Percussion Gun

I was fully prepared to write an entire piece about the trials and tribulations of 2009, but decided against it seeing as I'd much rather finish cooking my meatballs and fried spring rolls. End of the decade, blah blah blah. Lotta shit went down, and you don't need to read about it here.

I was actually surprised to hear that 2009 was an awful year for most of my friends. I personally thought it was fucking awesome, but only through the powers of circumstance.

Throughout the year I visited Poland, Germany, Austria, Czech Republic, Hungary, England, New York City, New Baltimore, Detroit, Quebec, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island and Newfoundland. I managed to dodge one of the worst Toronto summers (including the garbage strike) and hung around for the warmest November in over 100 years. I even broke a bone.

As in any year, most of you may know that, although I believe resolutions are bullshit and meaningless to a degree, a new resolution is to be made for myself.

After a discussion with a professor on the topic of promotion in the art world, he stated in clear black and white that nobody can begin representing your work but yourself. This is in fact true. I don't know what I was waiting for, but I have a studio absolutely full of work that could be hung at any moment. This is where the resolution comes into play.

Man of Action

This year is going to be all about progress. The word itself has always intimidated me. I get comfortable in some situations and find it hard to detach myself from it. However, I slowly realized that progress really isn't hard at all. It's just a matter of movement, motivation, and passion working harmoniously towards an attainable goal.

The other day I clearly, in my mind, mapped out what I want out of my life. Then I realized I'm 23 years old, and that there is still plenty of time. Yet why wait? Why not jump start things and showcase work at all times? - although I've been technically showcasing and selling work at Orange Alert for over two years.

Man of Action is all about, well, action. Making calls, finishing my website (the lack of it is fully my fault - digging up and documenting past work kills my soul), sending emails, getting work, and making connections. I'm ready, and I'll do it. Upswing, baby.

Happy New Day.

April 19, 1990

Today, I decided I'm going to be an artist.

"YTV, pull that shit down!"

Mike and I recorded the Basement Edition of Talkin' Schmidt last night. The topics include:

BK: Lego vs. Legos , Excess Disney Sequels, Useless Hand-held Phone Tactics, Backpackers, Call of Brutal Children

Andy: Matilda and Satanic Messages, Ex Girlfriend w/ Boyfriend Etiquette, Anonymous Donors, Vegetable Commercial Motifs / Dad vs. Dolphins

Collectively: Specific Souvenir Requests, Chicken Soup for the Damaged Readers Soul

It was all filmed quite quickly and efficiently. Seeing as we haven't filmed an episode in almost a year, the topics flowed rather smoothly. The Crown Royal didn't hurt things either. Christmas time will do that to you

amazing!

Before leaving for home, I decided that it would be a good idea to deep clean the house. Here in Toronto, the garbage system outside of waste and recycling also has a bin for organic compost. Seeing as I hadn't changed my bin in a while, it was go time.

There must have been some seriously rotten shit in there, because as soon as I removed the bag from the bin, I barfed!! Blluughghhaaaahhhuuuuwwa!!! Amazing! It smelled so rotten that I barfed right there on my lino floor!

I think barfing is the funniest shit ever. One time my dogs got sprayed by a skunk back home and the sheer smell of the skunky-dogs getting washed in the tub made my sister barf. I thought that was amazing.

I've never personally barfed from smell alone, until about ten minutes ago. It happened instantly. So rad.

I've never had a big problem with barfing. Most of my close friends know this. I used to barf on purpose after big nights of binge drinking, just so I wouldn't feel like shit in the morning. I don't do it anymore. Come to think of it, I've gone through all kinds of drinking ritual phases. Two sweet barfing instances come to mind: one was with Tiff on the Nathan Phillips Square ice rink last winter after drinking super expired McDonalds milk (one halfwit security guard thought we were bulimic, so I made him smell the milk), and the second with Meme in the city hall parking lot on top of a Smart Car, which subsequently led to Meme spewing the most amazing rice barf of all time.

Barf is awesome. Don't be afraid of it, unless you have the flu, then prepare for shittyness.

Honorable Mention goes to Lwam last Saturday night at the Madison, which was based on a gag reflex rather than drunkenness. Beautiful Heinekin barf cascading down a set of wooden stairs followed by the roar of 20 screaming jocks? RAD TO THE BONER.

saturday morning funny papers

This kind of made me laugh. For those of you who like Seven, or Radiohead, or both.

balance

I just printed everything I've written over the past year.

It's 57 pages and over 27,000 words.

It's actually quite liberating to have that much written material in your hands.

I think over the break I'll read and re-evaluate key points and questions, and maybe use those towards something bigger and more concise. Because, if I were to go back and elaborate on most of the ideas and questions presented, the number of pages could have doubled.

I'd love for some other writers out there to try the same, and maybe an exchange could be made.

mon calimarian cruiser

This little momma is going in the "Funniest Shit Ever" bin. Being the gigantic Star Wars nerd that I am, I almost died when I first saw this. If you're ever in Ein-Steins bar on College Street on any given night and you hear "It's a Frap!", it's for sure me.

elwy

Next term I have to work on a series of anywhere between 12-15 images. I get excited by these because there is more room for exploration. I'd rather let the narrative of a series speak to the work rather than a single image. I've been working in this format for years now.

Seeing as it will be photography-based, I have begun to toy with many ideas; specifically those that lend themselves more towards a series than singular images. I was really inspired by seeing a rotten piece of fruit the other day. I've considered doing lively, punchy, saturated depictions of rotting fruit.

Another idea (and one I think is well thought on my behalf) is to document every classroom I've ever sat in. From junior kindergarten through to university. From Mountsfield, to H.B. Beal, to Ryerson.

