The Unofficial Escapescapes Manifesto

One night last year I was walking down Queen Street here in Toronto. It was about 1 a.m. and I was alone. Although it wasn't the weekend, the summer air had the city in full party behavior. As I approached a well-known Toronto bar, I noticed someone being thrown out the front door by security guards. As it turned out, I not only knew who this person was, but also went to high school with him. I won't mention his name because it is not important to the story.
As he laid on the sidewalk looking like a pile of dirty laundry, I walked up to him to see if he was okay. He looked up at me in his brutally intoxicated state and, without even saying hello, says
"Hey man, are you still doing those large prairie landscape paintings?"
"Yes" I said, and continued on my way.
I haven't spoken to him since.

To be completely honest, I have no idea why I make these paintings. To take it a step further, I am almost comfortable saying that I don't even like looking at other landscape paintings, even my own sometimes.


My very first landscape that I can recall painting was when I was 18 and in high school. At that point I had no real direction in my artwork and experimented with still life, abstract, color fields, watercolor and photorealism. In fact, my first landscape piece was actually a seascape done with acrylic (which I later sold to a teacher who hilariously claimed it was the finest piece she'd ever seen come out of the paint department). It didn't stop there. From then on, all I could think of was landscapes. My focus was channeled into not only the landscape genre, but a very specific, almost minimalist approach to rendering each image.

This shift will be approaching its ten year anniversary very soon. Dozens of canvases and numerous showings later, I'm still producing work in the same style as I did all those years ago. The thought of whether or not I've progressed has never crossed my mind. Yet now that I think of it, I suppose that the only progress I've made is in my technique and knowledge of the materials I use. The work itself remains on a constant thread of ideologies and subject matter. Yet what is the work?

These paintings are large: I don't operate well in small spaces because I am not a small person. I like the idea that the canvas size should be an extension of the dimensions of your body, and that your arms, hands, and eyes should have room to roam freely within that space. They are landscapes, yes. There is always a distinct horizon line, one that I can't help but keep perfectly straight. The colors and moods created are fictional, and the palettes I've used have ranged from the natural blue skies to alien tones such as greens, purples, and yellows.

Although they would readily be classified as landscapes, I almost consider them to be more of cloud portrait paintings, which is where I believe the main focus to be in most of the pieces.

As I mentioned in the story at the beginning, some people believe these paintings to be grounded in the prairie landscape. Although I can understand that they give this impression through their flatness, I would have to disagree on some level. When I arrange these works, I am usually more drawn to marsh-like landscapes than farmed land. I find that the presence of water within a landscape provides endless possibilities for reflections, compositions and dynamism. That's not to say that I don't draw inspiration from the prairies: let's not forget that I drove there with specific intent on studying them years ago.

So why do I make them? I'm still not exactly sure. I think it's because they just make so much sense to me. Also, I think the fact that I still make plenty of mistakes when I paint, and will often paint over work in progress or older work (my most recent painting has four others underneath it), keeps me wanting to continue and practice more and more. The title "Escapescapes" comes from this yearning to leave the urban life for nature, so they have that sense of escapism. Having said that, I don't use reference material for most of these works, and that they imaginative love letters to the outside world. They are generally beautified glorifications of landscapes: the colors used are by and large sweet and warm tones - speaking to the hopeful notion that the grass is greener on the other side.
I should also mention that the majority of my work was done within a room with no windows, no power, and no ventilation, so you can see why the idea of escaping to somewhere natural was a necessary idea.


With that in mind, I would be the first to tell you that these works are inherently selfish. I love that people have been moved by these paintings, but it is very personal work and I do it mainly out of self gratification. This is why I've usually had trouble with the idea of doing commissioned work from photographs.

For now, I will continue to produce these works for an upcoming solo show this summer. I have no desire to stop producing these works, and am fortunate to have new spaces to paint and hang work continuously.


 

heading to the village pt. 2

Well, it's Sunday, and that means it's time for another trip to the clothing donation bin.
Here's what else is hitting the racks today.

1. Black H&M jeans. I wore them almost every time I worked or played a show. And it shows. Blown-out crotch for days and faded beyond belief. Peace out.

