Blog entires aren’t supposed to take half-a-week to complete; that, to me, defeats the purpose of blogging in the first place. This entry, however, just won’t write itself. It began as a review of the new Bruce Springsteen album, Magic, but ended up sounding perfunctory, clunky and amateurish. It then morphed into a mash-up of Springsteen, Leafs/Habs and Toronto-stalgia; upon further view, it sucked as well. So now I’ve scraped ’em both in favour of…well, something, although I still haven’t figured out what that something is. I guess it doesn’t matter–I just want this thing off my desk.
Tonight, my desk is in Fort McMurray, AB…which is almost 4,000km away from Toronto, which is where I woke up this morning. I then packed, went to the airport and flew to Calgary, then drove back to my mother’s place (ha!), unpacked, ate lunch (or was it breakfast?), threw a few clothes into a bag and started driving. (I didn’t pack any underwear, by the way; if you see me tomorrow, there’s a 95% chance I’m going commando.) I was supposed to drive up here with a guy named Jeffrey–but then Jeffrey called an audible at the line and rented his own vehicle, which means I did the entire eight-hour drive alone…this, after waking up at 3:30 MST and taking a four-hour, cross-country flight. Not surprisingly, I was utterly incoherent when I arrived.
The weekend, meanwhile, was invigorating. I only got forty-eight hours to play with, but I made the most of it: I visited friends, had a veritable feast for Thanksgiving, saw The Drowsy Chaperone with the madre and then watched the Leafs beat the Montreal Canadiens 4-3 in overtime in a tense, thrilling encounter. I intend on seeing a lot of NHL hockey in Calgary this year, but I still refuse to actively cheer on the Flames; I will not, under any circumstances, succumb to sports bigamy, even when the Flames win the Stanley Cup (and if you’re wondering why I’m so confident, scroll down one entry). As for Toronto, it feels like I never left; this, I figure, underscores the point that Toronto is “home” to me now, and I’m going to accept this fact. It’s not that I’m unhappy out west–far from it–so much as I’m missing home. Six weeks ain’t nearly enough to make those feelings disappear.
Also, remember how I wrote about not being able to write about Bruce Springsteen? Consider this an affirmation of said statement: I’ve deleted my mini review of Magic, because I’ve determined it to be utter crap. Which doesn’t mean I don’t wholly endorse the record–I just didn’t feel as thouugh my write-up said anything meaningful, and hence I got rid of it. Other, more talented writers have said way more than I’m capable of saying; read their reviews and take my endorsement for what it’s worth. By the way, I forgot the album in my parents’ car. I have no idea what this means in the greater scheme of things.
Oh, and Jason Blake: get well, son.