In Jolliette We Trust

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self-motivation techniques

Just when I think the suburbs have really secured themselves into last position on the list of "Places I want to spend my precious time," I spend last night loitering around the Pointe-Claire village, in a basement, in a Honda civic, and in a FUCKING McDonald's parking lot, and am suprisingly not suicidal come the end of the night. Still, I attribute this to two things: A: I so rarely hang out in the burbs anymore(despite the fact that I live there) that it has become novel to me. B: Nostalgia factor. Yes, gentle readers, it's been quite a long time since I was a wild, spry high school student. And despite the generally miserable time I had at Hudson High, I have come to cherish the odd memory of a house party, a night of loitering, a trip to the roof of the school gym, etc...

What I'm trying to lead up to here, in a very inefficient manner, is that it is on the whole ridiculous that I am living out here in this capitalist wasteland. There is just no reason for it. I go to school downtown. I work downtown. I spend most of my weekends downtown. Not only that, but I also spend just as much on food and rent out here as I would downtown. So why, for the love of God, am I still in the suburbs?

Oh, I need "savings," or a "toaster" or a "place to live", or some such BS. Well, that is quite enough Miss Aurora! It's time to get off your fanny, and blow this two-bit concrete excuse for a town, and go to where all the action be. Mui ondolay.

Besides, I qualify for a student loan. Yay instant gratification!

Glowing reviews... (groan)

The most original, reliable and creative music reviews I've found online are not at Pitchfork, but at a small Canadian-based, ads-free site called cokemachineglow. Many of their reviews go off on wild tangents. This is usually a good thing. Getting to the point here, a recent posting caught my fancy, with its indie-rocker self-reflections/analyses. While trying to explain why the Russian Futurists album is so fantastique the author delves into the drawbacks of being an avid, relentless chaser of the next greatest band you've never heard of. Here is his point (mind the excessive use of quotes) :

My point: if we are indeed supporters of "honest" and "meaningful" music, we do an awful lot of trading-card-level torch-bearer-disposal. Especially when our torch-bearers are adamantly exalted by "Us" as the penultimate purveyors of honest music by artists who sincerely "pour their souls into their art." How did we get to a point where, instead of latching on to our dear bands for dear life forever truelovealways, we play virtual-knockdowns, or shred the albums in our spokes until they no longer make any noise? Do we realize that our trading cards are, at their very bases, actually made up of (if we believe ourselves and the artists, which we do) months of hard work, soul-searching, epic pursuits of the perfect rhyme, various forms of in-band bickering over musical minutiae, perseverance through stolen gear and, in the very best cases ( Funeral, Sunset Tree, Either/Or, Personal Journals) blood/guts/boogers diary exposure? No we don't. We binge/purge/repeat, soulseeking an assembly line of recorded, digitized catharses. If music was food we'd all be morbidly obese from a gluttonous intake of empty calories. Q: "Was it good?" A: "Yeah it was great" Q: "What did it taste like?" A: "...."

There is something so romantic and innocent about those days when owning their records was an essential element to being a fan of a certain artist (I recall here my Futureheads obsession, and how not owning their one album seems to be merely a mild oversight). In the 60's and 70's, kids listened to their Joni Mitchell or Clash or Led Zepplin albums over and over, clutching the sleeves and fawning over the liner notes and artwork so much they would never get theirs mixed up with their friend's since it had that smudge of grape jelly in the top left corner, and a little "I heart John Bonham" next to the listing for the Wanton Song. There is something so tangible in that. Something that goes far beyond the satisfaction of downloading a bunch of MP3's. It's the fact that music has become too accessible that has taken away from the basic appreciation of its goodness. Don't get me wrong, as a starving student, I am extremely grateful I have the ability to discover all this wonderful music without having to spend, like, a trillion dollars. It's all very hippie-commune . But sometimes, the pressure gets to me. Just when I'm starting to really get into a couple new bands, and remember the words to their songs, I think, "oh, shit--I have like twenty new albums I've been meaning to check out!"

Yeah, so that thing about less being more.....

if you go into the woods today......

Indie-rock grrrls Sleater-Kinney are in Montreal June 19th, on tour for the new album, The Woods. I've only heard one song from it so far, but it's sounding mighty fine. Check out the link above to see the vid. It's not too exciting, but that is no reflection of the music.