I should preface this next part by saying I'm fascinated by the brain. Ultimately. The fact that the mind can retain so much is beyond my comprehension. If you've ever spent an extended period of time with me, I'm sure you've heard me say the words:

"Isn't it funny how such a strange memory literally takes up space within your brain? Those Dr. Dre lyrics honestly occupy real estate within your brain. And where?"

With this in mind, I found the idea of the classroom fascinating. These rooms were genuinely the breeding grounds for knowledge. Everything from the square block in the circle hole to addition/subtraction to first crushes to the tuba to french to long division etc. These places still remain four-walled establishments, yet within them there is an aura of curiosity, bullshit, and learning.

One of the aims of the series (should I choose to accept it) is to capture the different ambiance's of each room from start to finish. Seeing as we are young, distracted, and impressionable in our early years of education, teachers tended to decorate the walls and ceilings with mosaics of Clifford, the alphabet, Sesame Street, and diagrams displaying parts of the body. As a few years pass, the facade becomes more scientific, more literal. Entering high school, the sutdents are either subject to posters of Spain, or the coldness of white walls and banging lockers.

However these interiors may look, they undoubtedly form the people we are today. With that in mind, I would be more than happy to visit each individual place to reiterate not only where I am now, but how (and why) I got here.

Although I'm sure nobody cares about the technical side of the project, the entire thing will be shot on a 4x5 camera, and will be entirely funded by me prostituting myself through perilous Glory Hole visits.

Robin Shouldn't

I always knew they'd make a sequel to Gladiator. I just don't know why they'd call Maximus by the name "Robin Hood". Russell can't touch Errol Flynn with a ten foot dick.

rosebud

For whatever reason, over the past few months the only thing I've felt like doing in my spare time is cooking and watching Citizen Kane. I have over one hundred movies in my house and I only ever feel like watching that one.

Aside from the incredibly gorgeous camera work, as well as the quality of the black and white footage, the film almost sounds like an album. I find when I'm cooking at home and watching say, a kung fu movie, I become more distracted with the visuals and end up burning my pork fried rice because I've been staring at the screen. However in the case of Citizen Kane, the movie relies far more on the narratives presented than the shots themselves. The script is slick and concise, which is why I could probably listen to the film on an mp3 player, if such a thing was possible.

If any of you readers have never seen the film, contact me and I'll run to your house to watch it with you, with a bottle of wine (I say that because most of the readers of this blog are femmes).

the boys are back in town

BK is back in town from his Euro-travels and we're getting crazy.
Therefore, a small absence of posting.
Sweet berry wine!!

vampires

Although there is an endless number of topics I'd like to touch upon, my only real reason for posting is this:

This made my god damn day, twice. I hate this recent trend of vampire shit. I'd much rather the film industry gravitate back towards zombies. At least zombies don't fall in love and smear it on billboards.

biggups to Andrew for the pic...it's the most amazing thing I've ever seen.

apps

I've got some photos on an iPhone app called Schmap. I'm not sure if it's free, but might be worth checking out. It's basically an urban map'lication (zing) that has matching photos for every destination.

I'm now on iTunes and the iPhone. Soon enough I'll be having dinner with Steve Jobs.

Why does Nessun Dorma make me want to shrivel up in a ball and cry like a little girl?

east and dp

Dan and I realised a while back that not only have we been friends for a long time, but we've been making music together for almost just as long. I'm fairly sure we've been involved in some sort of group together at any given time over the past 7 years.

I remember it like it was yesterday. We'd arranged to have a "jam" at my house in my bedroom. We planned on playing Credence Clearwater Revivals single, Down on the Corner. Hours before he showed up to my house, I pleaded with my sister to teach me how to play it, even though the song is only three chords. My fingers were getting sore even before he got there. I fumbled with the tabliture terribly, almost like a child learning how to ride a bike.

After several attempts together at completing the song, I looked over to the bongo I'd been given that Christmas (this one is specifically known as an Indian tabla), began to play, and the rest is history. I brought the beat and Danny played the guitar.

We continued to play together, comparing calluses in the cafeteria, and then we began playing with our good friend Nathan, who actually had a fairly decent understanding of the guitar. After only three or so practices, we played our first show together, under the name of Gerald Pessy at a coffee house. Later that month, we entered in our high school Battle of the Bands (how 'right of passage' does this sound for young boys?), and came in second.

Another story of this sort comes from the days before we played our final show together at The Embassy, which is all but a pile of rubble now. We decided to "electrify" our sound by putting Nathan on electric guitar, and me on drums for the first time. I really want to say this was because we were listening to a lot of Oasis at the time, but who really knows. I distinctly remember, much like the session with my sister, my brother sitting me down and teaching me the one and only beat I'd ever be structurally taught. It was the simple 4/4 beat that is most common in percussion. That night at the embassy, it was the only beat I played for every song. The tapes from that show exist somewhere, and I'll be damned if I don't find them someday.

Years later, after disbanding with Nathan, we wrote and recorded Fly Away under the name Hue. Seeing as we were the only two members of the band, we wrote and arranged all the instrumental parts together under the chord progressions and lyrics from Dan. The album is roughly recorded, but there is innocence, vision, and sincerity in the execution of the each song. I still have a few copies kicking around.

To this day, we are still best friends and continue to make music together. We have full confidence in each others talents, yet are never hesitant to provide feedback when needed. We compliment each others work, and never forget to pound knuckles after each night we play. Even after all these years, I think the one thing that keeps us from feeling stale musically is the fact that we're excited to hear what we can both come up with, whether alone or collectively. It's either that or we're both really good at freestyling.

