Dear Japan: Absolutely not.

But if I did this at home I'd be late.

This Japanese poster campaign is asking commuters not to do certain “annoying” things on the subway.

Here’s what I think is annoying on the subway:

Wearing knapsacks at rush hour

Littering

When two friends sit on either side of a stranger and talk over them.

Brushing hair when there’s a person sitting beside you (flake shower, grode)

Standing in the doorway, blithely blocking passengers from exiting. WHAT IS THAT.

Smoking crack into a napkin (I actually saw a guy do that on the TTC, just once. I was really confused about what he was doing until I told a more worldly friend, Hey, I saw a guy light up and inhale off something hidden in his hand, hold the smoke for about 40 seconds, then exhale into a Starbucks napkin, and what he exhaled smelled like sulphur, and my friend said, Uh, that was crack. Huh. Cracky McGuy was about 70 years old, nicely-dressed, not a tooth in his mouth. Summerhill Station. Who knew. Also, to be honest? Not really annoying, and actually quite fascinating.)

CLIPPING FINGERNAILS. UGH UGH UGH UGH UGH.

Here’s what I do NOT find annoying: Applying makeup. Why would that be annoying? A woman applying makeup has her elbows tucked into her ribs as they should be. She’s not flaking body parts onto anyone. She’s not being loud or getting in the way. If anything, she’s being entertaining and educational because I get to watch her make a painting of her own face, and also I get some tips on how to curl my lashes or whatever.

You know, if you curl them twice- once at the base, once halfway up- you don't get that crimpy look? True story. I learned it at Osgoode Station. And that person on the side giving her the stinkeye? That person is OUT OF LINE.

Subway Makeup Wimmin is going to arrive at her destination on time and looking polished. It’s a real boon to the workforce, actually. If anything applying makeup is practically a public service. She should be rewarded, not scorned. I salute you, Subway Makeup Wimmin.

So dear Japan: In response to your subway ad about not putting on makeup in transit: I respectfully reply, NO. I will NOT not put on makeup in transit. And you can’t not make me not do it.

However, Japan, those other things you asked commuters not to do? Totally fine. Especially this nonsense.

STOP THAT. THIS IS NOT THE PLACE FOR THAT. THE BEACH IS (EVIDENTLY) THE PLACE FOR THAT. (ALSO: WHAT IS THAT.)

Via Copyranter, Via BoingBoing.

Trampoline – Oli Lemieux

Here’s gymnast Oli Lemieux KICKING ASS in rehearsals for Cirque du Soleil’s show Dralion. Basically this guy can fly, and I’m so jealous I can barely handle it. But also, when he drops off the highest level of the wall, my hands sweat with terror. I am not cut out for free-fall. Lucky for us, Oli is, and you should watch him, it’s a beautiful thing.

Via Woosk.

Fun fact: I worked for Dralion when they were in Toronto years ago. That’s where I learned to juggle. Oh no, I wasn’t in the show, ha ha ha. I was the assistant shift-leader of the popcorn stand. I got to wear a hairnet and everything! In addition to popcorn, overpriced pop, and cotton candy, we also sold juggling balls, so I had lots of time to practice. Well, after I’d shined up the napkin dispensers and the sweeping was done for the day.

One evening a very handsome mid 40s man with a thick shock of dark hair, sporting huge, black-rimmed nerd glasses (this was long before hipsters existed and nerd glasses became cool), came to my concession station and ordered snacks for his stunning blonde wife and their daughter. They really had presence, this family. After I served them and they walked away, someone told me why: I’d just handed a tray of Cokes to Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger.

Slash Costume

Using my illusion

I was Saul Hudson, better known as Slash, last night for Hallowe’en. That top hat was fabricated at 10:30pm using a Lucky Charms box, some cardboard, and some tinfoil, all duct-taped and hot-glued to a witch’s hat from the dollar store. The cigarette is a rolled-up index card with masking tape on the “filter” to keep it from getting all waterlogged, which worked perfectly.

And that hair. That hair is all me, baby, and I didn’t even need to tease it. The photo doesn’t do it justice, it was sooo big and sooo puffy it was like a cloud from another dimension. All I did was rinse out most of the conditioner I use to keep it from taking over the solar system, and it expanded to the point where this morning I found a bartender caught in it from last night.

