Epigram crosstime parade

I really enjoy band names. They can convey so much with a few words. Their music notwithstanding, who could forget She Wants Revenge, the Refreshments, or the New York Dolls? Names are very personal; they can be obvious or arcane (the Jackson 5, U2), sober or silly (Nirvana, the Bare Naked Ladies), cerebral or juvenile (the The, the Go! Team). Some band names disappear without a trace after a few gigs, and some become so big they take on a life of their own. Off the top of my head, here are some good ones:

Staggered Crossing

the Plain White T's

Cold War Kids

Iron and Wine

Metric

Joy Division

Panic! at the Disco

Aerosmith

30 Odd Foot of Grunts

the Clash

the Postal Service

the Doors

the Beastie Boys

No Doubt

Counting Crows

the Pretenders

Iron Butterfly

Arcade Fire

Vampire Weekend

Smashing Pumpkins

Pink

Ill Scarlett

Sum 41



Now let's compare that to these stinkers:

Kid Rock

the Monkees

Bow Wow

Gob

the Eagles of Death Metal

Sugarland

How I spent my summer vacation

I've been in Vancouver just under five months now. My objectives here were straightforward: find a good job, reconnect with distant family, and in the meantime, frugally enjoy myself. I'm glad I decided to come here; but I still haven't found a job, and my savings won't last forever, so the time has come for me to move back east. I can job hunt in a larger market, see friends and family... and stay rent-free with my parents until I find a proper job.

I won't bore you with reminiscences of my time here. But I didn't want it to pass away completely unmarked either.

So long, Vancouver, and thanks for all the fish.

Seeing life through black-coloured glasses

It's a Friday night, and I'm sitting on my bedroom floor in the darkness. I've been here a while, and in the diffuse light of my clock radio I can trace the outline of all my possessions. The world outside my window is darker still, deep space meets Baycrest Drive. I don't know what I expect to find, but I keep sitting, looking around in the darkness at my tiny and transient sliver of real estate.

I've believed since childhood that I have exceptional night vision because I can move in shadows as easily as in light. (When others are around, of course, I keep the lights on.) Lately I'm not so sure--perhaps it's not a sign of physical acuity but of unusual willingness to forgo colour and comfort and accept a twilit existance. I know I suffer from mild depression; some days, life's kaleidoscope of events, people, and relationships fades to the emotional equivalent of the hazy and menacing silhouettes I see before me. And indeed, I treat a darkened soul the same way I treat a darkened room: I boldly (or stubbornly) go about my business in spite of collisions with the unseen. I remember how things were before darkness fell, and that is my map to navigate my new obscure and shapeless surroundings.

Ending a depression is not as easy as flipping a light switch. Even so, I sometimes feel that I haven't really tried. I seem to have a minor flagellant ethic, a buried conviction that I deserve to suffer for the sins of others. I don't know if I should accept that as part of who I am, fight against it as a self-destructive character flaw, or ignore it as a small price to pay for living on this beatiful but imperfect Earth.