At the Pony Up! show on Tuesday, Ingela commented on how indie girl bands have a tendency to have little to no stage presence. It seems as though the Entertain video goes in evidence baggie number 3, minus Carrie's random arm spasms. That right arm of hers is a lean mean twitching machine.

And I thought there couldn't possibly be any more shows that I would want to see this summer. Ha ha ha! E-gad. My cash flow is in serious danger of being clogged with a huge hairy ball of concert tickets and empty beer bottles. I'm thinking job number two is maybe a must be. Blech.

In other news: here is a random, not very recent, esoteric, but really well written article about punk flyers and the DIY counterculture aesthetic:
THE SECRET HISTORY OF PUNK ROCK: VISUAL VITRIOL
I've posted a couple of nice flyers that I got from the now defunct website, cosmicwaste.com to accompany it(no, there is no link- I said defunct!) .

common people like me

Is concert burnout even possible? I'm out to test that theory, as tonight I make my way to the Of Montreal show, which will make 4 shows in 9 days. By Tuesday we're looking at a 5/11 ratio. But it has been worth every screwed up night of (no) sleep.

Friday's Stars show was amazing. Montag, some Montreal man made of pure cheese stole mine and Becky's hearts with his awkwardly delicious dairy, despite the fact that he had a song called "Scrabble Heart" in which he sings: "We'll double the word score.......we'll triple the word score...." in an awful French accent.

And of course, The Wooden Stars were adored by all, regardless of(or perhaps due to) their washed up, settled down ex-punk rocker appearance. We're talkin' wool sweaters, old white tennis shoes and receding hairlines. It was a little endearing, really. And the lead sing has this amazing voice, so full of urgency, guts and teeth.

The Organ, on the other hand was a bit disappointing. They didn't seem to like being in Montreal. Or being on stage. Or playing instruments. The only thing that was keeping them going was the fact that they were robot zombies, being controlled with funny little joysticks by the members of the Stars backstage. That has to be it. We were very happy to see the Stars. And they were fantastic.

The Brunettes opened for the Shins. I liked them. They were a big 7 piece band from New Zealand, and their lead singer's name is pronounced Hitha, because in crazy backwards New Zealand world, they pronounce ea as i, and er as a.


Blah ditty blah blah.... Lets get to the jumpy jumpy fun fun fun.....


FRIDAY NIGHT: The Futureheads show! We got there late apparently, thanks to tons of high school kids and their lack of any sense of fashionably-lateness. Thank god I knew they were there for Hot Hot Heat, and I could completely disassociate myself from them, and you know, mock them and stuff. But the scoundrels were packing the joint up so tight that we were unable to squeeze our way to the front. We weren't really that far back at all, just enough so that lead singer Barry couldn't spot us dancing. I tried to wave at him a few times, all friendly-like, as if we were great pals. He didn't see me. I think Ross the guitarist might have, but we didn't speak to him when they were here last time, so he had no idea that we were Barry's Montreal Girls. I told Ingela to yell out "Ingela Travers plus one!" but it didn't really fly. Nor did any of my other conniving schemes to get backstage, or somehow signal to Barry to go to Korova's instead of crappy Pistol.

We almost left when Hot Hot Heat came on, but thank god we endured them for about 40 minutes, because they ended up saving our butts. Mr. Stupid hair announced that the after-party was at the Green Room. We made our way there shortly after. We got there at about 11:30, and waited such a long time. Just when we were beginning to feel particularly dejected and disappointed, Barry and Bassist Jaff walked in, and we ended up having a wild night of dancing with Barry. He was pretty wasted by the end of the night, and that totally worked in our favour. He was completely ours. It was unbelievable. The second best part of the night was when he moved my hand onto his ass, and I'm just thinking "holy FUCK, I am groping Barry Futureheads butt!" while trying to remain perfectly cool and not step on his feet. What was the first best part of the night, you ask? Good question.....



I really think he would have stayed with us until 6 am, had his tour manager not dragged him away from us. I gave him my favorite pin, the pink Robot one, in honour of their song of the same name. It better be put to use. I love that pin.

Even still, I would trade robot pin for that night again in a heartbeat.

Oh, Barry. You really can't dance very well to hip hop. But we still love you.