And she was all “HI” and I was all “GAH” and I tried to shake her free. And she was like “AWW WHY DO I HAVE TO LEAVE THIS SOFT DOWNY NEST IT IS SO COMFORTABLE WITH ALL ITS UNTAMED POOF IT IS LIKE LYING IN A PILE OF BUNNIES” and I was all “GET OUT OF HERE AND ALSO HOW DID YOU GET IN THERE ANYWAY” and she was all “LAST NIGHT YOU BRUSHED PAST ME AND YOUR HAIR ABSORBED ME AND I WAS SCREAMING AND FLAILING BUT YOUR MARVELLOUS HAIR DAMPENED MY BLOWS AND MUFFLED MY CRIES LIKE SOME KIND OF SPACE AGE INSULATION” and I was all “GO HOME IMMEDIATELY” and she was all “BUT PLEASE SPACEPERSON I AM STILL ENTANGLED” and finally she used a Swiss Army knife to “slash” her way free of the tendrils and she said “HA HA PUN INTENDED” and I lost my temper and went “GET OOOOOUT I AM LAAAAAATE FOR DIM SUUUUUM” So she started to back away but then darted in one more time to pet my hair very gently with just the tips of her fingers, and I made a face like “DON’T MESS WITH ME LADY” and she gasped and skittered away like an adolescent deer through the undergrowth and I went to meet my relatives for some dim sum.

(Dim sum was amazing by the way. Thanks, Uncle Tony!)

Anyway, this is why I use so much conditioner. Leaving my hair untamed was rather like having a possum, three wolverines, and a canoeload of buffalo pelts all wrapped around my head for the evening.

Overall the costume worked out pretty well for something created in such a last-minute hustle. I went to the washroom at one point, and a panicky woman in Edie Sedgwick eyelashes said “SLASH THIS IS THE LADIES’ ROOM” and then I felt like a success. But then, like 10 minutes later, I was striding powerfully up the street to the bank machine, emitting as much early 1990s rock-n-roll machismo as my skinny jeans could muster, and some teenager goes
“HEY IT’S MICHAEL JACKSON”

If you are a brown person and own a top hat of some type- or just ninja skillz for making one out of cardboard, like me & Jimmy here, well then here are two things you can be for hallowe'en. PS. Neither of these things is Michael Jackson.

Moments later my hair reached out and grabbed that guy behind me and dissolved him for his nutrients. He knew it was gonna happen, too. You can see it in his tiny terrified eyes.

In which I debate the merits of having cats

Tonight my female cat, Juno, was being particularly adorable. She snuggled on my lap for half an hour, purring ridiculously loudly. She chased a large red ball all over the apartment like a small leopard. She let me pick her up by the arms and didn’t even growl at me. Mojo was being pretty cool too (he let me demonstrate CPR on him), so I decided to reward my delightful felines with some tuna.

As I was carrying the tuna-plates, I spilled some tuna pieces near the litterbox. Feeling benevolent, I let Juno eat some of it off the floor. I wiped up what was left, and even used a baby wipe to kill the fish smell, but two hours later my cat decides ooh, the litter box is now tuna land and oooh, tuna land is not the right place for her urine, so she squats ON MY BED and pees a flood of horrible cat-juice INTO MY LEATHER BAG and ONTO MY DOWN DUVET.

I immediately rush the sodden bag into the bathtub and fill it up under the bathtub faucet to rinse it out.

Only to discover that the bag contains MY DIGITAL CAMERA.

Full of photos that I hadn’t uploaded yet.

Immediately I shook the water off of the camera and tried to take out the battery so it wouldn’t short out.

But.

I accidentally turned on the wet camera. OF COURSE I DID.

And.

The digital screen went all weird, as it, predictably, shorted the hell out. GAAAH

EFF MY LIFE.

Juno, I am gonna make you into a tiny rug, so help me.

*shakes fist*
TO THE MOON JUNOOOOO

I have never in all the 12 cats I’ve lived with in my life, ever had someone willfully pee on my stuff. WHAT THE EFF. Mojo once had to pee while the litterbox was empty and you know where he peed? IN THE BATHTUB. Because he is CIVILIZED.

