This morning I’m making oatmeal for breakfast. I make it the old fashioned way, by boiling oats until they’re cooked. Not with the flavoured instant packets that I grew up on. I have to call it porridge for my daughter to eat it, because that’s what they’re serving up in Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Everything has to be branded for kids these days.
And by “breakfast” I mean “first breakfast” because I’m about to go meet some friends for brunch/second breakfast. Then going to check out the Puces Pop Xmas Sale, where I’m hoping to find some kind of silkscreened 2010 calendar.
There’s been a lot of music floating around the house, and next week Murray and I are taking a trip to Los Angeles. Maybe you’ve noticed my “pilgrimage” twitter posts, well, that’s kind of a joke. Kind of. Part of the trip was timed with going to see Morrissey, which is actually happening, which I’m a little giddy about. Can you tell?
As you may know, I play in a band, so going to see other bands’ shows is kind of like work for me. The venue/club/bar environment is like an office party. Or like a really long coffee break. And the obligatory alcoholism, made mandatory by boredom, gets tired after 30. I’m actually turning into the old joke we made about The Dears being a bunch of brandy-sipping, philosophy-reading, candlelit-bathing snobs. That’s what parenthood does to a person. Bottom line is: you can’t make porridge and watch The Bugs Bunny and Tweety Show if you’re hungover. Well, I guess you can…but according to my particular set of values, Hangover+Parenthood=Degenerate Street.
All guilt issues aside, I’m stoked about going to LA. Maybe we’ll go to The Grove and look for celebrities, go swimming in the freezing ocean while Americans correctly observe: “They must be Canadian,” and definitely hang out here.