But he dances so well when he's holding a guitar...

rap your way home

It's been a fun couple of weeks, studying and working my tuckus (is that how you spell it? I'm so not Jewish) off. I am awash in conventional metaphors, free morphemes, De Saussure, and idiolects, among other things. And my brain is pretty much throbbing at this point. Which is why I was pleasantly surprised to find a little song hiding in my head as I commuted my way home from a study session at Con U. Here he is:

she read the news about shakespeare today
she opens her mouth but has nothing to say
the world is not as it appears
she drinks some more to quell her fears
she acts the part of juliet
in her bedroom for her tabby cat

he stabs the dragon in the toe
and for a while it's touch and go
he prevails though in the end
so his ego's well defended
she licks its blood from off his hand
they fuck right there in dragonland

don't you wanna be regaled
with a fractured fairy tale
don't you wanna close your eyes
we control our own demise

we flew paper airplanes in parc jean-drapeau
I'm having trouble letting go
yours flies steadier than mine
I guess I've always been behind
the things that move the things that grow
I'm having trouble letting go

now I just need a tune!

***

other things that made me happy today:

-a yummy spinach and cheese pastry from Altaib for 1.75
-2 Marlboro lites from korea
-being able to explain Romanticism and how it relates to Nationalism, tying it all in a pretty bow with Wagner (I wowed 'em, let me tell you)
-a creepy homeless guy complimenting my blue shoes
-a guy rapping (quite eloquently) for spare change to take the bus home to Candiac- which I believe he rhymed with heart attack.
-a ticket to Of Montreal
-a ticket to the Stars/the Organ
-a ticket to Pony Up!/the Lovely feathers
- the guy at esoteric recognizing me (I've only been to this record store 5 times in the past two weeks)
-my bangs

on the 23rd and 25th I'll just sleep and eat...

April 22nd: The Futureheads (some lame band called "Hot Hot Heat" is closing for them. Whatever.)

April 24th: Of Montreal

April 26th: The Lovely Feathers and Pony Up!

And my very last exam is on the 22nd. What a beautiful way to say "So long, suckaas!"

little feather.

Irreverent Kittens

Why does everything I want so badly not exist?

We won't even go into guys here. That's a bit too obvious. What I'm talking about is much more vapid and shallow.

There is a poster. A brilliant poster from the late '80's to early '90's that I must have, but I cannot find it anywhere. It's of actual kittens, dressed in little Rat-pack suits, smoking in a public bathroom.

Stop and think now. Can you see it? Yeah, I know! Isn't it great?

It's a classic, I'm sure of it, and yet somehow, it has ceased to exist. Is it possible that this pop-culture fabrication is fading from our collective unconscious? And I, and perhaps a few others like me, are the few sad folks who will remember this tasteless, yet charmingly irreverent piece of Americana and when we die, it shall be wiped from the world's memory forever. What a sad sad day that will be.


P.S. It looks way better than this, the one I'm thinking of. There also should be a kitten Brando. Can't find that either.

The Brilliant Barnes Brothers

I was on the Of Montreal site the other day, and stumbled across a link to their artist, David Barnes' website. He does great album covers, and on his site you can see a bunch of other weird stuff he's done. The site is really cool and imaginative. I felt as if I was stepping into this guys brain or something. Hmm... uncomfortable, yet irresistibly voyeuristic.

The most interesting, and funniest section is A Closer Look, where he has taken a few complex pieces, and de-constructed them, like a director's commentary on a DVD, or... pop-up video? Reading his odd comments, I got the impression that he's this smarter-than-my-limited-grade -8-vocabulary-allows-me-to-sound kind of guy- in a very funny, sweet and fascinating way.

Oh, and he's Of Montreal Kevin Barnes' brother.

And he'll do your portrait for 150 smackers!

web-arific blog-aganza!

Okay. I haven't posted in over a week, and not for lack of content material. So to make up for this I will be multi-posting tonight. So get ready for binge blogging, aurora style. . .

. . . right after I watch Lost.*

. . . and do some laundry.

. . . and pee.


*addendum: fuck. that was such a good episode. Locke is probably the most interesting charachter on tv this year. And Sawyer is the hottest- even wearing dorky frankenstein glasses.

IDs and DJs

I lost my wallet yesterday. It's amazing how much of a persons life can depend upon the contents of a folded up piece of leather. Who am I without my student ID? My jazzy neon bus pass!My bank card, drivers license and Java U coffee stamp card! I only needed one more stamp until the free one! Why god, why? Suddenly, I'm transformed into a non-citizen, a street urchin. I have no picture ID. How will I prove I'm over 18 when I'm buying cigarettes for the high school kids?

