Squee.

Squee. That's the sound my friend Terri makes when she finds out musicians she's stalked for years are coming to town - in this case, Greg Dulli, former singer for Afghan Whigs and currently fronting a new band (well, since 2000) called Twilight Singers. It's sort of like a squeal, but it gets cut-off midway due to extreme excitement, hyperventilating, and the general shutting down of major organs.

The show was, in a word, awesome. I'd remarked before Twilight Singers took the stage that if Toronto were to make an exception in their smoking by-laws for anyone, it should be the vice-loving Dulli. And sure enough, after about three songs, he lit up. I missed what followed, but I think someone told him about the ban - to which he remarked "2000 bucks for smoking. You guys are gonna bail me out, right?" Right.

Anyways, the show went on until something like quarter to two in the morning. One girl with cross tattooes on her elbows bought Dulli a rose and a shot of mystery booze (tequila?), so he told her for the next song she was his girlfriend. Then he brought her up on stage and they slowdanced. They played a handful of Afghan Whig tracks, and a surprising amount off earlier Twilight Singers albums, given they were touring for a new record.

Here's Twilight Singers' Myspace page. Check out "Forty Dollars," especially if you like seeing Beatles lyrics appear in songs about hookers.

Birds of spring.

When frightened or driven by hunger, the common lawn flamingo (Flamingus fiftibirthdaius) will abandon its grassland habitat and seek out higher ground.

Here, we see the magestic fowl perched ever so still, secure in the knowledge that its pink plastic exoskeleton will keep it safe from wily predators.

An amusing exchange with my gay Ukrainian roommate.

Roommate: How do you spell "mean"?
Me: M-E-A-N.
Roommate: So, in the sentence "I don't mean to be mean," they'd be spelled the same?
Me: Yep. Both with E-A (in the middle).
Roommate: They're homonyms!
Me: You're a homonym!

It's like a vaudeville show 24/7 around here, some days.

St. Clair West

St. Clair West station. It's a lot of TTC users' favorite station, mainly because of the funky decor and the wide open stairways.

I meant to capture the train heading into the station, but my camera went into "power save" mode about three seconds before I took the shot. Had it lined up perfectly and everything. I just caught it on the way out, but as you can see the composition's a bit tilted, and I didn't mean to get the stairway railing in there.

I was also a bit nervous of being hauled away TTC cops. Apparently, even though everyone does it, photography in subway stations is sternly frowned upon.

Who's afraid of five rewrites?

Not me, apparently.

With my typing fingers nearly whittled to the bone, I managed to finish my CBC story on Facade last week. The piece came out this morning. And all those relaxing powder blue hues look soooooooooo good.

I heartily welcome my new public broadcaster overlords.

Slo-pitch Fantasy Digest: Episode One.

Sunday, April 30, 2006. Bickford Park.

Stats: 4-6, 3 runs scored, 1 HR (!), 1 RBI. Also 3 IP, 15 runs allowed, probably all unearned (such is slo-pitch).

Pitching recap: Thrust into emergency starting duty after rest of team sidelined by apathy. After three lackluster innings, was relieved by teammate suffering from a herniated disc. Will take this incident as a nod towards my teammate's mobility and not as an indictment of my 7 MPH fastball.

Batting recap: First at-bat in two years resulted in a line-drive single that nearly decapitated the opposing pitcher (who may have been Matt Murphy of Superfriendz/Flashing Lights). With strains of "Same Thing Twice" ringing in my ears, followed up with two outfield singles in subsequent at-bats. Homered to centre in fourth at-bat. Ninety-minute "apocalypse delay" ensued. During fifth at-bat, opposing team's second baseman shouted "I don't know who this guy is, but he sure can hit!" Meekly popped up to centrefield so as to not let opposition pigeonhole me. Final at-bat in the 12th resulted in a groundout to short.

Fantasy outlook: Offensively, my hot start in 2006 suggests I be snapped up before my impending Congressional testimony. As a hurler, though, my fantasy value falls somewhere between the dessicated corpse of David Wells and tarmac.