...to another seven Danny boy.

kick a blah blah blahhh

After Tiffany informed me of more ridiculous Kick a Ginger Day antics, I had to look it up for myself. So ridiculous. Another cultural reference blown way out of proportion.

Maybe I didn't get kicked because I was out in the sun most of the day? They probably didn't suspect a thing. Besides, if they did decide to kick me, I'd probably allow it out of sheer admiration for their gall. Especially when I'm carrying a dizi in my backpack.

nay-sexual

A couple days ago, it was nearing the end of the day and something interesting occurred to me:

I hadn't been turned on once the entire day.

In truth, everyone gets sexually turned on by something daily, if not by the minute (you know who you are). There's nothing at all wrong with that. Yet on this day, I had nothing. Not a dirty thought entered my mind nor a smokin' be-hind to look at. So, naturally you can understand the gravity of this, because I noticed it right away.
I was so excited by this fact that I quickly walked home so that I could write about it. But on the way, sadly, this girl walking past me was popping huge cleav' and we eye-fucked for about two seconds. Great. My experience was completely ruined by really nice boobs. Now I'll have to wait another 23 years until it happens again.

somebody give us some moneeeeyyy

It's simple: Canadian cinema has no money.

I'm pretty sure the biggest budget film of all time is still, get this, Porky's.

While aching and groaning in sickness, one of my favorite activities is to sit on the Apple site and watch movie trailers for about two hours. It's fun, and I know a lot who do the same thing.

However, I went back a few pages and noticed a trailer for a film called Bull that was originally posted over the summer. I'm almost certain this is the only Canadian film currently on the Apple Trailers website. And boy is it a sad one. After watching the trailer with a bit of neglect, I decided to share it with the rest of you just to exemplify how shitty the movie looks, which really doesn't have much to do with the cast or crew. It just looks terrible.

We see some garbage first-generation HD footage, some crappy sets, all the go-to Canadian actors (half of them have shows on CTV), terrible dialogue and even worse production value. But in actual fact, this all really just comes down to money - because our film industry has none.

Bull - The Trailer from Bull - The Movie on Vimeo.

Also, if you do decide to visit the films website for whatever reason, you'll notice the "Now Available on DVD" post-it in the lower corner, while it's still being advertised as a trailer. Ouch.

Mom, Prague, Czech Republic

mom's the best. i meant to put up this photo a long time ago.

marla and me

I've mentioned it a hundred times over: I am utterly confused by the term artist. He's an artist, she's an artist, they're artists. It all boggles my mind, and I'll tell you why.

The reason I'm so confused by this term is that I thoroughly believe that anyone is capable of making art. We all are. In fact, I know people who are more an artist than I and they don't even make art. It's in the way they carry themselves: the way they articulate words and tinker with anything tangible, almost unconsciously. Then there are those that make art, but do not consciously think it's good enough to display and become discouraged out of any sort of exhibitionism for their work. There are also some that make art and don't even know it.

There are also those that claim to be artists, which is all good, provided you backup your statement, you ballsy prick. Like I said, I've mentioned this argument before.

There is a massive grey area to be seen. For instance, in the dictionary the term "artist" seems fairly straight forward: the centric line states "a person who produces paintings or drawings as a profession or hobby". Fine. Later, the same dictionary mentions singers, dancers, and actors. Except what the hell is a singer creating? All they really do is remember someone's lyrics and make their vocal chords vibrate. However, they do have the capacity to provoke emotion, just as much as Christo's big bedsheets, Serrano's Piss Christ and Rothko's squares of color.

The fact of the matter is, everything that has been indeed deemed "art" has provoked some sort of emotion one way or another. Your kids crayon drawings, your dog barking (ever hear that barking solo from Eels?), the suds on your car. This is where the problem presents itself to me, because all I see is grey.

If somebody were to walk into a room and a friend of mine turns and says "Hey, that guys an artist!" I'd say "Fuck him". Not the most well-rounded argument, but it's a state of mind.

HOWEVER

There are people who I do truly credit as artists. They've paid their due's, and got paid. Fine. My big problem is finding the line between your seven year old kid and the man who hangs work every two weeks in seven countries. A prime example of this can be seen in the film My Kid Could Paint That.

Although I'm not looking for the answer just yet, let it be known that I'm still on my quest. Because nothing makes me feel dirtier than calling myself "an awwwwtist".

tbc.

peas and tarot's

Two shoots. Two days. Rush rush rush.

I was experimenting with a flash setup I bummed from school, except the sync chord they gave me didn't sync at all, so they were only really good for spot lights, but I made do.
I snapped some band shots last night of the lineup we've currently been rehearsing with. Who knew that one day we'd have another ginger, who's name is also Andrew, who also went as Tin Tin for Halloween? I don't know if I like the sounds of those similarities. As long as he can't freestyle as good as me, I'll be okay.

There are more shots, but they'll be released on our Myspace when we're good and ready: probably after a few more rehearsals.

The next shoot was this morning at Blair's urban planning firm.

I was hired on by Cal Brook and Anne McIlroy, who are quite possibly the two most gracious and patient bosses I've ever met. The shoot went very well. I allowed myself a little over three hours to shoot, and the production meeting we had weeks beforehand helped us craft the sort of images they were looking for to add to their website.
Despite my serious sickness, I managed to pull together a fine body of work (and even got to use a ladder). I'd add more photos to see, but they currently don't belong to me. Oh to be a business. Fun day nevertheless, and I even got another job out of it.

On a final note, Anne told me my personality is reflected in my work. Probably one of the best compliments I've received all year.