Is this what limbo feels like, the biblical limbo where all those good kids who weren't baptized go?

And I only lost it for an hour too.

* * *

So Becky and I are applying for a slot on CJLO this summer. I am totally stoked. And I am also stoked about incorporating "stoked" into my first on-air commentary as much as humanly possible, likely forcing Becky to hurl the mic across the studio until it's in itty-bitty pieces.

We have to fill out the application, which asks who your favorite artists are, and why you want to have a radio show. So I figure I'll post my possible answers here, and people can tell me if I sound hip.

Favorite artists: (I'm thinking I should have some classic stuff, but also some stuff that's a bit obscure. So that hopefully someone there will look at it and go, "Oh, yeah! Those guys are the shit! But, hmmm... who is that? Interesting.") The Clash, The Futureheads, Blondie, pre-1998 Liz Phair, Nick Drake, Matthew Sweet, Sleater-Kinney, Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, Sonic Youth, The New Pornographers, Radiohead, Bjork, MC5, Iggy and the Stooges, The Raincoats, The Slits, X, Neutral Milk Hotel, Iron and Wine, The Lovely Feathers, Broken Social Scene and Television.

Why I want a radio show: (this is a fukin' hard, fuckin' pain in the ass question and it violates my constitutional right to have a college radio show.) Music is a HUGE part of my life. I am the embodiment of rock n' roll. Not really, but I've read some books about people who are, and I try to be like them. I get abnormally excited when two songs I mix sound really great next to each other, and sometimes, when I'm alone in my room, I'll listen to the transition over and over again(this part is good, eh?). Also, I talk a bunch.

Also, we need a super-fantastico name for our show. Becky suggested "happy hour." Please, we need help. What about "A to B"? It's a Futureheads song, and we are Aurora and Becky. Clever? Lame?

Advanced Geometry/Crocheting 201

A model of a hyperbolic plane, or a new toy for kitty?

Apparently, mathematician Daina Taimina is the first person to create an accurate model of the crazy fucked up geometric shape, the hyperbolic plane. And she did it with knitting. Right on, sistah!

She should totally sell them on e-bay too. This one would look swanky on my winter coat.

Holy Toledo!

In some strange act of kizmit or serendipity or whatever crazy mojo happens when you never saw it coming, the Lovely Feathers will be playing with my other favorite Montreal band, Pony Up! Outstanding. April 26th, Sala Rossa. It boggles the mind I tell you! I think I'm going to pass out now.

No? Okay, I'll keep yammerin' then.

I went to a Concordia ArtMatters party on Friday. It was meant to be a video instillation, with . . . weird arty pretentious videos, or something? But it turned out to be this horny love-crazed house (it actually took place in a Concordia building) party instead. Gay guys were hitting on straight guys, straight girls were hitting on gay girls, gay girls were hitting on gay guys, and straight guys were hitting on doorknobs. By the end of the night, I was quite smashed (thanks to $2 beers), and I had this odd sensation that, unbeknownst to me, I had just participated in some strange psychological experiment/arty pretentious video. Things were done. . . . naughty things involving bathroom line-ups and conveniently(strategically?) located empty storage cabinets. But you don't want to hear about that.

Maybe you'll see it all at next year's "video instillation" party.

Oh Happy Bunny, I am your slave.

I know, I know. Goddamn quizzes. But I could not resist the Happy Bunny. Please Forgive me.

I was mad for a minute there because I thought it was telling me I smelled like butt. Like, how can you determine that from a quiz? Unless one of the questions was "do people often tell you that you smell like butt?" or "when you walk into a room, do people make strained faces of anguish? Do some of them leave?" Apparently, I am just the kind of person who would tell someone they smell like butt. Which I, strangely enough, did already today.





congratulations. You are the "you smell like
butt" bunny. you're brutally honest and
always say what's on your mind.


which happy bunny are you?

I'll show you stupid and shallow!

This website is like crack. For shallow, self-absorbed people. But in a very post-modern way. Like, it's cool that I'm shallow and stuff, because I am actually one with my shallowness. And I can turn it on and off at will. Or maybe it's because neither I nor any of my friends look like supermodels, so we feel entitled to insult other people's bad fashion choices, to boost our egos.

