Monday, August 31, 2009

Finally made it to the beach!

Summer's nearly over, the weather's been for shit, and I've hardly gotten out, other than to leave for NYC in June. Can't remember the last time I was in a bathing suit. Pathetic.

Cohorts and divine artsters Jillayne and Sarah C. invited me on a road trip to Lesser Slave Lake for a weekend of sunning, slothing and sipping cocktails. I was in.
Arrived Saturday and hit the beach, which was deliciously warm and sunny. Even went and got our feet wet, though I didn't actually go all the way in. Snacked and enjoyed the weekend cocktail: Amaretto on ice with OJ. Yum.

Had a fire and roasted hot dogs, then made our way back to the Holiday Inn to soak in the hot tub, shower off the sand and sleep like babies on soft duvets. Sunday, back to the beach, then home for a little R & R before it was back to work on Monday. Delicious and delightful and the perfect way to perk me up after a shit week of breakups and car breakins.

Friday, August 28, 2009

Awesome Trifecta.

There are no words to describe the sheer kickass nature of this collaboration. I don't care if they play one chord on a ukelele for 45 minutes straight.

Them Crooked Vultures:

Dave Grohl (Nirvana, Foo Fighters, QOTSA)
Josh Homme (QOTSA, Kyuss, Eagles of Death Metal)
John Paul Jones (Led FREAKIN' Zeppelin)


They took several of my favourite rock bands and amalgamated them into a superhero group, ready to save the world from pop drivel hell. I thought I was an atheist. But this is proof positive: there IS a god. And He/She is merciful. Click on the photo for more.

Eee hee hee hee! *clap clap clap*

Wednesday, August 26, 2009


Have you seen the Nissan Cube? It's quickly becoming the hit vehicle of the summer; I've noticed a few putting around town. I took a poll of coworkers just now, and several--to my shock and alarm--think it's cute. THIS is cute?! It's like something the Soviet bloc came up with 40 years ago with a weird name like the Kruschto. I'll admit it's kind of interesting and looks like it'd be fun to drive...if you lived in LEGOland.

My preferences are for small and sporty. Cute. Like the Smart. The Mini. The Miata.

This car is the equivalent of the dumb, lunky kid in kindergarten who ate paste in the corner and gave you the creeps with his walleye. It's the Ralph Wiggum of cars. I choo-choo-choose you? I think not.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Imaginary Dates.

Just split with my boy. Not happy to end it. Not wanting to end it. But end it I did. Just not enough. Needs not being met. Maybe one day? Maybe. But only if shit gets sorted out. Want to be there for someone else, but you gotta have them be there for you, too. Right? Right.

So I'm thinking about men I'd like to go on a fictional date with. Maybe it'd be fun. Maybe it'd be a disaster. But it's all pretend, so who cares, right? Let me have my fantasies.

George Strombolopoulos. Long-time crush for probably every female aged 15-40 in Canada. Smart. Witty. Punk. Political. Has his own news show where he comfortably hosts world leaders as easily as Hollywood starlets. And so humble. And gracious. And has delicious facial piercings. Yum.

Caleb Followill. He could use someone like me (snicker). Soulful and beautiful to look at. Talented and that southern accent's probably a killer. And he's got two hot brothers, too. So maybe if it didn't work out, Jared'd be free?

Dexter Morgan. Yes. He's a fictional psychopath. But dayum. When I first saw Michael C. Hall in Six Feet Under, I thought he was "meh." But then suddenly he's got that dorky haircut and the abs with the leather gloves? Hellooooo. And no, I'm not into the killer thing. But that's a great character role. How good of an actor do you have to be to make a bad guy sympathetic? Pretty darn good.

Jon Stewart. I'd laugh so hard. And he's such an adorable mensch. And he stands up for himself and his ideals, not willing to back down on something just for the sake of being nice. See YouTube to watch him bitchslap Tucker Carlson. Swoon.

Colin Farrell. Swarthy Irish bad boy. Not a good influence in any way. But would be so much fun.

Ewan MacGregor. Had a crush on him since "Trainspotting" and he's only gotten better. Can sing and isn't afraid to get nekkid in his movies. Great smile. Better accent. And I hear he's a bit of a kink/swinger in real life. Growl.