There you have it. Another capper on one of those "Impossible Weeks" I seem to keep having.

ahhh, the onion

I hate to say it, but thank god I follow the blogs I do; because sometimes you just find the gems.

How To Find A Masculine Halloween Costume For Your Effeminate Son

that's callled tweeting

ALRIGHTMEANDBLAIRAREGETTINGDRUNKONOLDEEANDGOING
SWIMMINGWEALSOHOOKEDUPWITHGIRLSINNYC

above video: Battery Park, NY.

that makes a bakers dozen

Cracked lung strikes again!

For those of you who have been reading this blog for more than a year, this may sound familiar to you.

That's right. Pneumonia again!
This time it hit me like a shit-ton of bricks. No warning, no sloppy nose work, no headaches.

Just BAM! Right into the lungs it goes, without leaving behind the sweatiest chills and worst obstructed sleeps I've ever and.

However, I'm quick on the antibiotics and should be back to my psychotically busy life in no time.

get your shit right

get your shit right

Hue | MySpace Video

If you have an hour, watch this video a few dozen times. I guarentee you'll find something hilarious in it every time you watch it.

Raging Bull

Okay.
Everybody listen.
Scratch that.
Everyone in a band, or collective, listen.
Take the advice from ?uestlove (one of the greatest drummers/influences/aficionados/impacts on modern music today, from possibly one of the best hip hop groups of all time) and listen to him.
Sunday is Band Day.
Above any politics amongst your group, Sunday is Band Day.
Lately, Hue's has been Monday.
We drink tequila and freestyle.
I talk about cooking for the band, but the tequila is usually the deciding point.
Listen to ?uestlove.

Tin Tin.

It went down.

Andrew Schmidt 2009

I'd rather stand than sit. Complaint is for the tenuous. Action over response. Creation over observation. Experience over anticipation. Curiosity over settlement. Feeling over watching. Sweat over dust. Ambition over conscience. Wine over water. Passion over money.

my perfect:

I'm almost certain I've mentioned this before, but Search for Perfection is one of my favorite shows ever. The concept is incredible, Heston is really cool (except for his one whack nail), and it's really well filmed.
On top of all that, it's got the best theme song ever. I could listen to that song while doing anything: going for a run, having sex, studying, grocery shopping, scheming, robbing a bank, pleasure cruising, painting etc.

I recommend you give it a watch sometime.

of the day

Quick question:

If you faint while lying in bed, would that be called sleeping?

i'm roger lodge

nothing really to announce, other than I have no internet signal, and probably won't for the next few days. however, i have a few things to write about when I get it back - including my first blind date experience.

soon soon.

you're all I need

I still consider this song to be one of the most inspiring and gorgeous sweeps of music to come out in the last twenty years. Listening to it on proper headphones makes me want to live until I'm 300 and never fall asleep. Aside from that, the Scotch Mist version is amazing. It's on my wish list if anyone is buying me Christmas presents.

Besides, is there anyone cooler than Thom Yorke? I'm still convinced he's an alien.

meow

I just witnessed something very interesting. As I was walking down the street, I noticed four people looking very concerned for the safety of this street cat that was trying to cross the road. On the other side of the road, a homeless man was sleeping on the streetcar tracks with nobody gave a shit. Kinda makes you wonder where peoples priorities lie, doesn't it?

add it to the list...

Am I the only one who's ever thought to invent Designer Milks? I'm talking about taking the milk that's been soaking in cereal for about twenty minutes and selling that as it's own product. Million dollar idea right there.

I can see it now: Cinnamon Toast Crunch Milk, Apple Cinnamon Cheerio Milk, Special K Milk, Shreddies Milk, Lucky Charms Milk. AWESOME! I'd drink that shit.

"Louis Farrakhan is openly black"

myth busters

Mike took off to Europe today for six weeks. To say I'll miss him is an understatement.
Have an awesome time "TraBike". Say hi to Barcelona for me.

smooth as a babies bum

Last Saturday I was scheduled to do a photo documentary on the Nuns.

About an hour before leaving, my sister (who works their reception desk) calls me and asks me to remove my beard! Apparently nuns do not like beards, for whatever reason.

Seeing as I really wanted to photograph them, I removed it without hesitation. I just thought it was funny, because I'm sure I'll never have to be asked by nuns to remove my beard ever again.

On a second note, one of the Sisters asked me if I had a girlfriend while talking in her suite. I said no. She then told me that she was going to pray for me. Isn't that amazing? Right now, there is a legitimate nun praying for women on my behalf. She even wrote in her prayer book "Andrew Schmidt. Girls." By god, I hope she works some magic.
I snapped a photo while she wrote it and will surely post it as soon as it's been processed.

days of flight

Ever stop to notice just how fast life moves? It's cheesy, but it's true. I was just cycling through some old material I'd written about this time last year, and it felt like yesterday I sat down and wrote it all.

It is now my personal goal to slow down time, except I'm not sure where to start. I do know that napping chops days into two pieces, so maybe I'll start there. Although, with such little sunlight these days, I best enjoy the sun while I can still get it.

I drove the Tut

I was thinking just now about the upcoming King Tut exhibit coming to the AGO in late November, and a lot of questions arose.

For starters, the coffin of King Tut has to actually arrive at the AGO. How does this happen? More interestingly, who gets to ride shotgun with King Tut? Do you think they stop to pee at McDonalds when King Tut himself is in the backseat? What kind of vehicle do they use? You'd hope it was one of those armored bank trucks, but maybe it isn't? Maybe they leave him exposed in the backseat of a Ford Windstar.