2. Outrageous blue plaid shorts. I pulled them from the "Goofy Golf Shit" pile I have in my house. Did I ever wear them?

3. From the same pile, a blue cotton golf shirt from the London Hunt Club. Within my lifetime, they wouldn't allow black people to play there. Fuck them. I'd rather burn it.

4. Khakis. A truly full-circle thrift store moment.

5. A white t-shirt with headphones on it. Maybe three people will understand this when they read it.

6. Black pants with most of the buttons blown-out. If I were to go commando wearing these things my dick would swing all over the place.

7. Miscellaneous green t-shirt. Get out of my life.

8. Brown corduroy skate shorts that I bought off the internet for my 18th birthday. They're done.

9. Black t-shirt, because I have more of them than any other item of clothing.

10. White dress shirt with the flimsiest collar ever. It looks like sad dog ears.

11. Timber Creek flex khakis. No reason really.

12. Green Vivanno t-shirt. Too many memories of spoiled U of Toronto students with high demands.

That's all the room I have for now. I think I have room for one more trip. Until next time.

heading to the village

Today I ran out of hangers. I thought it was probably time I make room by donating some clothes that I never wear and have no use for. Here's the list of shirts I've decided to give away, in no particular order, that will fill my bag until the next stop.

1. The brown/white striped dress shirt with the brown paint stain on it.

2. TSA Brand black hoodie with no sleeves that probably cost me over $100 but does not belong on my body past grade 10.

3.Blue collared sweater that was left at my old Starbucks that I'm pretty sure is for girls.

4. New York t-shirt that I wore almost the entire Hue east coast tour. It's just not in good shape anymore. And it smells weird.

5. Absolutely asinine Marine dress shirt with the gold embossed boat on the back. I bought it as a joke and never wore it once.

6. Striped sweater that looks like it belongs to Ernie. Have been contemplating its demise for years.

7. Cream plaid shirt. It's actually pretty nice. Looks like a cottage vacation. Too small though.


8. Ribbed grey sweater I bought in grade 8. It looks amazing still but I'm not in 98 degrees.

9. Light blue dress shirt that was bought for me as a gift but it has these bands of shiny material woven throughout it. Not down with that.

10. A Penguin wool sweater from back when Penguin clothes weren't cool and the symbol was simpler and smaller. Shrunken beyond the point of no return.

11. Brown sweater vest that goes with nothing.

12. Brown dress shirt from when the Gap was obsessed with stretchy clothes. It's part Lycra, and Laura once told me it's like hugging a diaper.

13. Sand colored Stussy button up I bought in France in grade 6. Didn't fit me then, doesn't fit me now.

14.A brown shirt that should only be worn by people living in the NWT.

15. One of the very first Skate4Cancer shirts ever made. It has an owl on it. Should belong in a museum. It used to be white but I would have no problem calling it piss-yellow now.

16. A huge black t-shirt I got from playing a show at an iPhone app launch party. Outside of letting my girlfriend wear it to bed, I have no use for it.

That's all the space I have in my bag. Until next time.

The Find

Sometimes I just don't believe in things. More specific, I believe things will never happen. One of the great personal attributes I've held high over the years is my ability to practice reason, and very well. I'm not an idealist - I'm a realist. I know when things are so fantastical that even romanticizing certain ideas is a waste of my time. Don't get me wrong: I dream as much as the next person, but I know when to draw the line between "sure, that's possible" and "sure, that's a nice fantasy". Although this is the line in which my mind usually draws in the sand, sometimes I just cling to realities long enough for them to actually come true.

On the evening of December 21st, 2008, I was given a Christmas bonus at the establishment I worked at for the amount of one hundred dollars. At this point in my life I was really into amassing a musical instrument arsenal, which continues steadily to this day. I wanted everything that challenged everything capable of sonic altercations (mainly directed towards electric guitar playing). At the time I was obsessed with something called an Ebow, which is an abbreviation of "electronic bow", "electric bow" or "energy bow". This device, about half the size of a can of tuna (wow, what a shit example), is a hand-held wireless device that creates electromagnetic fields of energy that, once placed over a guitar string, cause it to vibrate, simulating the sound of a stringed instrument. Trust me when I say I was obsessed. The bonus went to this, plus a bit extra. I ran home to test it out (on an acoustic guitar, strangely enough) and it was everything I'd dreamed of.

