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.

guero

Back in London, once again, for the weekend.

Came down pretty much to hang with family and get some work done for school, because lord knows I can't concentrate in my own home. The unfortunate thing is I forgot my video camera, which is too bad because we're both sitting on a mountain of mini and extended things worth mentioning (I have a lot of really short ones this time around).

Holler at me Londoners if you read this. I'll be around tonight.

i can see claritin now my rash is gone

After four days of incredible partying, dancing (my legs are whooped) and Valentineage, the dust has settled, slightly. I'll be heading back home for a few days later this afternoon, mostly with intention to visit family, friends, and shoot my term project.

This will most likely entail the drainage of my savings, seeing as I'm purchasing a brand new Sigma wide-angle lens for my digital body. But hey, that shit lasts forever, and who doesn't want a wide-angle lens anyway? Hopefully when I'm home I'll shake this cold, which has been perpetual for over a month now. On top of that, last night I experienced my all-time worst allergic reaction. A dark red rash spread over the upper half of my body covering my face, chest, neck, and arms. Seeing as I was scared shitless, I called my dad at 6 a.m. (karaoke, you understand), to which he granted me some sound advice and went to sleep.


The funny thing about this all is that I photographed the whole process, because I thought I was about to die. I showed my dad these photos and he wants to use them as allergic reaction examples when he teaches. Always glad to be of service.


The shitty thing about this is that I have no idea what I was allergic to. I came home after the bar and made my usual feast: oven-toasted pita with pepper, pan fried portobello mushrooms, arugula, hummus, and a big glass of pink lemonade. What the hell was I allergic to? I threw everything out this morning, including the giant pitcher of pink lemonade, which may have been the culprit of it all. Bummer, 'cause I love the pink.

But alas, after taking some Claritin, my face is back to normal. I also now have an epi pen.

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.

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.

just another day living downtown

...and if it's not sirens, it's Jack Layton. 

please! no more meat! (in every sense of the word)

Ahhh, the ever-glorious May 2-4 weekend. This year we had the privileged of staying, cost-free, at a beautiful lakefront summer home in New Baltimore, Michigan (about 20 minutes outside of Detroit).
BK, Mills, and Billy are staying there for the summer, so we thought we'd pay them a visit.

The view from the back porch wasn't that bad either.

The next photo I won't go into too much detail about. For those of you who know this means, let's all share a laugh together.

The best (and worst) thing about America is how they've seemed to bridge the gap between food and convenience. Here, I can be seen drinking a pre-bottled A&W Rootbeer Float. Now, the most unusual thing about it wasn't the taste or the texture, but the ingredients. I wasn't shocked when I noticed that last diddy. Laughing gas anyone?

Tickle a ginger!!
What May 2-4 would be complete without tickling Jordan to the ground (which takes anywhere between 1 and 6 seconds, depending on how much he resists). Jordan, I wish I had your giggle as my ringtone, because it warms my heart.

We watched Family Matters (which is surprisingly still a good show), and it turned out that it was Steve's birthday as well. I cradled his head and wished I was there with him and Carl.

Funny face time. Aparently Josh's monkey face had never been captured on film until now. I consider that a damn shame, because it's fucking hilarious.

One of my personal favorites: The Rubber Mask. It scares pretty girls.

David, I don't know what to call this, but that doesn't mean it's not funny. It reminds me of somebody, mostly Egon from Ghostbusters.

"Oh man, BK is totally drinking from my dick. That's hilarious!"

I'm sure that's what I was thinking at the time of this birthday countdown photo.

Detroit, what.

We met blair right about here, because he's a Backstreet Boy.

I remember agreeing to see a Detroit Tigers game the night before, but I don't know how they managed to pull me out of bed the next morning. I was in hangover central. Although, the best cure for one of this is movement, Tylenol, sunlight, and more booze.
The daquiri stand looked damn tempting when sitting in 26 degree sun in the outfield.

Josh, enjoying that shit, even without the huge collectable fist drink holder.

The employees at the daquiri stand honestly loved their jobs. They made us honkies feel right at home.

Time for another.

Well played, honkies.

That motherfucker (and I can say that because he was hitting on Cougars the whole game) was one part hilarious drunk hick, one part annoying Yank. He didn't say much more than reciting rap lyrics and screaming "I'm on a boat!" during lulls in between plays. At least he gave us some good daquiri insight.

The new Tigers Stadium is beautiful. Everything I think a baseball stadium should be.

8 Mile!

Yeah, we got ourselves some White Castle. It had been about a decade since I'd last eaten here, and thank God for that. I forgot how absolutely horrible this food is. We ended up calling it Grey Castle because of the grey-matter-meat. Fucking terrible excuses for burgers. Under no circumstance should a food joint have a 40-burger combo on its menu. We all had to shit immediately afterwards. I think this venture capped off the meat consumption limit for the trip.

Mills and BK. More like East and DP.

Jordan loving the Five O'Clock Rum. That shit was so damn gross. But hey, it was only $16 for that entire bottle. Where do you draw the line between value and quality? Actually, how about value and dignity.

We opened our own bar after visiting Wal-Mart.

The spinning-head Exorcist owl.

BK and I held dinner down the second night. I made a red wine and worcestershire sauce marinade for the steaks and stuffed the potatoes with garlic, onion, and fresh rosemary. PS - damn you guys for having such beautiful rosemary and basil plants.

Of course, I was getting my feet dirty running through farmers fields to capture some sweet cloudage. Billy warned me that people here have guns and are not afraid to use them. Let's just say I made it quick.

Life's tough.

What the hell was with this thing in Billy's room. The creepiest thing isn't the imitation chest hair, but that fact that it came with the house when they moved in.

I should have known that these two would be gambling the entire trip. I'm sure only twenty minutes after knowing eachother bets were made.

And what May 2-4 weekend would be complete without a passed-out-early-Blair!?

I really don't know what to say about this photo below. Words that come to mind include: confusion, liquor, party, gay, sexy, drunk dad, wow, sweet, what?, nice!, and general laughter. I honestly can't even glance at this photo without busting a gut laughing. I think it's his stance and the fact that nobody else can be seen in the photo, which means it got late and Mrs. Clause decided to put on her sexy low-cut V neck that Santa loves so much. Except Mrs. Clause is played by a drunk Josh sporting three days of beard growth.

Meme, you're wonderful. Thanks for coming and leveling the sausage ratio a bit.

Middle of the night long-exposures during a lightning storm.

Crew.

All in all, this was another weekend for the books. Although it was filled with too much meat (foodly speaking), everyone had an amazing time, and I even got to play Hide and Seek. I speak on the behalf of every guest when I say it was great seeing you guys and thanks for showing us just how fucking crazy America is. Because, three words:

Smokes N' Stuff