Apparently, we are not alone.

dogs and gods

Yeesh. It's been too long, friends. And it's not even that I had nothing to blog about, I just came down with a bad case of schoolitis. It was ugly, let me tell you. More than one evening of uninterrupted studying-in a row! Unbearable.

And I so wanted to write all about the wonderful evening of Saturday last. Accompanied by my dear friends and then some other people whose names I was relieved to remember when I had to make introductions, I went to Le Swimming (Bienvenue to Quebec, land of le confused french article-engish verb combo) and saw the Lovely Feathers, and the Golden Dogs. Both acts were inspiring. And when I say inspiring I mean that the music effected me physically. And by that I mean I stood 2 inches from the stage, dancing like a marionette being controlled by the choreographer from Footloose if he were actually an evil mastermind bent on avenging the death of his Yorkshire terrier, who had been trampled by a mob of very organized ballroom dancers, by making them all dance like retards. You follow?

Becky and Walter's friend Angela were kind enough to dance next to me, enabling further retardation on my part. The music was fantastic, by the way. I'd never seen the Golden Dogs before. They were so full of energy, a la MC5's/Stooges. The tall, lanky lead singer with hippie hair kind of reminded me of the guidance counselor from Freaks and Geeks, Mr. Rosso, but better looking--or a hot Jesus who knows how to kick out the jams!

Speaking of sexy religious icons, I went to the Eternal Egypt exhibit at the Montreal Museum of Fine art yesterday. They have some pretty breathtaking stuff. Pages from the Egyptian Book of the Dead, statues, stelae and even some jewelry. And, damn, some of those Egyptian Kings were hotties. Especially Sesostris III, who's about 3800 years old. Nice pecks, dude.

E.T. has a bladder too!

To make up for my tardieness, here is something from me!

Little Feather

Late. Sorry.

Futureheads Revisited

I don't even know how to begin conveying the fantastic-ness that was the Futureheads show. Whoo, boy. This is going to take a while.

I got to Mount Royal metro, and Ing was already there. As we waited for tardy Becky, I applied my mascara with only a vague Plexiglas reflection to assist me ("how perfectly white trash," I remarked) as Ing told some disturbing tale about Becky's cat swallowing, and subsequently pooping out a rubber balloon--un-inflated, I'm assuming.

Becky arrived, and as we made our way towards El Salon, we promptly revived our discussion from the previous evening: our band name. Crucial, crucial stuff here. Suggestions were plentiful, and plenty uninspiring, ranging from "Misanthrope" to "The Latin Lovers" to "Faux beaver." Lacking jazziness, to say the least.

A sign on the door of the venue "requests" that we do not smoke. Scoffing ensues. Inside, the coat check lineup is ridiculously long. But that's okay, because the first opening act is easily ignorable, inspiring no desire to rush to the front of the stage and revel in their crappieness. Plus, waiting in line gives us the opportunity to scope out the crowd, and point and laugh at people. One guy in particular captures our attention. Coke-bottle glasses, tapered jeans and white keds. E-gad. I whisper to Ing, "wouldn't it be funny if he ended up being in one of the bands," and we all have a good laugh. Slipping by the merch table, Ing notes the names of the opening acts, "The Shout Outlouds" and "Highspeed Scene", and their lack of the all-important jazziness factor. I buy a pack of Futureheads pins for 3 bucks. Irresistible, as they conform to the pink-black-white motif I've got going with my current accumulation on my purse. I kid not.

Our coats are secured away, and we venture towards the right side of the stage.

In a beautiful, beautiful moment, the second opening act comes on, complete with coke-bottle -glasses-guy, as drummer. Priceless. These Shout Outlouds turn out to redeem themselves, however, by a) being from Sweden (which somehow excuses any fashion accidents) b)having a lead singer who vaguely resembles Jason Shwartzmann, and c) actually being pretty damn good, and rockin' the joint like a bunch of crazy "Scandies-" as Becky chooses to refer to them as. They are a crowd pleaser. And that is a rare thing for an opening act in Montreal, let me tell you....

The Futureheads jump on stage shortly after, and they seem just as happy to be here as we do. It's quite refreshing, really. They look all spiffy, in loafers and black dress pants, but their mischievous smiles and the random jabs at each other betray this formality. Like a bunch of young hoodlums being forced to dress up for church by their mums. It's endearing.