Here is where this story begins to take shape. My parents' marriage was in it's final state of disrepair around this time. This being the case, the summer I moved home from Toronto would be my last in that house, as we were about to sell the house that following fall season. I'm not sure how it happened, but I must have put the Ebow in a drawer and forgot about it towards the end of the summer, because it would be the last time I ever saw it.

I can't explain the breakneck speed needed to move out of that house. Towards the end of the move, we'd given ourselves such little time to pack that everything, and I mean everything, was rammed at full speed into boxes, wrapping paper, bins, jars, bags etc. (productive procrastination: a genetic guarentee to most Schmidt family members). The worst part is that everything was shoved somewhere, meaning that it could be in one of four houses, in one of three cities, in one of 200 boxes. Needle-in-a-hay-stack-type-shit.

There were only a few items I've missed over the years: a vintage Kentucky Derby t-shirt, some MiniDV tapes, some photographs, drawings, and that Ebow. My friend Danny knows this way too well. Wherever I'd go; whether back home, my cottage, any family members house - I'd always say, half-jokingly "Oh, and while I'm there I'll check for that Ebow". I'm not kidding when I say I'd say this almost every time, for several years. It would usually be followed by a very mutual sigh between us, and the realization that this thing would never be found.

I've already mention that I'm a realist, which doesn't rule out everything. One of my favorite lines that I've used over the years, which frustratingly makes sense to many, is "I didn't lose it. I just haven't found it yet". Losing something is accepting that you've lost it. When you know something is within your grasp, there is no reason to accept defeat. That's like saying just because you got sunburned you're going to look like a fucking lobster for the rest of your life. It's not like it doesn't exist anymore (philosophy majors, fuck off on that one). So with this in mind, I never stopped looking for it. Everywhere I thought it could possibly be, I looked through in a process of elimination. Imagine Indiana Jones trying to find the Arc of the Covenant in that warehouse. Kind of like that.

I came home yesterday to my moms house, mainly to work on school-related projects in the privacy of my own thoughts and not have to worry about anything related to being in Toronto. As usual, I grabbed about six beers and a few cassettes and descended into the basement to untangle the mess of cardboard, clothes, lego, books and Christmas decorations. Things were going as planned: I pulled a few photos from my past, a few books, some paint brushes, a couple slides, reels of Super 8 film and select skateboarding magazines. Then, there it was.

Laundry Room Drawers was the name of the box. I can understand why I've never touched this box. For starters, it was under some box called Moms Books, which is a fucking landfill of 40-year-old woman literature. Kind of like if Oprah's book club needed an archivist. After sorting through this and downing an entire can of Guiness, I undertook the triple-decker sandwich of needles, thread and newsprint that was the next box.

Scraping towards the bottom, I found it. The object I'd been looking for all these years was staring me right in the face. It had to be the equivalent to seeing an old lover for the first time in years, and you're both single, and outrageously horny. The unflattering grey sheen covering this relatively insignificant piece of my history was staring me in the face, and everything I believe in was rekindled. The look on my face was priceless. I know this because I took a picture of myself holding the Ebow and sent it to Danny. He thought it was a stapler.

I didn't write this for you, the reader. I wrote it so I'd remember this moment. However, you can take this story with you as a reminder that hope and belief, no matter how unattainable or distant, is very possible. I should know - I just did it.

If this overly-positive article could visually personify itself, it would look like Bambi eating an ice cream cone while Thumper sings Hallelujah.

dode

I found this photo a few weeks back while sorting through my moms photo collection. Others would call it a heap, but I'll call it a collection. The photo is of my grandmother in her youth with a friend (the one in white). I estimated the photo was taken sometime in the mid-1950's

When I found it there was considerable damage. I included the original just to show how much work had to be done. That, and I just have a thing for photo restoration. There's something annoyingly challenging but rewarding about it. Anyway I thought it was a classy photo and thought I'd share.

Also, after applying a spray effect to her face in Photoshop, I noticed something eerie:

Ummmm, what the....? Is that me? Think about it.

Happy New Year from the Schmidt Kids

Watch the magic as I, once again, trick my sister into thinking we're taking a photo - in video mode. I've watched it almost 100 times I think.
May the new year bring happiness and success to you all.
Cheers!

"i've had enough of you man, i'm 'bout to fuck up your plan"

Just when you thought everything was cool, Guru dies.

