Just saw a doctor. It turns out I have a mild-to-moderate separation of the right shoulder. Something about the bicep tendon or some such thing. Anyway, I have to go get meds and not, you know, do any trapeze work or anything for a few days.

Huh. So it turns out that the sounds coming from the Thunder Pit were pipe bomb explosions after all. This guy was arrested on my street, apparently.

From The Globe and Mail:

Police find drug cache at bomb suspect’s house
By Chris Lackner
Tuesday, July 20, 2004 – Page A11

While arresting a man suspected of three pipe-bombing incidents, Toronto police also discovered drugs yesterday.

A large quantity of ecstasy, Special K, cocaine and other drug-related paraphernalia were discovered when a search warrant was executed at the residence of 21-year-old William James Leriche of Toronto.

A hunting rifle and large amounts of cash were also found, police said.

Mr. Leriche faces nine drug charges and 13 charges related to explosives.

No individuals were injured in the alleged bombing incidents, but there was heavy property damage.

Hooo doggies. That was quite a weekend. My shoulder is a wreck, my legs and arms are covered in red splotches, my head’s aching and I’m still tired. I’ll begin at the beginning:

Early Friday morning my wife and I got up and took the subway to our friend’s place in North York, where we would meet two more friends and drive up to Algonquin Park (where we would meet yet two more friends). This being my first real “camping trip” (I grew up on a farm in rural Nova Scotia, surrounded by acres and acres of forest; just leaving my house was practically roughing it), I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I was going with 7 experienced campers and we were all well prepared. However, the weekend got off to a bit of a dodgy start for me; just after getting off the subway I slung a very heavy bag up onto my shoulder and felt it…pop, I guess. I’ve hurt that shoulder before, and I could tell it was hurt again. I popped it back into place, but I knew this was trouble. However, I didn’t want to screw 7 other people’s plans so off we went in a well-loaded rented minivan.

After a long ride north and a missed turn at Huntsville, we finally arrived at the park. We were canoe camping on Lake Opeongo, so we had to sling all our gear into 4 canoes. I should point out that while my shoulder hurt a lot at this stage, it didn’t affect my paddling abilities. However, it should also be noted that I suck at canoeing, as does my wife. This made for a very frustrating trip to the campsite. The wind didn’t help either. I got us there in the most elaborate zig-zag pattern I could manage, cursing loudly at myself the whole way (I don’t like sucking at things, especially publicly); we camped further south than we had originally intended, on Bates Island. There were a few lucky coincidences to this, though; 1) we’d forgotten to buy firewood on the way in, so two guys had to paddle back and get some. Had we originally gone much further in, we likely would’ve had to scavenge for firewood on the first night. 2) The campsite was a real find: very large, with a kickass toilet (whereas most sites simply have a box over a hole in the ground, ours had 3 walls around the box. what luxury! the only downside was that it was too close to the rest of the site) and well sheltered from the wind. We set up camp and quickly got to work on dinner.

Our environs were stunning. From our vantage point on the island we looked back down the south arm of the lake; across the small channel from us was a constant view of still lake, heavy forest and cloud. Only a few other boats came near the next few days, and fewer still of those were noisy powerboats. Occasionally a canoe or kayak would slip by, but no more frequently than the loons. At night the skies were perfectly clear, and the show of stars was incredible, reminiscent of nights I remember from the farm. The milky way was clearly visible, and it became a game to track all the satellites across the sky. Most of us lay there after midnight, staring up and cursing the constant glow of the city for hiding this from us. On Saturday some of us took a walk around the island locating the remains of an old cabin as well as the other 3 campsites. After a swim to cool off (some found it too cool, and wouldn’t even get in past the shins) a few took off on canoe excursions, while the rest of us stayed behind and relaxed.

The weather was, all things considered, flawless. We had only the briefest of rain showers on Friday evening, and that no more than a sprinkle. Though we set up tarps, we scarcely used them. During the day it was sunny and 25-30 degrees, and at night it stayed warm enough that simple long-sleeved t-shirts kept us warm. An early riser, I got up at 7:30 each day, about 2 hours before everyone else; I sat in a chair by the water and read, keeping bundled against the rare chilly weather, waiting for the sun to rise over the eastern tree tops. With weather like this we expected to be town apart by mosquitos; while we each returned home with our share of bites, we got off easy as regards mosquitos. The real infestation of the site was spiders, daddy (or dandy, depending on where you’re from) longlegs for the most part. The first night it was hard enough for me to get used to sleeping on a thermarest without feeling a spider crawling across my face every few minutes, but I adjusted. By the time we left we’d dubbed the place Spider Island, and more than a few of them made it into the car with us. It made for some interesting moments when the driver felt a large one crawling up his leg…

We ate like kings. Rumours of dried meat, canned peas and beans & weiners being the staples of camping food were quashed after this weekend. Dinners were chicken & beef kebabs one night, indian food the next. Breakfasts consisted of bacon, sausage, eggs, toast, maple baked beans, toast w/ maple butter, and oatmeal with dinosaur eggs (that last one is a long story). Through it all there was cold water, cold beer (technically verboten, but we kept it light and humped all the cans out with us), gatorade, pop, OJ, coffee, tea and even an apertif for the single malt drinkers. There was even a chocolate fondue, believe it or not.

