I am stupidest when trying to be funny.

Coffee-shop bitch number 402: If you don't want your drink to taste like coffee, don't order a drink that has coffee in it. It's really that effing simple.

Also: enough with the tweaking. Our menu may not be that specific, but we like the way we do things, and we've spent a lot of time trying to perfect the drinks we already have (well, not me, personally, but people who actually care about what you think have done as much; myself, I have no problem serving you raw sewage...); every time you ask "...but instead of this can you do this? And can you put this in it? And can you leave this out? For me...?", you risk getting punched in the face with a lawnmower.

Also x2: don't come in five minutes before we close, order a complicated drink and expect us to be happy about it. Especially if you're from Toronto. In fact, if you're from Toronto, just stay the fuck away. Please. No amount of money is worth having to put up with you.

Is Stampede over yet? Please oh thank you.

Anyway: another week's come and gone, and all I have to show for it is dirty laundry and too many CDs. Oh, and the Crazy Lady apparently still likes me, so things aren't all bad. I just wish she'd stop drawing pictures of broken penises...

Things That happened: Fishing with the Boys.

Okay, so it's been a couple of weeks since we did the whole fishing thing. Still: it deserves telling, if only because it happened. Josh & Jared, otherwise known as Mormon & Jew, had picked up butterfly nets at the Dollar Store (you have to capitalize that, or they send you to jail. It's true.), thinking them ideal for dipping into the river and trapping some fish within.

Yes, I know. I KNOW. Yet: it was worth a try, if only as an excuse to drink by the river.

Trusting Rachel, we were led to a spot underneath the railroad tracks (yes I know it sounds like a Nirvana song shut up), which actually proved to be too high for the Boys to reach the river with their nets, so we sat for a while drinking wine, taking pictures of hobo blankets, and getting the bejeebus scared out of us by trains passing overhead. Okay, so it's more like a Tom Waits song, but whatever. Eventually, we DID get to the river, at which point more wine was consumed, and then fishing commenced, the only thing actually caught being: a few leaves, a worm, some mud, and Josh's notebook after he accidentally dropped it in the river.

Also we left a note in one of the bottles that stated: "Everything' s okay on our end, but if YOU should need some help, please don't hesitate to ask."

Afterwards we treated The Boys to their first encounter with the Blackfoot Diner (aka the Trucker Breeding Grounds); they were actually a little disappointed in their lack of success, but I've promised them that I'll have a surprise for them next time: hip-waders.

Oh, yeah. You heard me.

More Things That Happened: The Parents Arrive.

I have no pictures. They came, they saw, they drank some coffee, a nice time was had by all. Nothing exploded. Here's to another fourteen years between visits. Kidding! Sorry, Mom.

Other things:

1. Gee, apparently someone caught on to the fact that a comic written in the '30s might have a little racial stereotyping going on. Go figure. It only took you the better part of a century to speak up. (Actually, this kinda thing makes me see red; I'm not gonna use the excuse that this comic is a 'product of it's time', as the examples these people have latched onto can make anyone feel a tad uncomfortable. I can only say from my own experience that it seemed that Herge tended to paint everyone as caricatures and buffoons, even the Great Civilized Europeans, and that I always found a healthy respect present for every culture he portrayed in his stories. I'm actually quite fond of this entire series, and I'd have to admit that reading these books as a kid only made me more curious about the world I live in. So, um, suck it.)

2. I have a thousand new CD's to listen to. No, really, I've got that many. So, here's a sample of what's new and good and not-so-good:

'Spoke' by Shellac deserves your undivided attention. Leave it to Steve Albini and company to do it right (are you listening, Dinosaur Jr?). Plus, their new album, Excellent Italian Greyhound, sports the best cover in the world. Those dogs are coming to destroy you.

The new Chemical Brothers? Pretty good, up until that stupid salmon song with Phatlip from the Pharcyde. I'm pretty sure this is one of their sleepers; in about a year, I'll probably proclaim it to be genius, as I am fickle that way.

Justice, "t": actually, that's supposed to be a cross as the title, but whatever. I can't tell if this is actually Christian-themed dance music, the thought of which leaves a foul taste in my mouth, but it's not bad. Think Daft Punk with a little less sexy, and there ya go.

Did I mention that Battles is phenomenal? I did? Cool. Did I mention that John Stanier, the drummer from Helmet, is one of these brilliant musicians? Consider yourself schooled.

Tomahawk, "Anonymous": hey, look, Mike Patton's no longer pretending to be Hispanic, now he's Native American! All kidding aside, Patton & Co's exploration of aboriginal vocal rhythms and musical patterns is astonishing and a little frightening. Also: look it's John Stanier again!

Beastie Boys, "The Mix-Up": more porno music from the whitest boys in hip-hop, which isn't a bad thing, as their last actual hip-hop album ("To The 5 Boroughs"), while palatable, didn't really break any new ground. This, however, is surprisingly refreshing.

Stars, "Do You Trust Your Friends": no, not really. In fact, not at all. I don't know why I bothered, to be honest. Stars are one of the most insufferably precious bands in Canada, and remixes from similarily ineffectual musicians only turns Stars' masturbation into a circle-jerk.

The Polyphonic Spree, "The Fragile Army": yes, I like them. Fuck off. Their albums are never perfect, often filled with a lot of wankery and too many goddamned flutes, but they're unafraid of criticism and stand unabashedly for love in its entirety. They may be a little silly, but all they want is to make YOU feel good about YOURSELF for a brief moment. If you can't allow yourself to be touched by this group, then the problem's with your inability to love yourself. I have spoken.

Cloud Cult, "Advice From The Happy Hippopotamus", "The Meaning Of 8": weird near-perfect indie-pop akin to the Flaming Lips. Apparently you can only get these guys online. Do so now. Thanks to Jared for doing all the hard work.

Ohbythewayeveryoneshouldownthis: Doug Martsch, "Now You Know": solo album from Built To Spill's main dude. 'Nuff said.

Also: I've ranted before about the brilliance that is Old Man Gloom. This is me repeating myself, for I am always right, and sometimes you people need to be told twice.

Up next: Buffalo Tom, Boris w/ Michio Kurihara, a new mixtape from the ever-fabulous Dean Martin which apparently features new material form the Summerlad, so colour me excited. Oh, and Deadwood Season 3, although I have to wait for one lady to catch up before I can watch it, and I've promised another that I'd watch it with her also, so this will take all manner of scheduling to arrange, which will probably hurt my head. In the meantime: this is me shaving my head and arguing with my landlord over plumbing facilities. Be good, or I'll ground the lot of you.