This next part came from an interest I had with famous rock stars entering concert halls and arenas. At some point, they're exposed to the air outside, which is funny to think because at one point they had to walk into the building from their bus - which is something people don't really consider because they view them as objects of entertainment, not living, breathing people who take sharp shits and get foot cramps like the rest of us. In the case of King Tut, could you look over at the AGO at one point and see him being carted from the truck? Because, at a certain time, King Tut has to go from the truck to the museum. Now, I know they wouldn't push the Tut out open on the streets, but you get the picture.

How do they know when King Tut arrives? Do they call the museum like it was a pizza delivery? Like they were ordering from Pizza Tut?

"Hey, uhhh, yeah. I'm the King Tut driver, and we're almost here. We can't find Spadina. What? I'm circling around man, and I can't find Spadina. Dundas? Where's Dundas? Dude, King Tut is in the back, where the hell am I going??"

It's not like they're toting around town with lumber in the back. It's the fucking TUT: one of the most incredible and sought-after artifacts known to man. So who's driving the car? Is that something the driver puts on his resume? "I drove The Tut."

To be totally honest, I have another two dozen questions lined up.

p.s. I couldn't resist that Pizza Tut pun. I'm far too Schmidt to pass that little gem up.

i got the blues

Let me clarify something:

When denim jackets are back "in", let it be known that I was one of the pioneers on the front lines.

bob ross sold beds?

Now, for your daily dose of pedophilia!
Sure!
I really don't have to go into any more detail, seeing as the jokes are front and center.

second thoughts

I just wrote, and deleted, a lengthy piece on ego-masturbation.

After realizing that it might offend some people, and that it was mostly just ranting and raving, I decided to keep it to myself.

Now, I know all about expressing yourself and why not to hold anything back, but some things are just meant to be kept in the old pumpkin I guess.

A lot of it came from watching American Psycho this afternoon I think, except when Patrick Bateman got mad, he killed people.

$

I was thinking about success today,
and I realized that I probably won't be impressed by it once it gets here.

Use All Your Shit!

If I were to have my own cookbook, the cover would be exactly Phoebe Gilman's Something From Nothing, except the old mans face would be substituted with my own.

When I cook, I can literally take anything in my house and make it into something relatively tasty. It's always been that way. Mind you, I wasn't so good at it when I didn't know anything about balance, texture, flavor bases or combination, but I still tried.

I've always wanted to have my own cooking show called Use All Your Shit!
It would go like so: I would show up to peoples houses (not invite myself over like that Australian prick on Take Home Asshole), to which I would open their fridge and pantry doors and concoct something delicious out of what they thought was "nothing".

I'll give you an example of this.

As of now, and for the past few days, I've had virtually nothing in my fridge. Lets say I had five items in there at most.

Last night I made deep fried vegetarian spring rolls with cheese, a homemade batter and even a dipping sauce from scratch.

Tonight I made a rosemary-infused cream of chicken soup with spinach, red onion, and diced carrots. For dessert I had a puree of strawberries and maple syrup on toast with a glass of red wine.

I swear to you - if you looked in my fridge you'd see nothing but stray bags of barely-there vegetables, a stick of butter, and rolls of film. I'm not normally the type to gloat, but I'm really fucking good at being creative in the kitchen. I could make you a roast chicken out of shards of glass if I wanted to.

ps. Except for that one time: I made Mike eat this "casserole" I made that was made only from wonder bread, sliced ham, white onion, and egg. That was fucking horrendous, and crunching into that burden still haunts me to this day. Sorry Mike.

"i'm a rude dude, but i'm the real deal"

John Bean filmed a short documentary on me the other day. It pretty much revolved around my sordid (and colorfully narrated) past with Ryerson. For some reason, I've always loved being interviewed. Especially when it's something I'm comfortable talking about, and when they let me swear (unlike Rogers cable).

Speaking of swearing, lately I've been analyzing the language you and I all use. More specifically, the cute little sayings we just roll off the tongue without questioning the meaning, or the origin (I got a book off Glen a while back on the origins of everyday sayings - I'll lend it to you). I've been thinking about the power of our language, and how most of us subconsciously blabber on without understanding what it is we're actually saying. In reality, the thought of misusing words and phrases scares the shit out of me, because we are only as good as the language we use. Otherwise you're doing yourself the fine favor of misrepresenting your own intelligence.

I'd have to say my big interest in language came from the work by George Carlin. After listening to his work (I'd rather not call it a comedy routine, because his stand up was more lecture than anything), I began comprehending the language we use, and why. Carlin had that really sharp way of speaking, which can be drawn from his love excessive swearing, and hatred towards modern euphemisms and soft language that conceal the truth (his speech on the transformation from "shell shock" to "post-traumatic stress disorder" is a classic example). I listen to his tapes on a daily basis because of this.

Below is Modern Man, something which I consider to be one of the greatest stand up rants of all time. The amount of culturally relevant sayings he crams into this short segment is unbelievable. I can probably recite about a quarter of it, which isn't bad considering it's really hard to remember it all.

where the great plains began

I was sifting through my video camera the other night and completely forgot about this video.
It was originally shot for Dan, as we both share a love for the song, and for The Tragically Hip.
So, as I crossed the hundredth meridian over a year ago, this video was filmed.
Excuse the horrible singing, but if you knew how Gord Downie sang live, you'd understand.

truly brothers

Everyone, feel free to print and frame this, or make your permanent background.

escape from the city

fuck it.



i get tired of people, in the general sense, quite easily. i circle streets at night and realize what a dismal thing humanity really is. i haven't quite decided whether life is truly difficult or impossibly easy, and i don't lose sleep over it.

i've decided to send out an open invitation to all girls who are interested in cutting all strings and moving to the country with me.

we'll wear denim, sleep in, kiss a lot and have a dog.
i'll drive you into town in my truck when you want, and i'll pick up the paper.
we'll build a library in our bedroom and our floors will creak louder than the weather vane on the roof.
things will be quiet most of the time, until we decide to spin records and dance.

no experience necessary. only requirement is that dirt under the nails needn't be a problem at times.

the flavor

Things have almost cleared up.