The music starts, and we're infused with massive amounts of energy. I'm dancing like an idiot. I can't stop myself. I'm a slave to the sound. By the third song, the three of us have maneuvered our way to the very edge of the stage, in arms reach of the bassist, Jaff. They can't help but notice us, the dancing fools that we are. Every look from Jaff, lead singer Barry and drummer Dave, inspire us to no end. And just as we think we've run out of steam, they play "Hounds of Love" and there's that second wind. But, uh... gross, my bangs are all sweaty! Oh, fuck it. Dance on!

When the show is over, we are buzzed, but disgustingly hot. There's a back door that the bands have been coming in and out of, and no security whatsoever, so we cross the line into "backstage" territory, and step out the backdoor for some fresh air, and a smoke. A few minutes go by, and two of the band members walk right by us. I call out to them "Great show guys!" One of them says thanks, and I say, "It was really awesome." Awesome? Really? Oh, crap. Possibly the lamest words ever. Or at that moment in time they were anyway. Soon, the four of them are about to turn the corner, and I'm thinking.... do it you fool! Just ask them! Before it's too late! So I do.

"Where are guys going?" The lead singer hears me. He turns back. "After the show," I add, "Are you going somewhere?"

"Yeah. Some party, " he says. Oh, great, I think. A private thing. No fans allowed kinda deal. But wait! He calls out to one of his bandmates, "What's this place called?" He turns back to us. "Pistol? You know this place?" Do I?!

"Yeah. Yeah!" we all chime in. " It's just a few blocks down," and "they have good sandwiches,” and "good fries."

"Right. Thanks." And he's off. Cue giddiness.

Oh. My. God. We look at each other and exchange profanities. "Tell me I am the coolest person in the world," I say, or something to that effect. They do.

Soon after, some homely looking girl pokes her head outside, all frazzled and lost, and asks us if the band left. She gave them a CD (to sign, I'm assuming) and wants it back. We just sort of shake our heads and tell her we think they're getting changed in the tour bus. She leaves, and we reflect on the insipidness of autograph collecting.

We decide that the best thing to do is waste an hour or so, as we don't want to be sitting at Pistol waiting for them when they arrive. 'Cause, you know, that would just be sad. Ahemm. Yes.

We go for noodles right across from the Pistol, and talk about our fabulousness some more, and work out some of our band logistics. Then, the time comes.

Once inside, we wait for a table to open up at the bar, nursing our Heinekens, and assessing the Furtureheads sitch. They're all stuffed in this little corner together with their friends. We see little opportunity for mingling. But, the night is young, and a table frees up. We sit. Soon enough, someone appears at our table.

"Hi Girls." It’s the lead singer. And HE came to talk to US. "I'm Barry." He offers his hand. We shake. No hesitation there. At first, he just crouches at the edge of the table, and we talk briefly about our dancing, the Montreal crowds, and the music scene. He turns back to his group, and says, "hold on a minute," very politely, and Ingela says "smooth exit."

"You don't think he's actually coming back," I ask, not out of naïveté, but from the sense that he seems like an honest guy, who, if he were finished talking to us, would actually say a proper goodbye. And, whatdaya know, he does come back. Pulls up a chair in fact, sets his glass of white wine firmly on our table, and chats with us for a good 15 minutes. About sleeping on a tour bus, Conan O’Brien, Kate Bush and weird stalker fans that follow them from show to show. And of course, about our band: Leave it to Beaver (working title). Honestly though, I don’t think that impressed him much.

Of course, Ingela simply mentions the fact that she's heading back to Toronto the next day, and he offers to put her on the guest list. But she's floored. He goes out of his way to find a pen, and proceeds to write her name, plus one, on his hand. She's dying inside. And in the good way. Becky and I wish we lived in Toronto, so he would write our names on his hand too, until we realize.... wait.... that would mean we would actually have to live in Toronto. Never mind.

We wait until they've cleared out completely to leave the bar. Ing insists on doing some zany arm-flailing dance on Boul. St Laurent, accompanied by some literal woo-hooing, to my and Becky’s chagrin.

I console myself with the fact that Ingela owes it all to my courageous act, of daring to speak to them. It's sort of working.

Lying awake in Becky’s living room, too wired to fall asleep, I tell Ing, "I'm never not doing that again . . .. If that makes any sense."

"I'm pretty sure I know what you mean," she tells me. As I write this, she is probably on her way to the Toronto show. Have fun Ing. I hate you.