side of the mountain at what is probably far too great a speed, flying off the powder beneath my feet. A dream. I'm on top of it all, floating over everything. And that is what makes it more than worthwhile.
No more cookies in the jar.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Three Trails in the Snow
In German, every Noun is capitalized. Let me know if I miss any.
It's amazing how much Snow can fall in a single Day, and equally amazing how much can melt the following One.
Jenna, Rachelle, and I went tramping through the Snow on Friday, when we had no School, and it was then that one of the best photographic Opportunities I have ever had came up. This one ties with the Sunset and the Mountains on the Beach in Vancouver, and in both Cases I had rather inconveniently been unable to use my Camera. We walked through the Alley between Strathearn and Westminster, from Northview through to Parkside, and when we looked behind us there were three Trails of Footprints in the glistening Snow, Side by Side, filling the entire Alley. Maybe I shall draw that Scene.
And now, for the Nail Problem: My Piano Teacher wants me to cut my Nails. In Fact, he wants me to have no Nails. My Guitar Teacher has told me that it would be great if I filed my Nails, because you can't play any Form of classical/fingerpicking Guitar unless you have Nails on your right Hand.
You Guys have any Suggestions?
One last Thing. I've decided to ask Everyone for my Stuff back. This means you, Kaj. Nine Months in an awfully long Time for Kelsey to wait.
It's amazing how much Snow can fall in a single Day, and equally amazing how much can melt the following One.
Jenna, Rachelle, and I went tramping through the Snow on Friday, when we had no School, and it was then that one of the best photographic Opportunities I have ever had came up. This one ties with the Sunset and the Mountains on the Beach in Vancouver, and in both Cases I had rather inconveniently been unable to use my Camera. We walked through the Alley between Strathearn and Westminster, from Northview through to Parkside, and when we looked behind us there were three Trails of Footprints in the glistening Snow, Side by Side, filling the entire Alley. Maybe I shall draw that Scene.
And now, for the Nail Problem: My Piano Teacher wants me to cut my Nails. In Fact, he wants me to have no Nails. My Guitar Teacher has told me that it would be great if I filed my Nails, because you can't play any Form of classical/fingerpicking Guitar unless you have Nails on your right Hand.
You Guys have any Suggestions?
One last Thing. I've decided to ask Everyone for my Stuff back. This means you, Kaj. Nine Months in an awfully long Time for Kelsey to wait.
Today I am unlike anything you've ever seen before.
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