Josh Homme. Normally redheads aren't the type I'd find particularly attractive. But QOTSA is one of my favourites. And he guests in or joins new bands every second week. Like Jack White, only without the albinism. He's tall. And tatooed. And is married to punk goddess Brody Dalle. Giant slab of rock n' roll. Mmm.

Fuck you, Penguin.

I love stupid websites with cute, furry creatures on them. Got a YouTube video of a dog going down a waterslide? Sold. Adorable kittens riding a Roomba? Done. I've got CuteOverload and icanhascheezburger on regular rotation every time I logon. I get it. I'm a cute freak. But I also recognize the slightly disturbing, off-balance adorableness of my ways. Which is why I laughed when I found this website:

Yeah. That's right. Screw the cute animals. They think they're so clever. But we're onto them, cynical bastards that we are!

heh heh.

Friday, August 21, 2009


Lest you've been living under a rock for the past few weeks, you've no doubt seen this gem of a photograph on websites ranging from National Geographic to the NY Times to the London Daily Telegraph. It's of a delighful, adorable ground squirrel (or prairie dog, as we Albertans know them) in Banff, dropping a swift, devastating photobomb upon an unsuspecting American couple.

Squirrelmania has reached a fevered pitch, and I came across this website a few days ago that allows you to insert famous Mr. Squirrely Pants into your favourite photo. I've been mucking about with it ever since, inserting him into staff photos, then emailing my coworkers. Hee.

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Cartman's Drumming Monkey

One of my favourite South Park gags was a season three episode in which Cartman gets a monkey with a miniature drumkit who follows him around and does drumrolls to help him learn to spell. It's a WORD MONKEY!!!!

The Hooked on Monkey Fonics monkey would build him up with a little *tsst tit tsst tsst tit tsst tit tsst tsst* and I loved it. Every time I talk to someone who seems like they have their own little soundtrack going on while they blab, I picture the little drumming South Park monkey. That, or the Oompah band episode from Kids in the Hall. Ah...pop culture. How could I define my life without you?

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Facebook to become the Ministry of Information?

Scary article from on the merging of the Huffington Post (online shitrag of questionable journalistic integrity) and Facebook. Read what your friends are reading! Make news a social event! Have everything you read online tracked!

Selected quote from the article:

"Making Facebook the aggregator of the future has all sorts of implications about how news penetrates certain social groups. Will demographics become even more hermetic in their thinking and news-gathering than they already are? How will folks get information from outside their social group if all news becomes social? ...A Facebook-led journalistic future is fraught with just as much uncertainty as one led by the mainstream media."


Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Art vs. the Artist

Unlike science, with its hard facts, measurables and logic, art and creative pursuits are subjective. Not that it means an interpretation of a piece of art can't be wrong: it's not an "anything goes" policy, no, no. It is, however, a lot more flexible and filled with minute shades of grey. As one of my university professors explained it:

Interpreting and critiquing the value of a work of art (whether that be a painting or a poem) is like shining a flashlight on a wall. The concentrated beam in the middle represents the realm of possible interpretations, none more or less correct than any other. The closer to the middle you are, the more correct you are. Then as you reach the periphery, it gets fuzzier, until you end up, sometimes inperceptibly, in the dark.

I like that.

In school, I learned many theories and ways to interpret works of art: aesthetic, psychological, personal, historical, etc. One often-contested means of interpretation was to judge a work in relationship to its author/creator.

This makes sense, since a person will inevitably put their influence into a work and will choose subject matter based on their personality, hopes, fears, dreams and dark desires. What comes up for debate, however, is whether you can judge the quality of the work based on the quality of its creator. Does the work stand alone, or does our judgement of it have its basis in our understanding of the artist?

Personally, I'm of the school that says that, regardless of how autobiographical or self-involved a work, a piece of writing or music or art can be judged on its own merit, separate from the creator. Which is important, I believe, when you consider how many artists are also fuck ups and assholes. The creative process is often linked to mental instability and self-involvement. It's what allows the artist to contemplate his soul, dig out a piece and put it on display. It also means, however, that many are addicts, crazies or just, well...bad people.