Though none of us really wanted to leave, we knew that the weekend was wrapping up and there was still the long trek home to be made. The canoe trip back was much easier – less wind, better current and a much better showing from my wife and I – so we were off to a good start. However, after stopping for some greasy food and ice cream, we finally hit some bad luck: the infamous Highway 400 traffic. Interesting notes one picks up while travelling south at 5 km/h:

• all roads between Huntsville and Richmond Hill lead to Oro-Medonte, wherever the hell that is
• drivers are idiots
• in heavy rain, sections of the highway become like wading pools
• our wives really can’t sing, though this doesn’t seem to stop them from trying

So, by the time we got home Sunday night we were exhausted, smelly, itchy, hungry and having trouble lifting things. But it was fun, and it gave us a three-day view of what life is like outside the big city, which is something we all need to be reminded of sometimes. There really are spiders and stars, water you can swim in and see through, views that have nothing to do with which floor you’re on, pine needles and canoe paddles, all a few hours away. So we’ll all keep going to MEC and paying exorbitant prices for flashy gear that we can load into rented vans (which we fill with expensive gas) and fight traffic for hours so that we can enjoy it. Ah, nature.

This is an email from my brother; it seems he quite enjoyed the PJ Harvey concert in London Thursday night…

Polly Jean Harvey, you are the Psycho Punk Blues Stomp Freak Queen, and I’m in love with you.

I was there at the Brixton Academy last night for the agreed time of our rendez-vous. I must admit, I was a bit surprised to see so many other people milling about, but I guess that’s bound to happen in Brixton on a Thursday night. I was even more surprised to be first greeted by xxxxx, or, as I believe I’ll call him, Mr. Dissonance. Unrestrained by the notion of “keys” he played his rock guitar songs without much accompaniment. If it hadn’t been for cool set-closer “Frankenstein’s Daughter”, I wouldn’t have thought much of him.

But you were perfect, my dear. You strutted so boldly for one so vanishingly tiny. Your tight red dress and long books were an excellent and flattering choice. The band towered above you, but you were a giant of power and will and glaring sardonic passion. And love for me, of course.

The songs you played me were divine: the fuzzy deep bass, the shrieking-to-tender tones of your voice, the bluesy guitars, were true testimonials of love. I recognised nearly all your latest songs, like “Life and Death of Mr. Badmouth”, “Pocket Knife”, and the stage-lurching body-spazz of “Who the Fuck?”

But I longed for, and got, the old familiar songs: “To Bring You My Love”, “C’mon Billy”, “The Whores Hustle and the Hustlers Whore”. Best of all, by far, was the popping grind of “Meet Za Monsta”. Surely the intensity of that entire screaming performance is a sign of the undying feeling between us.

You prowled and growled, crouched down low, grabbed drumstricks to bash things, jerked freakishly about, and danced like someone with virgin limbs. Yet your total power gave you a complete sexiness, a hot, searing right to command me and everything that stands in your way. You were an elemental destruction of convention and inhibition, my darling. You entranced me.

I was sad that I did not hear “Down By the Water”, “Rid of Me”, “50 ft Queenie”, “This Is Love”, or “Long Snake Moan”. But you know best, my dear, and we have only a short time together and you have so many new songs to sing to me.

Some jealous person tried to convince me that you’re cheating on me, offering yourself up to someone else just the night before. I know it’s all lies. Your love is true.

Polly Jean Harvey, you are the Psycho Punk Blues Stomp Freak Queen, and I’m in love with you.

The Hidden Song Archive

T-Bone and I got to Bymark early last night so we went to the bar and had a drink before dinner. I got an early start on the scotch (Macallan 12) and she on the white wine.
 
An hour later we slid downstairs to our table and our guests – my wife, and T-Bone’s friend whom I’ll call the Other Jen (OJ for short) – joined us. We made our choices and got to it.
 
The appetizers: T-Bone got the steak tartare, my wife got the white asparagus & shrimp with hollandiase, OJ got something else that I can’t remember and I got the steak tartare also. Big mistake. I’d always wanted to try it, and at least now I know, but I can’t say I enjoyed it. Should’ve gotten the gazpacho. Ah well.
 
