I am a business

So I decided to get my taxes done yesterday. Nearing the end of the session at H&R Block (which was terribly located on the fifth floor of The Bay near the kids clothing section, and they only told me the address of the building), I was asked if I had any other source of income. I bit the bullet and reluctantly said that I was an artist (and not because of tax evasion purposes). After a bunch of questions and fine print reading, I qualified to be a small business owner!

In reality it's probably not all that cool, but this will definitely be beneficial for me seeing as I can claim all of my material expenses on my income tax returns. And that is a lot of money. I roughly estimated that over one thousand was spent within the last eight months. But, you have to give to get I guess.

I'm really looking forward to this. I've always enjoyed personal banking, not business. I still go to my branch to pay my bills and make transactions. In fact, I've never even attempted online banking before. There's something about the tangible exchange of money that just feels more sound in my mind, and it gets me out of the house. Does this mean I have to starting wearing my suits? Sweet! I fucking love wearing suits.

if this post is riddled with spelling mistakes, please cut me some slack. it was done one-handed

RealD

Things I will do with my Saturday:

a) For starters, I don't smoke weed very often, but some occasions just call for it. For example, in about 20 minutes, we are going to get blunted so badly and then go see Monsters vs. Aliens in IMAX 3D. Honestly, if you've never tried this it's the best thing ever. The feeling is worth way more than the $15. If I knew these movies looked that amazing under the influence of mary-jane I'd probably pay something around $45. So yeah, that's that.

b) From there I'll probably come home and throw down an amazing meal after racking up the biggest bill ever at Metro yesterday. This was probably due to the fact that I was using a shopping cart and I just had the urge to fill that thing. That cart was also a first in three years.

c) Later tonight I'll probably juggle between a party at Cheese's place and a party at this cute Jewish girls house who I met last week. Thankfully, they live across the street from each other. How sweet is that? Good old Baldwin Village.

similarryties

Today I realized that the apples truly don't fall far from the trees. 

My dad and I make this pilgrimage to Oakville every few months to pick up oversized canvas from the gigantic DeSerres outlet store. I'm pretty sure the prices are the same as the one here downtown, but it's kind of fun to make the journey and we get a chance to catch up. 

So today we made that same trip. It went pretty much exactly the same as it usually does: we drove through shit weather, talked about bad drivers/the economy/work/family/the weather/sports (I pretend and nod a lot at that), we drank tim hortons, got off at the wrong exits and laughed at each others stank farts. It was business as usual. 

Once we got back to my studio, we cracked down on some manly shit. To be more specific, we drilled holes in the walls and used ladders. At around this point, I quickly became aware of how similar my dad and I really are. Once my dad uttered "Hey And, you got anything I can piss into?", I laughed and handed him my usual piss bucket and left him to do his business. 

The funny thing about that instance is that every time I've ever mentioned to someone that I have a piss bucket, they cringe and make a stupid face. My dad? We both understand that taking a piss is simply taking a piss, and there's nothing around it. Who cares that there's a jug of warm piss in the room? I just dump it into the drain outside my door. Be a man and get dirty for once you over-sanitized, kleenex-havin' baby! 

The next similarity came when he noticed my wagon wheel. Yes, I have a single authentic wagon wheel downstairs which I swiped from a leather ranch that had gone out of business. It was a hasslehoff to carry home, but I knew I'd use it for something eventually. He replied,

" Aw, sweet wagon wheel! You could turn that into a coffee table!", and that was my exact intention on having it. Because, the fact is, my dad would have grabbed that wheel off the street even faster than I did. We just both have an eye for useful junk. 

We continued to drill more holes (which will be used for hanging wet canvas instead of leaning them against the wall), crack jokes, and jam out to The Temptations. I explained the motion sensor problems I have and he told me of a friend who could remedy that problem. Excuse me? Where has this person been for the past three years while I've been doing stupid fucking jumping jacks all afternoon to keep the lights on? Needless to say, this person is coming over one day to hook me up, figuratively speaking. 

And to top off this story, he gave me a brand new step ladder! I am officially a man now, because I have my own ladder. All I need now is a truck, some more plaid, a baby, and over $50 in Canadian Tire money and I'm in the club. 

stan's the man

I just simply love these shoes.

In my opinion, the classic Adidas Stan Smith II's are some of the finest shoes ever created. They're sleek, comfortable, stylin, and more importantly, durable. I've dragged these shoes (literally) through the mud, across nearly every terrain imaginable. They've been with me through it all: everyday walking, skateboarding,mountain trails, bars, running, dance parties, on the beach, driving, playing on stage, climbing the cn tower, puddles, and the paint studio. They've seen everything from my own crowning achievements to heartbreak. From summer afternoons to shitty winter mornings.

One thing I've always done with these shoes is paint them. I believe that maintaining the color of these shoes is some sort of a duty that I must uphold, as an owner. So, while sacrificing looking like a douche bag, I paint them. I usually stick with plain gesso paint. Although water-based, I find this paint to be more durable than your standard acrylics. I dabbled for a while with the idea of oil paint, but I simply never had the time to let them dry, as well as the price of the paint itself. You can usually tell how old the pair of shoes are by seeing how thick the paint is getting on the surface, almost as if you were taking a cross-section of a tree and counting the rings to see how old they were.

Then, when the day comes, I'll paint them another color. At this point, the shoe has lost all structural integrity and has fallen towards the shitter. The laces are crusted together with paint, the toe cover lifts open like the hood of a car, and there is virtually no grip whatsoever. At this point in my head I'll say to myself "Fuck this. They look so stupid anyway, I might as well paint them another color." I like to call these ones Limited Edition, when in reality, they are just old-dirty-painted-runners. My favorites have to be the blue pair, only because they've been gesso'd so hard that it looks like a desert floor from all the cracking. To be honest, as stupid as they look, I (think) I get more respect for wearing them. I've even heard some people say they love them (drunk girls).

The only considerable downside to loving these shoes is that, for me, they are nearly impossible to find. With fancy new shoe designs hitting the counters every week (no thanks to kids between the ages of 15-27, who love that ugly America's Dance Crew multicolored shit with laces), the older models get pushed further and further back in the orders. Here in Toronto, I've visited every downtown Adidas location, which is an embarrassment in itself, with no luck. In fact, I've been without a fresh pair of Stans for almost six months now, and it's getting annoying. It's not that they're not in stock, it's just that they usually aren't carrying my gargantuan shoe size of 13.5. Also, because of the hours that I work, I usually don't feel like walking to one of these locations every day, so I'll set aside one day a week to go to these stores to ask if any are available. According to their employees, the shoes are always that "other" location. Nay nay.

So, I've finally decided to throw in the towel and shop for them online.

I really don't have a point, or even a clever line to go out on.
All I have is this amazing picture of a bull eating shit by the hand of a flaming matador, which has probably proved more entertaining than the entire purpose of this blog entry.

Bulls are funny like that.