WHY THE HELL WOULD SHE PEE IN MY BAAAAAG

Now the duvet is soaking in hot water and bleach and my camera, after being rinsed in rubbing alcohol, is sitting in a jar of rice to dry out and I fed the cats some food on the bed so they remember that BED IS SLEEP LAND NOT PEE LAND FOR PETE’S SAKE and I am very very maaaaad at my caaaaat and Scott just came in and sniffed and said “smells like coffee” and I screamed IT’S PEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Jiffy Dribble Turtle; or how to catch spiders

photo by flickr user alumroot

When I was about eight, my dad came home from playing tennis one day with a baby turtle in his hand (the photo above depicts neither my turtle, nor my dad’s hand). My pops had found the turtle scrabbling around on the path, a few hundred feet from the river near his tennis courts. I named the little guy Jiffy, after the slow-talking turtle on Sesame Street, and Dribble, after the pet turtle in a Judy Blume novel, and Turtle, because he was a turtle.

He was a Midland Painted Turtle, to be precise. His belly (or “ventral carapace”, as I would have proudly told you in grade four) was salmon-pink with a grey splotch in the centre, he had pretty yellow stripes on his face, and pink stripes on his legs and tail, and red patterns around the top and underside edges of his dorsal carapace, or what you regular people might call his shell. His bright yellow eyes shone above a cute little pointy nose and a frowny little mouth. He was about the size of a devilled egg, extremely fast moving, and as cute as a thousand buttons.

He did not have creepy giant claws, as he was just an adorable baby.

Midland painted turtles eat bugs. Jiffy turned up his tiny turtle nostrils at crunchy bugs like ants or rollybugs. He would tolerate bits of earthworm, and he also liked bits of smoked salmon (to my mother’s chagrin), but he went totally apeshit for juicy bugs like flies and spiders. Flies are hard to catch, but my family’s yard was surrounded by a 5-foot high cedar hedge, which was home to millions of spiders, so I became an expert spider hunter.

There were lots of spiderwebs in the hedge, but I was perplexed to see that most of them sat empty all day. I didn’t understand why these perfect webs were seemingly unattended, and experimented by catching small bugs like ants or gnats and putting them on the webs, where they flailed and wriggled. As their movements twanged the strands of the web, a spider would suddenly rush from a nearby branch: turns out some orb weavers hide in “blinds” beside their nest, like tiny deerhunters, playing poker and drinking jack daniel’s and waiting for their prey to just wander by.

So as soon as the web-strands started to move, the spider would emerge, sprint leggily to the web’s centre and use its front legs to palpate the web. It would feel around for the segment that contained the intruder, then rush to the unfortunate bug, paralyze it with a bite, and spin the hapless insect around while jetting silk all over it, until it became a small white cocoon from which Spidey could suck bug-juice at its leisure. Once I had watched this marvel of nature with my eyes poping out of my face a few times, I figured out a plan.

Mine was red, but you can just imagine that part.

First I got a Slurpee fountain straw (a regular drinking straw cut open into a spoon at one end). I patted the spoon end all over another spiderweb so the spoon part was covered with a fine net of web, almost like a little tennis racquet. Then I tickled an unattended web with a single blade of grass, simulating the thrashing of a small bug. When the hopeful spider came into view, wondering who it would be having for dinner, I’d quickly tap its back with my spider-catcher. Spiders have teflon feet (not really) and fancy footwork, so they can run around on the non-sticky parts of their own spiderwebs, looking smug and graceful and never getting stuck. But their backs are just like any other bug’s back, and as such, are not immune to spiderweb glue. So when I tapped it on the back, the spider would stick to the net of webbing on my little plastic spider-catcher, flailing around upside-down, and I would yell YESSSS and hurry it across the yard to tap the straw on the edge of Jiffy’s tank, thus dropping the confused arachnid into two inches of water.

Jiffy would then do this awesome thing, which is hard to describe, but I remember it perfectly and will enthusiastically pantomime it for you some time. He would be busy doing turtle business, like sunning on a rock, or maybe scratching his tiny claws against the corner of the tank. The he’d see me coming and perk up. When the spider hit the water, he would go into stealth mode, pulling his head down under water and approaching the bug with his golden eyes locked on it, and circling around so he was behind it. He would retract his tiny head into his little turtleneck, then suddenly, eyes bulging, snap his head up and out, grabbing a big bite of the spider’s ass. The spider would be squeezed between Jiffy’s sharp little turtle lips, and a few threads of cloudy spider-blood would curl through the water.