I can actually see most of the rug in my kitchen now, and I've even started cooking.
Between work, school, and necessary naps, my average rate of unpacking is about two boxes a day. I've even begun to cook and re-assemble my pantry.


I've been trying to figure out what it is I like so much about this area, and I've concluded that it's the flavor.

I've said that word time, and time again this summer, only because I truly understand the meaning of the word. Flavor is when you step outside your door and the air smells like garlic and lawn. Flavor is when you walk down the street slowly with a cigarette and say "bongiorno" to your neighbors. Flavor is when you see two grown men arguing about each others mothers' pizano's.

I used to live at the mall. I'll call it the mall, because the streets were always flashing with signs and something was always being pushed on me. Religion, Black History Month, Cadbury coupons, silver Elvis dancers, and an endless horizon of advertisements. If my current neighborhood was a slice of pizza, the mall would have been a napkin.
Around here, everyone walks slowly and does their own thing. I wear whatever I want, and do whatever I want, whenever. Most importantly, it's quuuiiieeeeet. Hear that? No sirens, Andy.

However, one downside to all of this is the sheer amount of walking I do any given day. My feet are literally two burger patty's. I have to wear different shoes everyday so that different parts of my feet get worn down. Even worse than that; I usually carry a pin around with me in case I need to pop a blister in the middle of my day. I need a new bike badly.

"hey man, you look tired"

Hey friends. I've missed you so.

I don't have any internet at my new place for the moment, so I've been squatting at a few choice wireless hot-spots for now.

Super busy. I think I'm one of the only people that gets sleep in their eyes while they're still awake. Boxes, boxes, and boxes. Just when I tackle the first load, another wave of cardboard seems to find its way into my new place. Speaking of which, I've fallen in love with that space. I couldn't imagine, at this time in my life, living in a place that I didn't like. It wasn't really an option. It really feels like a place where I can rest my head (or smack it off the shower fixtures).

I've got to get going, but I'll hopefully be doing a lot of writing in my [imaginary] spare time. I've had a lot on my mind and would love some ventage. Miss you friends.

things I've learned at 1806

I'll preface this next bit with some notes. I've lived here, in the same room, for three years, and I know every in and out of this neighborhood within a four-block radius. I've lived with some serious characters and have experienced some pretty amazing times. There's been some quiet times, and some really loud times. If these walls could talk, there would probably be a lot of bleeping-out.

The Sound

My room at 1806 is partly separated by glass from another bedroom. Apparently, everything can be heard coming from my room in the other bedroom, and I mean everything. Yet the strange thing is, I've never heard much of anything come from the other side. It's almost like a one-way-mirror, except for sound. Strange, indeed.

The Lifts.

The elevators are incredibly smart here. I've never seen elevators like it. When idled, one sits at ground level, another in the middle, and the other at the penthouse. They juggle perfectly as if actually controlled by one very considerate man.

The Delta Chelsea.

This hotel sits across the street from my room. It ruins what would be an incredible view of south downtown Toronto. The shortcut through the lobby is the only real redeeming quality about the place, which I've probably passed through over 500 times. It's also extremely ugly. On top of that, I never saw any full-on sex coming from any of the rooms. How lame is that? Every night I'd look out my window to see if anything was going down, and nothing. I've seen some weird stuff however. I've seen a blowjob in progress, an old guy masturbating naked, two naked people laying on the bed with the lights on, and a whole lot of people changing. So, for all my real friends, do me a favor and go have sex at the Delta. Not so that I can sit and watch, but so that I can finally say after three years "Oh look, people are having sex at the Delta. Neat". On a final note - Blair and I are still trying to figure a way to blow up the entire building, just so he'll have a nice view.

The Alarms.

My condo is allergic to smoke. Even if you burn toast, the smoke alarm goes off. There's been some perticularly hilarious stories surrounding that device. The interesting thing is though, howcome the alarm never went off after we Jamaican Sauna'd the bathroom? I've seen steam come out of that bathroom that would honestly rival Niagara Falls.

The Changes.

Something is always wrong with this place. They're always shutting off the water, closing the gym, renovating the pool, fixing soggy ceilings, tearing up floors, bleaching something, and removing something else. I'm going to guess that there were only a total of 21 days where nothing was wrong with this building. I'm sure the site coordinator loses sleep at night.

The Halls.

The hallways smell like Toys R' Us. I noticed that the day I moved in. Do you know the smell I'm talking about? It's dominantly a fresh plastic smell, mixed with the odd stroller that passes by.

The Water.

It's god-damn delicious. Toronto water in general is the tastiest water ever. I have no idea why either. If the water here could be embody an inanimate object, it would probably be a milk shake, because that's how good it feels to drink. Going from another other towns water to Toronto's is like going from Marble Cheese to Double-Creme Brie. Get the picture?

The Tank.

I was never busted for practically living in my studio. My studio space is a large storage unit located one floor below street level. Two security cameras point directly at the door, and yet I was never hassled for being down there for hours at a time. Sometimes, a few people will accompany me, back in the good old Think Tank days. We'd stay there for hours. I'd have girls down there (intentionally or not). I play albums on full blast. I empty piss jugs and used oils/chemicals into the small drain outside the door. I clean by brushes at the Car Wash bay (and I usually do a pretty good job of spraying all the colors into the drain). Strange things come and go from that room as well, such as: a gigantic mirror, a five-foot wagon wheel, bee bee guns, an oven door, countless canvases, and lots of busted furniture.

