Sssssshhhh.

Don't tell anyone, but - I might resurrect this.

Sad news, pub-related.

I know I don't post here much anymore. But I figured this sad news was of sufficient importance to end my three-month hiatus. Especially to anyone who (a) went to the University of Saskatchewan in the late 1990s, and (b) no longer lives in Saskatoon.

Wednesdays were the best. And Sundays - chess and all you can eat fish-and-chips. And that one waitress who called everyone "Boys!" whether they were 19 or over 70.

It really started to decline over the past few years, but I thought the downtown crowd would keep it alive. But I guess I was wrong.

"The Rise and fall of the British (Pub) Empire," by Cam Fuller

Van Gogh wannabe.

Look at all these pretty sunflower photos. Nice, huh?

Too bad sunflowers are actually plotting to overthrow the government, installing in its place an iron-fisted regime of secret police and roving death squads. Anyone who has spit a sunflower seed at a baseball game, or God forbid used them to garnish a spinach salad, will be on the first rail car to the gulags of Nunavut.

Fuckers, all.

I'm not dead!

Just busy. So, so busy. And tired. That may have to do with the two-and-a-half hour commute each day (take that, Statscan!) to Cornwall.

I will post something soon, perhaps about the automatic revolving door I encountered today (upgrading the standard revolving door is kind of like deciding the guillotine isn't deady enough) or about how I actually heard the following exchange the night Italy won the World Cup:

Teenage girl hanging precipitously out of car: Italy won! Yay!
Disaffected hippie-type: I don't like sports.
TGHPOOC: You're ugly!
DH-T: So are you!

Actually, there's not much more to say about them, so I won't. And since this has sort of kind of turned into an actual blog post, I can go missing in action for another two weeks without suffering searing pangs of guilt. But I won't. Because I love all of you. If any of you are left.

Saskatoon in nine words and a sound effect.

"The light to cross 23rd street is now on." Beep boop.

Correction: I apparently will be living not in Westborough, or Westboro, but on the Hindenburg. Or something.

Blogger, heal thyself.

It's been brought to my attention that my online vomiting has recently subsided to a mild spew, as opposed to the torrential geyser of months past. And since I've started cajoling a fellow blogging colleague to update her page, it would be hypocritical if I didn't provide an update myself.

Since last Saturday, I've been in Saskatoon. Much has happened over the past two weeks. For one, I now have a job at the Cornwall Standard-Freeholder as a reporter/photographer - which, if I remember my comic books correctly, means I'm a hybrid of the lesser parts of both Superman and Spiderman. Oddly enough, this has necessitated a trip to Saskatoon where, with the financial expertise of mes parents, I have invested in a 2007 Toyota Yaris. While I won't go into the gory details, the brochure for the Yaris emphasizes that it combines the efficiency and the creativity of the best Japanese vehicles - or, in their terms, the "J-Factor." Love it.

I'm also moving to Ottawa, where Ella and I have found a charming third-floor apartment in Westborough. We are contemplating acquiring a cat of some fashion, and I am spending a good amount of time convincing her we should name it "Football," so I can kick it. This proposal has met with some resistance. I think I can wear her down, but I would also settle for "Attila the Cat" or "Chairman Meow," should a compromise be necessary.

So, that's that. Below are some photos of Saskatoon that I've taken on two separate trips - one along the Meewasin trail behind my parents' Silverwood home, and another down 2nd and 1st Avenue and into the warehouse district. You may have to enlarge the first to read the sign. I'm out of space on my flickr account for this month, so they have to go here.

Saskatoon in pictures.

Myspace, arts and crafts, and shemale porn.

Who knew that when the Eagles crooned "You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave," back in the 70s, they were actually singing about Myspace?

Quite hilarious, though perhaps not for the poor soul who, God forbid, actually wants to leave Myspace. I've got an account there somewhere - and the only reason I signed up was to get an e-mail for a freelance piece that ultimately went nowhere. So the account's just sitting there, friendless and empty. In the Myspace community, I'm basically that weird guy from highschool who always wore a trenchcoat and, during fifth period Chemistry, whittled Tolkein characters into his desk with his switchblade.