Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Last day of the twenty second year.

Wild in the streets since 1986.

It was spring, twenty three years ago and moisture hung in the air like invisible raindrops slapping my very pregnant and very permed mother in the face as she hauled a shitty four year old (sorry Mike) and her two year old middle child indian princess, Mooniaki (Erin) up the long walk to grandma's house. Erin always wore that leather headband around the house all those years ago. I was also jealous that she was an indian princess and I was just Grandma Hildebrand's doppelgänger. (Being known for looking identical to a hundred year old lady does not even come close to being as cool as having a leather headband. Can you say "I have a complex?"). I have a complex. Anyway, it was spring and together my mother and father hopped into their tiny white car, sans children and flew to the closest hospital. I was born, squalling and hungry as hell, the labor only took twenty eight minutes. I have always been efficient. Anyway, I was born and thankfully not called Morgan (all of the Morgan's I know are notoriously cunty).

Oh retrospect. These last two days have been precious. Yesterday winter broke officially and something else was busy being born too: patio season. I, along with Rabbi, Rags and Scott joined the throng of Vitamin D deprived patio-roosters at Bar I and drank our faces off. Sorry Grandma, but we did. It felt incredible to be out there again, feeling victorious for surviving yet another Winnipeg winter. I will drink to that, again and again. After Scotty picked up the tab (WHAT?!?! THANK YOU you two) Rabbi and I felt our evening was not quite over and done with. With Kingcans in hand from the neighborhood vendor, we biked over to the train bridge and dangled our feet and watch the light die down turning everything black by the time we remounted our bicycles to head for home, weaving absentmindedly down the Crescent. The river sounded beautiful from up high, like the world's biggest water feature, or one million window panes breaking in unison. Beautiful, what a good way to welcome sister Spring.

Hi, hello, we salute you with our giant tin cans filled with poverty beer.
Welcome, please stay.

Now Brightback Morning Light is on, spinning on my turn table (I couldn't wait until Saturday), and it is blowing my brains in half. JJ, download that shit, immediately. It will be perfect for finishing up your collection and sewing on the last buttons here, for putting the last zipper in there. Oh boy, thank you for this recommendation, I had no idea. You know when you buy one of those wild card albums on a whim and you take it home, slide it out from the sleeve gingerly and set the needle down hopefully and then at the first listen it is like nothing you have ever heard before? This is that, to me.

Today Brendan came up from the basement at work after his shift ended at three and flashed something in his hand and I saw it without needing to turn my head. Okay, I will be right there; let me just slide my arms out from inside these giant cooked beasts. We sat outside eating bananas and drinking this delicious Mango nectar drink stolen from the front fridge and partook and then I went back inside to finish my shift. One giant sip of half melted Slurpee, two cucumbers, four cold yam fries dipped in the best aioli I have ever made in my life and then one icy Pelegrino on my butcher block with lime. Perfect day. I chopped eight billion onions at the pace of molasses and shredded twenty pounds of carrots slow, slow, slow. Green peppers came next, and then the tomatoes. Jens Lekman rounded out my mellow kitchen shift and I bobbed along while cleaning three giant turkeys. Riding a clean Alba home, we took the long way from the bakery and dodged potholes and puddles with ease. What a day, what a nice day. I would like to sit in a sun room and watch someone tune a bicycle while I paint my toes coral. Vice city, Spring has sprung and so has my morale.

Then my phone vibrated and it was my bike guy asking White bartape or Black grips on chrome drops? in tiny black letters and I wrote back, Black grips please. This agendaless life is easier than I thought.

Today I rode around my neighborhood, showboating. Second day in a row. Yesterday I was channeling a sexy truck driver and today I was channeling the auto mechanic turned printmaker look. I won't lie, I did. It was no electric bass attached to a pocket-sized amp in front of one hundred staring people, but riding with an ink stained apron and waltzing in to my cafe (my, haha) and drinking the first iced latte of Spring/Summer o9 felt good. I am not leaving yet, so get ready for the multiple persona just waiting to be exposed. Twenty three looks good. Tomorrow, I will post the jewel email of the year from one of my best friends in the world, Loco. Loco, thank you for sending me what you did, it blew my brain in half.

Tomorrow we will eat pho as a family and I will be twenty three, interesting. Aching, interesting choice of vocabulary.


  1. Happy happy, darling. The word "aching" is obv. the new black. And nice use of the word "cunty"--I was into it in the Morgan (blegggh) context. You are next level. Train bridges for the remainder of our lives, Edie.

  2. Happy birthday. May the day, the year and the life be special.

    I don't know if you've heard this elsewhere, but among my circle of (old) friends, we've come to the consensus that 23 matters. For many of us, it marked a real coming of age, even if it didn't look much like it from the outside.