The artist is not irrelevant to the finished product. However, viewing the end result separately means basing judgement on the merits of the story it tells and how it is told. I mean, Picasso was a misogynist, Charlie Parker a heroin addict and Lewis Carroll loved his 10-year-old neighbour. So you would probably not want to have these guys over for tea and scones. But does that make their art worth less than if they were more staid and virtuous?

These thoughts swirled through my head as I read this article, which details a new book on William Golding, the author of Lord of the Flies. Through research, the biographer discovered that Golding was a rapist. This discovery has shocked readers everywhere and has provoked a call for the book to be removed from junior high school reading lists. Slate's sister website, XX, includes feminist reactions here.

While I find this revelation apalling, I can't say that it changes my mind about Lord of the Flies. Whatever its flaws, I find it to be a tremendous, powerful book that explores the denegration of society through the parable of a group of feral schoolboys. But many others may not be able to look past it. And that's fine for them, I suppose. Though missing out on literature, in my opinion, is sad and, I think, more detrimental to the state of our culture than the fact that this dead author was a bad man.


Friday, August 14, 2009

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Curious George

George's got it all: monkey-ness, cuteness, cartoon-y-ness and a warm fuzzy part of my chilhood...ness.
Yes, he tested the Man in the Yellow Hat's patience, and sometimes I wondered why the Man in the Yellow Hat didn't just take him to the zoo and be done with his monkeying around. But he was just so insatiably curious and adorable, how could he say no?
I'm curious, like George, always getting into mischief. We're kindred that way.
Clever little monkey, he is.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Hooked on Purpose

You know that buzz you get from constantly checking texts, updating Facebook and reloading your Google searches? Seems that it's the same buzz lab rats get from pressing 'the button' incessantly in research. This article gives it a name: seeking. And apparently, seeking is the most fundamental mammalian drive--more than sex, food or shelter. And not just seeking out physical stimulation, but mental stimulation as well. In that case, I think I'm a dope (amine) addict. And you are, too.


"[Seeking] is the mammalian motivational engine that each day gets us out of the bed, or den, or hole to venture forth into the world."

"The dopamine circuits 'promote states of eagerness and directed purpose'...It's a state humans love to be in. So good does it feel that we seek out activities, or substances, that keep this system aroused—cocaine and amphetamines, drugs of stimulation, are particularly effective at stirring it."

"our constant Internet scrolling is remodeling our brains to make it nearly impossible for us to give sustained attention to a long piece of writing. Like the lab rats, we keep hitting "enter" to get our next fix."

"our brains are designed to more easily be stimulated than satisfied..."

"Since we're restless, easily bored creatures, our gadgets give us in abundance qualities the seeking/wanting system finds particularly exciting. Novelty is one."

Suddenly, my short attention span and constant need for new! different! exciting! doesn't seem like such a character flaw anymore. Not that I shouldn't try to up my pleasure factor and just relax...but at least I know there's a biological impetus behind it.

Hipster Douchebags.

Hipster (n.)

Listens to bands that you have never heard of. Has hairstyle that can only be described as "complicated." ... Probably tattooed. Maybe gay. Definitely cooler than you. Complains. Always denies being a hipster. Hates the word. Probably living off parents' money - and spends a great deal of it to look like they don't have any. Has friends and/or self cut hair. Dyes it frequently (black, white-blonde, etc. and until scalp bleeds). Has a closet full of clothing but usually wears same three things OVER AND OVER (most likely very tight black pants, scarf, and ironic tee-shirt). Chips off nail polish artfully after $50 manicure. Sleeps with everyone and talks about it at great volume in crowded coffee shops. Addicted to coffee, cigarettes (Parliaments, Kamel Reds, Lucky Strikes, etc.), and possibly cocaine. Claims to be in a band. Rehearsals consist of choosing outfits for next show and drinking PBR. Always on the list. Majors or majored in art, writing, or queer studies. Name-drops.

I've been accused of being overly-hipsterish. Though I will admit to certain pretentious young person tendencies, I am in no way, shape or form even on the same planet as these folks. The only parts of that definition that apply to me would be my small (like, three shirts) collection of ironic tees, tattoos and scarves. And coffee shops. And majored in English at university. Am not drug-addled or cooler-than-thou. Mostly because I don't spend enough hours downloading music to care. I do own sweatpants and have worn them out of the house to buy milk on occasion. Sue me.

