transfers, lost men, and other subjects

Admittedly, a subway transfer is a fairly banal object to lose/find, but this particular one at least managed to wind up propped against the stage at the El Mocambo, where roommate Ghalib and I trekked last night to see San Franciscan John Vanderslice play. And were you, oh were you there?

Actually, the first opener was so aurally intolerable that G and I paid the $7 each to get into the upstairs show for an hour and a half, where our pal Matthew was earning himself the hard-act-to-follow designation on the songwriter stage. (Photo to left is of the 'slice, not of Matthew.) The three of us plus Vanderslice's bassist later carried on a charming conversation in the rain outside the Elmo about the last time we defecated in our trousers. Salt of the earth, these people.

The photo below was kindly donated by Paul Q., taken on Hamilton's Garth Street near the escarpment, and I've been wondering for some time about how best to present it. I find it exceedingly terrific. Though the rights to naming are not mine, I call it "This Sand Is Quick, or, Not Waving but Drowning." Or so I would call it, were the rights to naming mine.

somebody put your boots back on

And so begins my effort to outpace the considerable backlog of lost-thing photies. The below was snapped by one Sarita B., my erstwhile housemate and partner in crime since our first year at McMaster U, on Queen Street East in our mutual city. (After responding to her fervent phone message just this evening, I learned that Sarita has recently spotted another errant object, this one wandering about the Eaton Centre: a stalkee from our depraved undergraduate days. If she manages to document him photographically, you can bet you'll be seeing him here.)
















Somehow these boots remind me of the trenchcoats in doorways and blankets over sidewalk grates that I've been seeing but been careful not to photograph, belonging as they do (or so I suspect) to this city's homeless. To me, these look like an anonymous gift.

But now's the time for Smurfs to say good-night, and forget that they ever voluntarily clicked on a Yahoo link entitled "Angelina & Brad mulling Namibian baby name."

don't be alarmed!

A note to the concerned: we seem to have run out of Internet at my apartment. I suspect it will be back in full force once we pay the kind men downstairs, at which time I will post and post some more.

I write from Fergus. A lovely Easter to all.