Then Jiffy, with a mouth full of half a spider’s ass and the rest of the spider sticking out of his mouth like a large ginger moustache, would retract his head into his turtleneck again and use his little paddle-paws one at a time to swipe at the part of the spider sticking out of his mouth. He’d manage to hook his tiny pointy claws into the rest of the spider, and with one quick movement he’d scrape it right off his face, essentially cutting it in half, so he could swallow the part already in his mouth with a quick glugging jerk of his pea-sized head (aquatic turtles’ heads must be submerged in order for them to swallow). The rest of the spider would float gently away, twitching slightly, as Jiffy gulped and blinked in satisfaction. Then he’d go into immediate stealth mode again, stalking the mangled remains of his prey and eating it in another bite or two. This was THE MOST AMUSING THING I had ever seen as a kid and I never tired of watching him eat. Here is a video of a less-cute turtle eating a goldfish that might kind of give you an idea, but when you watch it, be sure to imagine a smaller, prettier, and less spazzy turtle who is about one squillion times cuter. Also try to mentally tune out the death-metal ambient music in that video, and replace it with an Original Broadway Cast recording of an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, because that’s what I liked to listen to back then.

I had Jiffy for all of Grade 3 and 4, and peering into his little tank in our yard was my favourite activity. If there was ever a spider in the house, I’d trap it in a film canister to feed to my little reptilian buddy the next day. And every day after school, I’d catch 3-5 hedge spiders to feed Jiffy before running inside to watch Night Court with my dad.

AND THAT WAS MY CHILDHOOD.

Thank you for asking.

PS, that is why I loved my old masthead, with its joyfully hungry turtle as photographed by Gwen Turner Juarez.

Sploosh

Today I had lunch with a pal and we went for a walk in a city park. There was a wading pool full of adorable toddlers, and I kicked off my shoes and waded in ankle-deep. Then I wondered what time it was. I clearly remember thinking, “Maybe I shouldn’t take my phone out while I’m standing in ankle deep water.” But I really wanted to know what time it was. Well, turns out my instincts were correct and as soon as I saw the time, I dropped my phone, as predictably as if I’d done it on purpose. It was 3:05, by the way. That time is notable because now that I’ve drowned my phone, I probably won’t know what time it is for several days to come. Long story short, if you need to talk to me for the next couple days, my phone is relaxing in a jar of rice, and you should probably just email me.

Haw Flakes: World Grocery Store, Volume One

Don't eat the silver one.

Haw Flakes are Chinatown’s answer to fruit leather. These coin-shaped bites of goodness were my mom’s most effective form of child-bribery, a much-anticipated treat to keep me quiet in the back seat during long drives home from Chinatown. Meanwhile, my mom sat up front with the twisty face of a salted-plum lover, but that’s another story for another day.

I haw, you haw, she haw, he haw.

Made of Chinese Hawthorn, these nickel-sized, pinky-beige candy discs can be found in just about every Chinese grocery store, for the suspiciously low price of $2 for four packages. Inside each package are 10 little rolls containing 15 flakes each. If you’re still doing the math, you’ll realize that this is a lot of flakes for a low low price. Too good to be true? Yep. True anyway? You betcha.

Each roll of Haw Flakes comes carefully wrapped in a bilingual, eye-poppingly magenta label. The ends of each roll are capped with cheerful little paper circles marked “Sunflower”, ironically accompanied by an image of a lotus flower (look above the word “flakes” in the photo below). The package lists only three ingredients: Haw, Sugar, and the delightfully Engrish “Edibility Dye”.

If these belonged to The Who, they would be a hoohaw.

Haw Flakes have a distinctive scent- like lemony raisins with a hint of brandy- and a sort of crispy-crumbly-chewy texture (a contradictory triad, yes, but herein lies the mystery of this great Chinese confection). They’re not sticky like fruit leather, nor brittle like banana chips, but somewhere in-between. I like to push one flake at a time against my incisors and speed-nibble them- they have a firm, slightly gritty texture that dissolves into sweet, mild-tasting pulp, with a flavour somewhere between dried apples, fig newtons, rose petals, and tea. If you’re familiar with tamarind, they kind of taste like tamarind if it wasn’t so sour. Or they taste kind of like the sweet scent of an unlit cigarette. If you think that sounds gross, you probably haven’t smelled an unlit cigarette lately- unlit cigarette tobbacco actually smells really nice. Also, why aren’t there better words for tastes?

