Turn Out The Lights.

The house that I sit inside as I write this long overdue post is the one and only geographical constant I've had in my life. My Grandmother bought it shortly before I was born in 1973, and I've been wandering these halls for 33 years straight. We sold it recently, and are out of here lock, stock and barrel on July 31st. It finally sank in today when I met the new owners and overheard some of their renovation plans - and I suppose I'm sad this evening. Finally.

The last 5 years or so, as my Grandmother's health and mind have deteriorated, the house has been more of a headache than anything anyone wants to be remotely nostalgic about. I watched the new owner's children run around in the backyard today, and get excited about the dark ravine I used to know like the back of my hand. I looked out the patio doors at the run down pool that we've spent hundreds of dollars keeping functional this summer and can almost see one of my parent's late night parties that used to take place this time of year - 20 years ago. I'm not going to get out of here at the end of this week without at least a little tug at the heartstrings.

There's my Grandfather helping me put together my Death Star during Christmas 1977. I can almost picture my beloved Planet of the Apes playhouse down where it stood in the basement. The obligatory driveway hand prints from 1987 are eroded but discernible. Last night I slept in the room I lived in for the summer of 1996 when I was at University and washing windows in the next town over.

The dining room table which used to be the epicenter of the house is now quiet, and will be moved to my new apartment come the fall. 10 minutes ago my father decided he didn't want the Grandfather clock and that'll go to me too. Janet's got dibs on the old kitchen table. Life will go on, obviously, but a more crystal-clear end to an era you'll never find - and I'll have a sniffle if I want to.

You Can't Teach An Old Crustacean New Tricks.

The mystery surrounding Amelia Earhart's disappearance has always fascinated me, and about 6 months ago I watched yet another British documentary on the subject. It was so detailed, and the team of investigators so thorough and technologically advanced, that I thought for sure we'd seen the last serious attempt to find out what happened to her over 70 years ago. But the same persistent team is back with a brand new strategy - pig bones.

"Kar Burns, one of two anthropologists on the team, hopes coconut crabs native to the island - some as big as 2½ feet across - will carry the pig bones to wherever human bones might have been taken by crabs. DNA from human bones could help solve the mystery."

So the hope is that these monstrous crabs, probably living much the same lives their ancestors did in the 1930's, will crawl sideways across said pig bones - I assumed fitted with some sort of tracking bug - and take them back to their lair. When the lair, den, pile or whatever it is is located by the anthropologists, it may also contain the remains of Amelia and her navigator. Definitely the coolest thing I read today.

On a side note, look at this (or any) photo of our girl. If Hilary Swank isn't asked to play her in the inevitable biopic, she might as well make another movie about a paraplegic female boxer. It's easy to get typecast in Hollywood.

Potato Gun 101.

Sundays have been known to drag up here at the lake, and it's important for me to keep my father as stimulated as possible. Over dinner Friday night at a pub in Portland, I asked him if he'd be interested in making a movie about his beloved potato gun. He smiled broadly and I knew I'd just have to start shopping it to the major studios.



Sunday morning we got a bag of spuds, a can of hairspray and headed down to the dock. Filming took about 10 minutes while editing took several hours. I'm getting up to speed with the software though, and I dare say this will probably be the first installment of a Gordo franchise. Even to those who don't know my Dad, this is probably going to be extremely funny. Enjoy.

Canada Day Debacle.

For the long awaited Canada Day 2007, which is like the... 160th anniversary of the day the loyalists grew a pair and declared a Dominion (horribly inaccurate summary), I did a number of very patriotic things. When you live alone in a house for two months, like one of the kids from Flowers in the Attic, having your only sibling and several of your best friends in the same house for a long weekend is a little exciting. Throw in a boat, fireworks, some liquor and the birth of a nation – and we’re talking 6-year-old at Christmas excited. Here are the highlights.

1. Worked on Operation Bunkhouse for exactly 1.5 hours in 4 days.

2. Got so pinted one night that I didn’t get out of bed for the entire next day – again, whilst all my friends whom I was longing to see were here.

3. Continued to aggressively not work on the bunkhouse.

4. Provided one friend with so many patriotic punches to the ribs that he eventually retaliated with a full cup of beer to the lap.

5. Emotionally scarred a 10 month old border collie.

6. Wrote and sang at least 17 new songs whilst liquored, including such nouveau favorites as “Who’s Gonna go to the Truck and get some RedBull?”, an acapella cover of “Jump Around” and the timeless “Who Wants to go to the Gazebo and Have Drinks?”. I believe Sully has extensive video of the wonderful additions to the modern musical canon, so stay tuned.

7. Paid an extortionate amount of money to have satellite internet installed which has gone down about 15 times so far. Lightning has a very negative effect on the weak signal, as do dragonflies farting near the dish I have to assume at this point. The best part is, I got to climb a 24 foot ladder and cut down all the branches on the tree for the guy who installed it. Maybe there’s a voucher in the mail.

My gallery is here, and Sully’s should be up in a few days at which time I’ll add another shameful link. Thanks for making the trip to everyone from Boston and Toronto – it meant a lot to me, and my parents had a great time in spite of me channeling the ghost of Brendan Behan for two evenings straight.