One of the best rap MC's of all time, and probably my absolute favorite, has passed away from a long time battle with cancer. His flow was so fuckin' cool and never needed to raise his voice above the smooth cadence heard in his delivery.

I used to skateboard in my garage to Gangstarr records for hours during my teenage years, with Above The Clouds usually playing on repeat on some of my very first burned cd's. So many memories attached to this group.

dotting the h's, crossing the b's and a lot of purple and gold tape

I was very recently (the pic was taken in bed after the last phone call made, where I still remain) granted full access to both of my childhood schools.

For those of you who may have been following this progression, for my term final project I am ambitiously photographing every classroom I've ever had from kindergarten to university. I'll post my statement some day, but it really boils down to how the roots of our knowledge (socially and academically) can be quantified within the walls of our learning institutions.

ps I can recite that sentence in under two seconds, as I've been reciting it verbally and by email for weeks.

The idea wasn't the hard part of the project, nor will the actual photographing of the rooms themselves. It's the red tape. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming.

In the case of Mountsfield Public School ( my home from grades JK-8), the case is being taken all the way from the permission of the entire staff, to the Thames Valley District School Board. I had to write a detailed form of my intentions, justifying that no children or staff are to be involved. Additionally, they made me assure them that even small images of students that may be seen in the room must be taken down as well. Now that's some tape forya.

With Beal, the current principal I talked to was rather chipper with my idea and granted me full access to the entire school pretty much as soon as I voiced my idea. Aparently Beal has a slightly higher appreciation for conceptual art than the protection of it's students - which I'm all for. That's always been the case there. On top of that, I get to walk around with Mr. Haney, who was the head of the Art department even when I was there.

Principles are very funny to talk to. As usual, when I want something over the phone from somebody who doesn't know me from Sam Hell, I try to start the conversation off with a positive bang by putting an upper inflection on my "Hi! How are you today?" People are usually impressed by this, because most phone calls are bullshit anyway. Yet you see, with the case of principles, they pretty much answer to nobody. Remember when they'd walk into your classroom when you were a kid with those cool suits, 'staches, and fat guts (generalizing huge here)? They were like kings walking amongst ants, and you knew it too. So when a civilian number such as my own reaches their phone line, my greeting is shot down quite quickly with a "good", then deafening silence.

Try it sometime. Try to get something from an old principle and see how far you get before the ice melts to water. Since we both know you won't and have no reason to, you can probable imagine through my experience what it's like. Both shoots are slated for next Tuesday, then it's CARPal-tunnel-photoshopCS4-hands for 24 afterwards.

billy jack

Sure, it's Saturday morning, and I have a lot to talk about.
But why talk when I can just watch Billy Jack clips online all day?
Here's a taste of my childhood. They sure don't make 'em like they used to.

americanos with cinnamon

Well friends, it appears we're back at it.

There's been serious talks about recording the next Hue record. We've applied for the government grants, talked to past produced Mikey T, scoped out studio locations, and have begun honing in on certain songs and possible other considerations for the album. The more interesting part of all this is we're possibly recording in March. That's not very far away.

The process of writing and recording is a very fun and tricky thing. Personally, when I sit down at the drum kit to write parts for new songs, I do it somewhat vaguely. Like in painting, I'll rough in an idea to expand from. Timing signatures, fills, splits, cymbal work, absences, different sticks and percussion etc etc. From there, after about a dozen or so run-through's, I should have a pretty good idea of what I'm doing. However, when writing an album, everything counts and you have to be prepared to play those same parts for the rest of your life. I've never actually regretted a single drum line that I've written, but some are just more strenuous than others (like Until Then, which is around 7 minutes of the same thing).

However, it's all quite exciting. I love the process. I pride myself on being fairly expedient in the studio; we're aiming to record all of my drum parts for this record in one day, maybe two. Like the recording process of the last record, I'll have an americano in my hands at all times. I can't drink one of those things without feeling the tight hug of studio headphones wrapped around my ears, and the smell of sound-proofed foam covering the walls.

The writing process has also been quite refreshing this time around. Seeing as we've added two new members to the lineup, the variety of sounds, instruments, and harmonies has opened up gigantic sonic possibilites. The rehearsals have been sounding as good as listening to a record. Writing with five people is a lot of fun, especially since it's less of a stage circus because there is little instrument change-overs when playing live.