The flack's been more vocal, lately, though I'm not sure how I inspired it. I wear pantsuits to work every day and get my hair cut at a salon.


Two of my favourite marrieds, A&S, live in a downtown loft. In their elevator the other day, they ran into a young man wearing this Threadless tee. S snickered and remarked to A that, "oh, I didn't know K's boyfriend lived in the building." Har, har.

Of course, what makes the comment actually funny is that I OWN said shirt, along with several items of skull & crossbone and other pirate-y paraphernelia. Not sure that makes me a hipster. Just makes me someone who likes clever language and men in eyepatches. Right?

The Boy also mocks me for being a pretentious hipster, though I think he overestimates my suave, urban cool. So I wore a scarf on a few dates: it was cold outside. He's pretty anti-hipster, though. Anti-hippy, too. He's a little more rock n' roll, which I like. I'd consider myself more rock n' roll, too, if others weren't so quick to pass me into the hipster category.
I like irony. I do. I read a lot of literature and enjoy the use of thought-provoking language. I like good music and art but I don't feel the need to like those things just to be cool. And yes...ok...I WOULD go to this workout class, but only because I'd be laughing so hard my abs would be rock-hard by the end.

So there.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Something Serious: Esquire Interview with Abortion Doctor

No, this post isn't about monkeys or barf-inducing vampires. It's about a fantastically-written and heartbreaking interview in Esquire magazine with the last late-term abortion doctor left in the US.

People who read the news (both of you) may remember a few months ago when a Wichita, KS doctor was shot in his church by a pro-life wingnut. This interview's with his friend and colleague in Colorado. It's a fascinating read, though not easy.

What this doctor does daily is heroic and his words pretty much sum up my own personal views on the subject matter. I'm ardently in favour of people having the right to make their own damned decisions about their lives, difficult or not, and would challenge anyone to discount the necessity and importance of this doctor's work.

Abortion is a very delicate subject in popular culture. Most movies, TV shows and books simply gloss over it or wuss out at the last second, rather than dealing with the confluence of psychology, physiology, feminism, patriarchy, history, politics, religion, etc., ad nauseum abortion implies.

If you're looking for a trite view of abortion, see the scenes in Knocked Up or Juno, when the pregnant characters take the 30-second consideration route, before deciding to keep their babies.

Phenomenal book, one of my all-time favourites, is John Irving's The Cider House Rules. Don't bother with the movie, because Tobey Maguire's little boy voice cracking will take away from the better story, which is about Dr. Larch's work at the orphanage. A great movie about the implications of abortion is the British film Vera Drake. Both of these are great pieces of artistic expression that don't pass moral judgement on the act itself, but rather portray abortion in all its complexity.

Anyways, back to the article: it's long, but riveting, and definitely worth thinking about. Read here.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

The Cat Did it.

hee hee hee.

This dude in Florida turned on his pet after he was arrested for 10 counts of possession of child pornography on his home computer.

"According to a sheriff's report Friday, [Keith] Griffin told investigators that his cat jumped on the computer keyboard while he was downloading music. He said he had left the room and found "strange things" on his computer when he returned." - Associated Press

Wow. That's a new one. I've had my cat accidentally type in "agarzzzzdfdfqwet" on my computer. And I think she's probably sent a few wrong emails while I was in the loo. But 1,000 pieces of child pornography? Erm...yeah, she may be bad...but she's not evil.

See the great thing about pets is that, even if you're a dirtbag, they still love you. Even if you're some pervert who throws your pet under a bus the second the popo arrive, they'll still think you're the cat's pyjamas.

Poor kitty. I hope he finds a nice home where the owners won't blame him for pedophilia. Ok, maybe the man's innocent. If that's the case, though, I hope this kitty gets the help he needs and stays at least 100m away from all kittens, petstores and kindergartens.

But hey, now I have a nifty excuse for all that kinky stuff that ever ends up on my hard drive. Not that there would be, mind you. But if there were, it's completely the cat's fault. Little sex addict.

And erm, if any naked pictures of me ever end up somewhere on the 'net, that was totally the cat's fault. It just so happens that I was dancing around naked and left the lens cap off my camera and "click!" the cat jumped on the table and took my photo. And then uploaded it. And posted it. She so did.