If you ask around, Haw Flake enthusiasts may claim that the candy has vague health benefits- “good for digestion” was one I heard a few times. I can’t speak to that, but I will say that Haw Flakes are a pretty good gateway to the world of Chinese sweets, as their flavour, though distinct, is still somehow familiar, like a combination of other flavours you know and like. Plus, the fiddly little discs are fun to eat, and you can’t beat the price. And that’s that. Haw haw.

World Grocery Store is a new post series I’m gonna do very randomly, describing the stuff I like to buy in independent grocery stores.

Birthday Scooter

Today is Scott’s birthday. I dig this guy for about a zillion reasons, but mostly they all boil down to the fact that he acts like himself pretty much no matter what’s happening. He’s steady as a rock, smart and incisive, and he has that rarest of combinations: a keen critical eye buffered by tact and kindness. After four years I’m still interested in hearing his take on just about everything; I admire his work ethic, his humbleness, and his social grace, I trust his taste, I like his work, and his sense of humour delights me. Also: adorable.
Happy birthday, Scooter McBoot. I love you.

Haunted

I’m pretty sure I just saw a ghost.

Saturday night, 10:30 pm. I’m walking down a dark street in the middle of the city, in search of an evening coffee to fuel some writing work. It’s a busy street, but a stretch of it that’s kind of pedestrian unfriendly, all big hulking buildings with no storefronts or people, and it feels weirdly dark even though there are streetlights. But I’m a city girl and that kind of stuff never bugs me, this is Toronto and I’m a fast runner, so I don’t sweat it.

I’m walking fast, in a good mood, enjoying the warm humidity since the rain stopped a few hours ago. Ahead of me is what I take to be a goth/raver girl- maybe 5′3″, slumped shoulders and wide hips with very wide-leg shoe-eater crimson pants, black hoodie tied around her waist, and a rickety black umbrella.

I’m not paying her any attention, gaining on her fairly fast, and am about a yard behind her when she takes a sharp, screamy, gasping breath and suddenly spins on me in an unbelievably creepy, uncannily smooth and graceful move that makes her clothes kind of flare out around her like a spectre. The move is so weirdly fluid, so intense, and so totally unexpected that I actually yelp. And then she’s standing stock still, close enough to touch, staring me dead in the face with piercing, totally blank, glittering blue eyes. Not breathing. Barring my path. Not moving at all.

She’s in her mid 40s. Her face is kind of shiny and her eyes are very clear and pale. She has a bright red bindi dot drawn between her brows. She’s not moving, but her stare is unbelievably intense, and I’m caught in it like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake. She is definitely close enough to lunge for my neck, which I’m utterly certain she’s about to do. Her mouth is closed but I’m pretty sure it’s full of needle-sharp teeth and maybe a jaw that can unhinge when she pounces.

She’s clutching her black umbrella close on this rainless night, and a bundle of newspapers. She’s blocking the narrow sidewalk and hasn’t blinked yet, standing so still she’s like a statue. My heart is racing. And she’s still not moving. I seriously don’t think I’ve ever been so scared.

I gradually unfreeze and look at the papers- I can’t read the title but judging from the size, it’s either the Epoch Times or the Outreach, both of which are publications I tend to associate with people who are strange but usually harmless. Ok. She’s not a vampire or a werewolf, she’s just a strange lady and maybe my approaching footfalls scared her. Poor thing. I can normalize this situation.

ME: Hi.
HER: Stony, stock-still staring, silence.
ME: You startled me a little!
HER: Stony, stock-still staring, silence.
ME: You ok?
HER: Stony, stock-still staring, silence.
ME: Let’s just keep walking, ok? You first.
HER: Stony, stock-still staring, silence.
ME: We’re ok. Let’s go.
HER: Stony, stock-still staring, silence.
ME: Come on. OK. Time to move.
HER: Stony, stock-still staring, silence.
ME: (slightly authoritaitve) Hey. Let’s go. Come on, let’s walk.

She pauses so long I shake my head and look past her with the intent of passing her on the narrow sidewalk when suddenly she shrieks in another hissing breath and lunges towards me. She moves like a character in a horror movie, all sweeping grace and sharp sudden freezes. I yelp again. She opens a mouth with no teeth and slurs, “Buy a paper?”

