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i’d rather sell art than sue my chiropractor


…probably one of the best titles I’ve ever typed…if only it was mine. That little bit of genius belongs to my friend Sharon, who has just put together a great new site, inspired by her art and—

(I’m writing this while house-sitting. And up to now the cat, Minny (boy or girl, who can know these things?), has been present but not particularly interested in me. My computer case, yes. She peed on that almost immediately. Does cat pee come out of neoprene? Excellent question. Now, all of a sudden she is perched at my feet, staring, acting all…invested. WTF, Minny? It’s disconcerting. Maybe she wants my beer, which is fine, because I still have 4 cases from Mexican Fiesta. Steam Whistle, Minny?)

That was a house-sitting digression, of which there are many, but seriously now, let’s focus on Sharon.

And her awesome new site, inspired by her art (as I was saying) and her experience with illness, and finding creative ways to overcome her illness (we hope), or at the very least pay for alternative treatment. And boy do I enjoy hearing about treatment sessions with the cranial sacral therapist. ‘Cause Sharon is an excellent raconteur. You should spend time with her.

Or at least buy some art.

She’s very talented, and when I was in grade 11, she helped me with a kick-ass project. So kick-ass, the visual art teacher asked me to join some special visual art club. Sadly, I had to decline because I can’t even draw the outline of a dog. I put Sharon’s name forward, but she wasn’t all that interested in doing high school again. Whatever, Sharon. Those were some great years. For some kids.

In conclusion, buy art. Support a friend of mine or forward this solicitation to someone who can. At the very least do some art of your own. Kurt Vonnegut says it doesn’t even have to be good. Just fucking do it. That’s what Sharon would say. Only she’d probably say it better.

with her back against a wall…


This picture is to inspire our next show which is to be written before September 8th. That’s a deadline, folks. I hear deadlines are good things. But I’m not so sure I like the feeling in the pit of my stomach. I think it’s called panic. Wait, let me check. Yep, panic.

parenting 101: you come here to learn, right?


My little Elsie all tears this morning. Every little thing setting her off. And me trying with all my might to be patient even as she refuses to comply. For example, adorning the little girl’s body in one of her many pretty dresses, purchased for…many a pretty penny in a fantasy time when the mother imagined she could dress the girl up like a silent doll…yeah, not happening. ‘Shirt on,’ Elsie repeats. And then in case the mother wasn’t listening, ‘SHIRT ON…SOCKS.’ The little girl has a sock fetish. You’re wearing socks! You are not wearing socks! Socks on. Socks off. All she wants are socks. And more socks. Because socks rocks. Oh, and shirts. And shirts. And shirts. And not the cute ones. The ugly stained ones. And guess what? Today’s she’s thinking of layering. I say, ‘This one or that one,’ because I heard that was good parenting, giving them a small amount of choice, the illusion of agency over their own life. ‘All them,’ she says, pulling a third shirt out of the drawer. Thank you, parenting articles on the web. For nothing. ‘You’re going to be hot,’ the mother tries again. The little girl stares blankly (and devilishly?) at the mother before hollering, ‘I WANT UNDERPANTS!’ The mother clenches her teeth. ‘Okay, Elsie, but then we’re going to have to take off your pants–’ ‘NO TAKE OFF!!!’…as if I had suggested putting her beloved Red Dog through the shredder. ‘But Elsie…’ ‘NO TAKE OFF. UNDERWEAR ON!!!’ Writhing, crying, face planting, more drama.

And with this final paroxysm, I come to understand (’cause sometimes I am just that astute) that the underpants are to be worn over her pants. Three shirts and a pair of pink panties on top of her jeans.

Is this her first fuck you?

vran and gertie meet God


mother & gertie rock the mexican music


umbrella girl


An umbrella provides so many minutes of entertainment. Up there with remote controls, frisbees, and my crappy phone. I want an iPhone4.

too close for comfort


The extent of our conversing these days (I am madly doing fundraiser business and Simon is writing a $100,000 dollar grant…and, oh yeah, helping me with fundraiser business. ‘Cause you can’t live with me and not help me. I have this way of sucking people into my exciting vortex):

SIMON. “I just chipped my front tooth.”

ME. “The fake one?”

SIMON. “Yeah, the fake one.” He responds dryly and then opens wide.

ME. “OH MY GOODNESS, THAT LOOKS AWFUL!”

SIMON. “Okay, temper your reaction, please.”

ME. “Sorry…I mean, you still look hot?”

Back to business.

the women of Beaver Theatre Co.


the reason for the season


So as I said yesterday, I’m a little stressed.

I might have have bitten off more than I could chew. The proverbial big bite.

Marie-Claire and I are doing a fundraiser on July 26 at 7 PM at COOL HAND OF A GIRL for our theatre company. And you are most definitely invited. Even if you live in California. And boy would you be my best friend if you took it upon yourself to drive from Cali to TO right about now. It takes about 7 days at a moderate pace. And I believe it can be fun. ‘Cause if you don’t have a 3 month old screaming in your backseat and if your entire apartment is not loaded into a grey Honda Civic (minus the Brita), then you are sure to have a blast.

Anyoooo.

So my stress. When I’m stressed I can’t formulate long thoughts.

The other day I was sitting on a log, breathing deep, when a woman passed by and asked if I was okay. I didn’t think much of it until a subsequent man walked by and offered me not one, but two bagels. That’s when it hit me. I look homeless. Am I homeless? I can’t remember right now.

No, I have a home. My hair is just mushy from the rain, and I have mascara running down my cheeks. No big deal.

Okay, back to work.

beach dance: everybody’s doing it


This is me letting off steam through beach dance. I’m a little stressed.