Also, I think my cat filed my income tax improperly and was caught doing 120 on the highway and got that $200 ticket. Improbable as it may seem, I saw her working the stick shift the other day when she thought I wasn't looking. No, really.

Bad kitty.

Monday, August 10, 2009

I need a shower.


So this weekend, a friend lent me the first two books of the Twilight "saga". Yes, "saga" goes in quotes, because it's not the flippin' Epic of Gilgamesh, it's tween fiction.

I decided to read them so that I could actually qualify my disgust for the books that turned soccer moms into squealing pre-menstrual girls.

I'm about halfway through the first book, which I'm told you must slog through before you start to get swept away in the love story for all time that is Bella and Edward. And I must say that, as difficult as it is to read and hold down vomit simultaneously, it's strangely compelling.

But the writing is bad. So bad. So. Excruciatingly. Awful.

One day soon, I'm going to find my old shoebox filled with angsty poems I wrote in junior high and compare them to Twilight. I swear to you, the language is the same. Explains why kids go cuckoo for it. It's speaking their lovelorn, inexperienced, self-involved language. But to the adult reader,'s a little tough to take without a generous helping of Pepto-Bismol.

I've started a running tally of the number of times the words "dazzled", "despair" and "devastated"--and all synonyms--are used. 200 pages in, and I've lost count. Bella, the protagonist, is so helpless, whiny and needy she can't be trusted to go to a beach without drowning. But her "knight in shining skin" is there to sparkle at her and whisper tormented nothings in her ear.


I get it. It's a young female fantasy. The dangerous but beautiful, troubled man just looking for the woman to set him straight. But do they need to put it into such clothes-rending, hair-tearing melodramatic terms? Could the author have at least invested in a thesaurus? She beats you into submission with her nauseatingly minute details of this unrequited love, until you cry out, "no more!"

I've been warned about the second book, told that I'll want to poke my eyes out with something pointy to make the agony stop. Tripe.

And don't go saying that "well, Harry Potter is written for young kids, too, and that's also popular." Harry Potter is well-written. Harry Potter uses a variety of words to convey meaning. Harry Potter stands up to Voldemort and saves the day, rather than waiting for Hermione to come to his rescue while he wees himself in the corner. It's great that Twilight is getting kids to read. Maybe next, though, they could, you know, read something good.

Friday, August 07, 2009

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Sock Monkey

Who doesn't love these? Though I never had one as a child, my fondness has grown over the years. They've made a recent comeback, and I've found them at hip home outfitters and curio shops around town. I've got a pattern to knit one, and I even found a sock monkey toque pattern here. Rad, no?

Thursday, August 06, 2009


Blargh (expletive):
1. An exclamation indicating that one has absorbed or is emitting a quantum of unhappiness.
2. An expression of barbaric anger or frustration.
3. The noise you make whenever you're going through another FGE (Fucking growth experience).

From the Urban Dictionary (I've chosen my top three definitions from the dozens available.)

Raining. Cold. Dark outside.

Summer has reached its apex and is now dwindling ever faster towards another nine months of snow.

Tired and stressed. Mild bout of depression. Hormones and other girly suckitude.

Personal issues of relationship variety. Anxiety, frustration and a dollop of self-loathing to taste.

Sadness. Emotions high and logic giving emotions the wary side eye.

I think number three about sums it up for me today. Just another fucking growth experience.

Tuesday, August 04, 2009


Wow. Long weekend. Jam-packed with ups and downs. Downs of the frustrating variety, not the depressing variety. The variety that makes one stomp around muttering "fuckfuckfuckfuck" under one's breath. The variety that makes it abundantly clear that I'm not ready for children. Or dogs, for that matter. Since they are, underneath it all, small furry children who never grow up or take care of you when you're old and diaper-clad.

On the flip side? Fantastic good times sort-of made up for it. Immersed self in a band whose music causes pure elation and helped rid me of the "fuckityfuckfucks".

Shall we?