24/7

It's too convenient here. It's literally impossible to go hungry in this area. There are four 24-hour establishments within five minutes of each other, and I couldn't even tell you how many times I've visited them at 5 a.m. There's a Panago next to my front door, a Subway, and a Falafel house around the corner. The convenience is also one of the major factors in leaving this place: I just don't want it that easy anymore.

Blair.

I love living with Blair, because he thinks I'm a pretty cool guy and really hams me up when I'm in the kitchen. He laughs at all my bad jokes and catches all my movie references. He is easily persuaded by his vices, and I've practiced that persuasion many, many times. His hobby is cleaning, which is good, because my hobbies create a lot of mess. He thinks I look like Sinatra, and once said I'm like the Dos Equis guy. No wonder I love Blair.

lights on, I can't sleep.

I completely forgot about this next piece. I wrote it while drinking beer in our hotel room in Cornerbrook, Newfoundland. I originally intended it to be longer, but the ideas are all there - and there they will stay.

Life is funny like this.

Most of my personal time is spent perusing through the isles of everything I think I believe in. Since being on tour, there have been a lot of waiting periods, particularly before the shows themselves. At these points, I'll usually find myself in only a handful of places.

I spend a lot of time in the bathroom, for instance. There's something about the silence and tranquility of bathrooms that really calms my nerves. I usually stand in front of the stall, read ads on excessive gambling, pants completely zipped up, until some other guy walks in. At that point, we'll exchange maybe two words until I wash my hands and leave. I also love our van. I'll sit in the drivers seat, listen to some music, and play poker on my phone. I roll down the windows, just to catch some breeze and to listen to street chatter.

I also like a nice cigarette sometimes. Now, don't go assuming that I'm Joe Smoke. I'm in no way addicted to the stick; I merely appreciate the calmness that nicotine brings me, and this is nothing new.

The nice thing about smoking is that it gives you an excuse to be outside. Hear me out on this one. When it comes to socializing, I thoroughly believe that at least 90% of any conversation when meeting new people is useless dribble. There's so much bullshit slung amongst people these days, it's scary. So naturally, I'm not standing on a patio just to meet people, because I can meet people any time I want. Anyone can. All you have to do is use your vocal chords, even badly. I'm there to catch some fresh air and maybe a puff. If somebody wants to talk, that's fine. I'll talk. Otherwise, I'm not going to seek out individuals because they have cooler clothes than me.

Lastly, I'll walk. Particularly in foreign places, I find myself wandering the streets for the majority of my stay. Every dark alley is explored, and even the odd fence is jumped. I think the idea of getting into trouble excites me, only because I'm curious to see how I'd get out of the situations I put myself into. Words like "trespassing" and "restricted" spark my curiosity, so I'll usually challenge them. I've also taken sincere pleasure in watching others partake in something as simple as walking. Human beings are far too interesting to assume you have them figured out. Just watch.

pink cloud tracing paper

Sometimes, life just isn't fair.

Before summer began, I spent over two months working on the same painting. It barely budged. I would constantly work, re-work, and re-adjust on the same canvas - which is a terrible ordeal for the same piece of fabric when working with oil. I could never settle on a color scheme, nor an image itself. This is the type of thing that misdirects my ambition the most.

However, freakishly, today I nearly finished two in two hours.

Where is the justice?

I only have one real explanation for such ordeals:

Normally, I'll enter the studio with an idea in mind. Seeing as I predominantly work in landscape, I'll have an idea for color schemes, cloud shapes, and terrain. Some days, like today, are just considered "Hail Mary's". That's when you take everything you thought of before hand and just throw it out the window.

I had a very shape-shifting talk with MB one day, about a year ago. I was yammering about my approach to painting and how, if I don't know something, I do my research. If I'm ignorant to a fact, it would usually induce a big coffee, a big walk, and a big read. I'd never leave anything to chance. I would examine every approach (even chemically, at times), study color wheels and different brush strokes before I even thought of touching oil again.

I'd heard everything she was saying before, but really did need to hear it again.

There are times, artistically, when you really need to let things take their course. This afternoon, for instance, my nose never left the surface of the canvas. I threw every tendency to reevaluate the piece out the window, and let imagination take it's course. Colors shifted seamlessly. Blending happened naturally. I should have prefaced this article by saying that landscape artwork is vastly subjective. I once asked my friend Scott (way back) how to paint proper clouds, to which he answered "there is no real way to do it". I took that advice very literally, and decided to base an entire series of work based off that statement.


I am currently working on Absolute Nothings . This series will be in the works for the next few months, and will combine ideas from past works, with a slight twist. I'll keep you all posted on the progression, which may be a long time coming considering there is mathematical research involved.

ps. Flash portfolio website is in the works.

not even a twizzler/oh baby it's tight i tell ya it's tight

A while back during tour, I was going to write a post on the delicate procedure of packing a van full of equipment. There is seriously a fine art to the entire ordeal. The MuteMath boys explain it best.

Those guys are big enough to have a real trailer. My band, on the other hand, gladly tour in a minivan. When I was a kid I did a lot of grocery shopping with my dad. One of my favorite parts (aside from using Loeb's Cookie Club membership) was putting all the items on to the conveyor belt at checkout. I was so good at finding places to put items, and still am to this day. I could probably fit an entire grocery cart on one reel of belt. It was all about shapes.