I’m really annoyed now, partly at her for her aggressive posture and hugely at myself for actually being scared of a middle-aged woman three inches shorter than me, so I shake it off and walk briskly past her into the donut shop. My hands are actually shaking, and I’m not very easy to scare. She follows me in, of course, and makes a beeline for an empty table in the corner beside four laughing Korean teenagers. She takes another hissing breath and lunges at the table really dramatically, drops her newspaper bundle, and straightens up again to stand stock still. I marvel at the economy and grace of her creepy movements- I’ve never even seen a dancer move so precisely.

She sits and stares at the teenagers, who are about four feet away from her. None of them are facing her, but they should all be able to either see her in their periphery, or her reflection moving in the dark plate-glass window they’re facing. But they don’t seem to see her. She notices me looking at her and holds her umbrella out towards me like a shield for a sec, then points it at the teens. Again they ignore her. She puts down the umbrella and holds out a newspaper to the teens. I still can’t tell if they even see her- the rhythm of their conversation hasn’t seemed to change and they’re all laughing quite naturally.

I notice she’s wearing a Toronto Film Festival baseball cap from 2007. This kind of absurd detail makes me positive I’m not imagining the occurrence.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a tiny stuffed cat. The kind made of rabbit fur, the size of a bagel. She holds it out to the teens.

This is hard to describe, but the four teenagers kind of act the way people act in a movie, in the scene when the lead character is discovering he’s really a ghost. Like they don’t see her there but they register something slightly unpleasant in the spot where she’s standing, so they slightly avoid that spot.

She holds her ratty little hair-cat out towards one of the teens, should be in his peripheral vision, but he doesn’t move at all. She pokes him in the shoulder and he leans away from the poke slightly, but still chatting and laughing. I mean, they must be aware of her, but I’ve never seen teenagers play it so cool. Then she stands up and holds the mangy little toy beside his ear. NONE OF THE TEENAGERS REACT. I begin to think she must be invisible.

She puts the friggin cat ON THE KID’S SHOULDER and he doesn’t move, just keeps chatting. Even she’s amazed. I can see her body language change- now she and I are both wondering if she’s imaginary. This poor woman can’t get a normal reaction from anyone, even a teen with a mangy bagel fur cat (model # C97W, it appears) on his shoulder. Of course her grip on reality is loose- I can feel my own grip loosening and I’ve only known her for four minutes.

I look around the restaurant and nobody else seems to have noticed her. The cat is still perfectly balanced on the teenaged boy’s shoulder like a little dead hamster, and he takes a bite of his doughnut. She’s staring at him like, “But didn’t I just put a fur cat on this kid?” I realize that I may be the sole living person in this movie that can see the ghosts wandering around, and maybe I should leave before an army of them start following me, demanding favours and using me as a medium to make out with their wives while spinning pottery.

I order my coffee. I see a movement out of the corner of my eye: the teenager, without turning his head or pausing the conversation, casually takes the little cat off his shoulder, looking as nonchalant as though he’s just straightening his shirt, and places it in front of him on the table. Still none of them have reacted to the woman’s lurking presence directly beside them, and none of them look at the scruffy little scrap of rabbit fur on the table now. They don’t even look unnaturally stiff like they’re ignoring her, they just look like they’re having a nice night.

The woman is now in a predicament. She didn’t get any reaction from her creepy offering, but now she can’t get it back. She looks sort of confused and a little crestfallen, making small hissing noises while moving back and forth behind one of the boys with small, quick, precise steps, looking for a way to get her ragged kitty back but also not wanting to blow her Gothic mystique by speaking to the teens, who are still engaged in calm, happy chatter.

I wish wish wish I’d brought my camera, but since she’s clearly a ghost I’m pretty sure she’s not capturable in pixel format anyway. My heart hasn’t quite stopped pounding yet, but I brush out of the Tim Horton’s, licking the icing off my donut and kind of proud that I’ve just survived my first face-to-face with a poltergeist.

Lonely Robots Art Show

Lonely Robots. I’m doing an art show tonight. Yeah, art.

It’s called Lonely Robots and it’s gonna be awesome. Look who’s in it- real artists! (and me!)

Party 7-10 tonight at Magic Pony, on Queen W of Bathurst. New friends welcome- come say hi!