Another thing to take into account when writing a record is the songs themselves: not so much the songs on the record, but the ones that don't make it. It's honestly like losing old friends. We have songs we've been playing for literally years that I know won't make this record. Dozens of them. Because as you start to form a record you realize thematically and sonically what it is and where it's going. Some, actually, most songs don't make records because they are either too "this" or too "that". Some rock a little too much, sound like somebody else, or are so over the deep end that it doesn't even sound like it was written by the same band.

Although we'll be cutting songs like chops of meat, the finished product is going to be something very special I think. I want to say it's very different from the last record, which it is, but not too far away. Don't expect to hear any rap or reggae on this record. I will say that we're far less timid this time around, timid in terms of exploration and limitations of the songs themselves. There's grooves, holes, length and chances taken in almost every track. Given that we've had a huge amount of time around to write and demo songs, the work has been allowed to group and expand organically amongst the group, unlike the last record, where the small amount of time to write and record reacted to some material like a miniature dinosaur that expanded in warm water.

Either way, I'll continue to post about any advancements over the next couple months, amongst other things.

basement edition

Urlesque just released their list of the 100 Most Iconic Internet Videos. Seeing as I'm a Youtube and viral video crackhead, I just spent the last two hours watching about 80 of them. A lot of them I've seen hundreds of times, and there were a few that were pretty hilarious/amazing/amusing as well. Although I believe there are some videos either missing or not worth including, it's definitely worth checking out I'd say.

In other video news, the latest (and I do emphasize late - the last Holiday episode was filmed over a year ago) edition of Talkin' ScHmIdT has been released. Although we had a tonne of fun filming and writing the segments over one night, I unfortunately had to shave off four minutes of footage because Youtube doesn't allow videos over 10 minutes to be uploaded. That was depressing. Some segments were removed entirely, including a gag reel that would have probably been the funniest part of the entire video. It was comparable to telling a songwriter to take out an entire verse of a song - it just hurt.

It flowed quite well I think. I'm not sure if it was the liquor or the experience, but we both have improved our delivery when working with such tirades. Even the editing and content is a lot cleaner from past episodes. Some of the segements could have been elaborated on a bit more, but like I said, it's ten minutes. One, in perticular, was my segment about ex-girlfriend/new boyfriend etiquiette - which I'll most likely elaborate on this here blog, because it's worth delving into.

Any agreements/disagreements on any of the issues? I'd love to hear some feedback, keeping in mind that everything was said in good fun.

The fact of the matter is, if every tirade Mike and I have gone on over the years was recorded, there would be a hell of a lot of 10 minute clips floating around.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

the simpson house

Who knew there'd be one more?

The incredibly lovely lady that is Jess graced us with her presence for a few short days this week at 1806. Jess, you are welcome back anytime, as you know more about the Food Network than any of my friends, aside from being flat-out hilarious.

everyone sit down. it's sharing time.

Let me fill you in on a little story of mine.

Flat out, when I was a kid I was fascinated with penises (or the correct multiple penis term: penae), particularly my own. I found them so interesting. My sister didn't have one, but my brother and dad did. Old guys had weird ones, and so did dogs. They shrank and grew throughout the day, mostly whether or not it was bath time. I would constantly crack jokes about how I had the biggest dick in the family. I would present this theory using any lock on a door, and it went a little something like this:

I would turn it out from the door a little and say
"Miiiiike......huhuhuhu"
then a little more and say,
"Daaaaaaad.....huhuhu"
and then crank the thing full out and scream
"and meeeeeeee! hahahahahah"

My mom still thinks that's funny shit, and so do I. I was a special kid.

Yet what I am most famous for is called "The Dance of the Dinkies"

The Dance of the Dinkies was more like my "Fuck whatever I'm doing right now, it's time to make grandma laugh" ritual. All it really consisted of was me stripping butt-naked, run into a room, scream "DANCE OF THE DINKIES!!!", and proceed to swing my dick around and have a full-body dance freak-out. Everyone thought it was hilarious, but I'd usually get chased around by my mom with a wooden spoon because it wasn't the most polite thing to do when we had company over.

It mostly looked like this, except totally naked and with much more enthusiasm, if you can imagine.

I think that's enough sharing for today. Dismissed.