I felt redeemed during the main course. While the wife got an enormous hunk of salmon and OJ got the chicken, T-Bone and I both upgraded to the famous Bymark burger (which normally runs ~$35). Ordinarily I’d say that’s an insane price to pay for a hamburger, but one bite into it and I knew it was worth every penny. The burger tasted so good that it didn’t even really taste like a hamburger; it was like an immaculate steak with a perfect sauce which just happened to have subtle cheese, unobtrusive lettuce and a few pieces of bread slapped around it. I took my mushrooms off and doubled-up T-Bone’s burger.
 
As if that weren’t enough, the onion rings that came with it were nothing short of miraculous. So light and fluffy and golden and filled with rosemary that – true to form – they tasted less like onion rings than like some foreign food I’d never tasted before. It would be satisfying to walk into Bymark and order a plate of the onion rings.
 
I cleared my palate with Cragganmore. Others used wine, silly tossers.
 
The upside down pear cake was good, but not on the same level as the burger. Not much could be; I’m certain that the burgers were prepared in the Matrix. Believe it or not, I’m now considering making another trip to Bymark solely for the $35 burger and onion rings. I have truly crossed over to some parallel dimension.
 
I’m sad that Summerlicious is over, as are my credit card companies. I wanted to end it off my going to the Metric show at the Mod Club last night (Duarte kindly got me on the guest list), but a splitting headache hit me around the dessert course and got worse from there, so I passed.
 
No rest for the wicked, however; we leave early tomorrow morning to go camping in Algonquin. With any luck our campsite is notunderwater, as most of Peterborough appears to be. Wish us luck.

My wife and I watched the entire second season of Six Feet Under this past weekend. Unlike the first season which started off quickly, dipped in the middle and picked up again near the end, this season started off slowly and spiked quickly toward the end.

Now I can’t wait for season 3, dammit. Why does this series make it so hard? Making us wait a year for the DVDs to come out grumble grumble bitch grumble murmer…

Good lord.

My friend Adam sent me a DVD he made out of some old home video. See, when I was 13 I was in a band. I was the drummer. Our name was Fever Pitch, for chrissakes. We played mostly covers, of crap like April Wine and Kiss, and (apparently; I had forgotten this) some metal stuff like Metallica. I could barely watch it; the music was…not good. My haircut was…worse.

I have no pictures of myself at that age; it was strange to see…me. I was strange. And awkward and shy and not as good a drummer as I thought. But then, I was 13 and still learning to play. God, it was awful and intriguing and horrible and hilarious. It made me cringe and laugh.

I shall now hurl it into the Thunder Pit.

Pitchfork reviews the new Fiery Furnaces album Blueberry Boat. The 9.6 rating just makes me want to buy it more; I gave it a once-over on MP3, but that was just a formality. I knew I would buy it once it came out, so I’ve resisted listening to the MP3s again.

from Yahoo!: Grohl Drums Up Support for Nine Inch Nails

Tue Jul 13, 1:27 PM ET
By Jonathan Cohen

NEW YORK (Billboard) – Foo Fighters frontman Dave Grohl has logged some time behind the drum kit with Nine Inch Nails, which is recording its first studio album since 1999’s “The Fragile.”

Eagle-eyed fans spotted Grohl on Nine Inch Nails’ in-studio Web cam last week, sitting behind a mixing console. His contributions are expected to appear on the Trent Reznor (news)-led act’s long-awaited new album, “Bleed Through,” due later this year via Interscope.

His presence was also tipped off by members of rock act the Exies, who are recording their next album at the same studio, Sound City Studios in Van Nuys, Calif.

“Last week, we had a great barbecue with Queens Of The Stone Age and this week we come in to see Dave Grohl playing drums for Nine Inch Nails,” the band wrote on its official Web site (http://www.theexies.com). “Is that a trip or what?! I guess Trent Reznor is going for real drums this time around. Good call, I say.”

A Foo Fighters spokesperson did not respond to a request for comment. Grohl rose to fame as the drummer in Nirvana.

An unattributed message on Nine Inch Nails’ official Web site says the band is “about to head back to New Orleans to begin work with (engineer) Alan Moulder. We’re in the midst of a very inspiring recording session that has everyone thrilled. We’re working on a new batch of songs Trent just wrote and we cannot wait for you to hear them.”

“There are lots of surprises in store — wish I could tell you what they are,” the post continues.

“The Fragile” debuted at No. 1 on The Billboard 200 and has sold more than 875,000 copes in the United States, according to Nielsen SoundScan. It was followed in February 2002 by the concert album “And All That Could Have Been, Live.”