Same thing goes for trailers. Everything just seems to find it's place over time. And the longer you tour, the easier it is to fit everything. We actually had more space in the van than when we started the tour, despite collecting things along the way.

However much credit I lend myself as a packer, I have to hand it to Darcy. On top of being freakishly strong (due to either leverage or his Grandfather, Gumby), that guy can pack.

new years

For some reason, when making these images, only one person came to mind who would truly appreciate this program. Tiffany Mok, if you're reading, I think I found our new weekend activity. Thanks for the site Ro-Ro.

Holy Christ, I look like my dad in the pic above. For those of you who've had the pleasure of knowing my dad: let's laugh together.

fuck chinatown, i'm going italian

"Man, I know exactly how it's going to happen. Andy's going to wait until the last minute, and then out of nowhere he'll find some awesome place. That's how it's going to happen."

That's exactly how it did happen.


About an hour ago, I agreed to live in a bachelor at the intersection of College and Markham! Without fail, I waited until the last week of August to start looking. I was pretty taken with the space as soon as I stepped in for the tour. Big kitchen with nice appliances, great big bedroom, lots of closet space, and a decent bathroom. It's located in the basement of a house owned by a fairly young family. Luckily, my charm payed off and the owners really liked me, so they asked if I wanted in. I happily agreed.

Sure, a little pricey, but it'll work. I think I'm most excited to live by myself. I think I've fantasized about the idea steadily for over a year. I'll probably soon liberate my moms piano from her place so I can relax and work on some stuff I've had in my head for a while. Dinner parties will be planned on occasion, as I am sandwiched between two of the finest ethnic hubs in Toronto. On top of that, I even have room for all my stuff - even my projector. I can't wait.

I'm also planning on painting it a different color, which means I'm looking at you, kiddo.

Blair and I have decided to squeeze the last bit of summer by going to New York for the weekend until Monday. I hope to find another Miles David t-shirt gem.

yogurt

Come September, I think I'll start doing some yoga.

I sat down the other day and really micro-managed my mental health and realized:

Although on the surface I consistently appear calm, my soul races with stress on the inside.

I think this has been the case for quite some time. It has always (ever since I can remember) been my style to just shrug things off and let them resolve itself in my head, mainly when I sleep. My family has always known this, and I am occasionally called "a fart in a windstorm", mostly because I just drift through life seamlessly without a care in the world.

Until recently, I realized differently.
There is a small sign in the gym, here in my condo. It states:

Stress can be related to 90% of all illness.

True or not, it scared the shit out of me.

Maybe I've lived so strongly by my carefree lifestyle for so long, I've neglected the possibility of having any stress in my life at all. Now that I do, I have no idea what to do with it. I usually play my music loud enough in my headphones to drown out any concrete thoughts that may come floating in. My mom wants me to see a therapist because, after all, my personal life took a huge beating these past two years. I've never been too keen on the whole idea, probably because I'm old school and think therapy is an expensive way of dealing with your problems. After all this I can only rationalize one thought:

Isn't life fucking sweet, folks?

Just when you thought you were as cool as can be, life switches the picture and smacks you on the head. Just when you thought life was all figured out, your mind throws a stick in the spokes and tells you to handle it. I'm fine with that, because the path to self-discovery is like finally learning how to factor or long-divide numbers in Grade 11 math. When you realize something is wrong, what else is there to do than to tackle that motherfucker and get to the bottom of it? You can ignore it all you like. Shit, I've done it for most of my life.

I'm pretty sure there is a literal mass of neglected stress, stories, memories, and images stored somewhere in my body. It has to have created mass by now. I'm assuming it's either in my brain, my stomach, my heart, or my balls. Wherever it may be, it's time for a reduction.

So maybe some yoga will do.

my heart sweats

The results are in:

My Heart Is Okay

...to a certain extent.


For instance, my standing heart rate is (and I guessed it right on the money) 90.

Yours is probably around 70.

On top of that, the night I had the monitor on, we performed under the highest temperatures ever felt by Hue on stage. Apparently around the time of our set, my heart rate hit 194 bpm.

That's more than three times a second, got that?

So the plan is business as usual: Less beer, less salt, less caffeine.
I've been following that lifestyle for the past few months, along with some extended exercise.

I think I'm going to go celebrate by drinking a pint of Guinness at Molly's, while enjoying some free wireless internet - looking for a place to live.

everything is broken

Well friends, here we are again.

I trust you've all been soaking up your summer to it's full extent.

I've personally been squeezing the living shit out of my summer. I swam in a Great Lake yesterday and slept in a tent. We can complain about the heat and sweat all day, but when it comes down to it, we all know we'll be complaining about the cold in six months.

I usually like to keep this blog away from my personal life, but for now I'm going to dictate the next week of my life for historical purposes. So that one day, when I have a cushy life, I'll look back on the good ol' days and smile for a minute. I truly believe that no matter how feverish my life currently is, I'll reminisce about how much fun it really was.

In the next week I have to:

Find a Place To Live For September
Course Selection
Rehearsals
Convince Rogers To Sell Me a New Phone
Work Four Days In a Row
Install a New Painting Exhibition, & Remove An Old One
Figure Out How I'm Going To Do All Of The Above

Piece of cake? Easy as pie? Sure, why not.

In related phone problems, the final sentence was delivered the other night.

The screen on my phone is completely ruined. I'm sure the damage somehow correlated nicely with the cut on my arm pictured below. The funny thing is, I can hear when someone texts me, but can't read who it came from. So I've just been calling everyone, which has been kind of nice.

On top of that, I stepped on my ipod headphones. I'm not upset about this, because those buds are so terrible in terms of sound quality.