Last week decided to do a selfless thing (won't say altruistic, since there was definite reluctance on my part) and told my mother about great seat sale I found online that would allow her to go visit stepdad in BC. Unfortunately, this conflicted with her puppysitting for the brother and sister-in-law, who spent the weekend in Vancouver. Sister was also unavailable, having written her MCAT on Thursday (fingers crossed!) then immediately skipped town for Jasper.

With most friends and all family out of town, I decided to take one for the team and babysit both brother's dogs and mom's wee old grump for Sunday and Monday. Easy, right?

Washed the new car lovingly for the first time, did some housework and went to see Funny People with one of my favourite sets of marrieds.

Decided to enjoy the weather and go shopping, purchasing three new CDs (now on heavy rotation in the Yaris's stereo) and The Lovely Bones, a fantastic read that I quickly devoured over the course of that evening and Sunday afternoon.

Spent Saturday night observing another wicked thunderstorm in Sherwood Park at the brother's with mum. Slept (un-)comfortably with three mixed-and-matched sized bedmates:
  • Alden, the well-behaved, 5-year-old lab mix
  • Colby, the football-sized Ewok/old man
  • Maggie, the year-and-a-half old whippet/demon spawn
Awoke at 5am to get mum to the airport on time, driving through a surreal blanket of fog that made visibility nigh impossible and made me feel like I was travelling across some Scottish moor. Creepy yet cool. Returned that afternoon to get ready for the Big Valley Jamboree in Camrose, which was later cancelled after the main stage collapsed in Saturday's torrential downpour and tornado-like winds. One killed. Seventy-five injured. Sad.

Was supposed to see Jamboree with former work girlfriend, but we decided to meet for lunch in Edmonton instead. Since I'd put the dogs outside in the sun for the better part of the day, I (wrongly) assumed Monster, erm, Maggie, would be fine out of her crate for an hour or two while I had lunch. Wrong.

I should have known better, considering that in her short 9 months with the brother and sis-in-law, Margaret has been whisked to the emergency vet clinic several times: once having inhaled an entire bag of M&Ms while brother's back was turned, resulting in a $400 stomach pump; the next time requiring her head examined when her face swelled due to a self-inflicted black eye and simultaneous ear infection. Also, considering that she has eaten several pairs of sister's shoes and has a nasty habit of pissing on the carpet if you look at her sideways, this was my bad.)

Returned home to what looked like the remnants of a frat party, replete with cups and paper strewn everywhere and shaving foam (!?) covering every surface. Seems Maggie found brother's travel toiletry kit and proceeded to gnaw up the deodorant, shaving cream can and all the razors in sight. Fortunately, razor blades were found and accounted for, so there was no emergency vet trip to remove those from pup's stomach. Shaving foam left carpet sticky, but, luckily, the longest-lasting effect will be a noticeable cologne smell in the living room. Idiot dog.

Another night of dog cuddles, this time more welcome, as the temperature had dropped noticeably. Put pups outside for some playtime, then headed back into Edmonton with Colby, who was feeling a little peaked. Figured he'd be less bothered by spending time with Ollie in my apartment than by having Maggie constantly harrass him to play. (Lesser of two evils: being pounced on by dumb dog or batted at by bored cat?)

Got home and had time to feed pets, take shower, and grab a quick bite before I met my friend for trip to Heritage Festival. Exited shower to find that, not only was dog sick, he was sick on my floor. Grumbling and cursing, I took him outside, where he promptly howled and had diarrhea, which, being a responsible pet caretaker, I had to clean up. Lovely. Returned inside to find out that he was sick not only on the floor, but on the couch. On my white crocheted blanket. That my grandmother had made me. Ugh. So, now running further behind, and still not full of breakfast, I tossed my blanket in the laundry with bleach and hot water and tossed the dog in the tub, where he received a vigorous bath, followed by a quick towel wrap and an unceremonious dumping on the couch. He was then warned not to puke on the carpet, lest his little ass get a beatdown.

Then it was off to the Heritage Festival with C.P., where we enjoyed delicious meats-on-a-stick from around the globe and took in dozens of sights and sounds. Mmm, multiculturalicious.

On our way back to the shuttle downtown, sister called from Jasper in pain, wondering what to do. I took the obvious, "go the hospital, dummy" route, which she did, though didn't seem to pleased about it. Apparently, it was a ruptured ear drum made worse by an undetected ear infection. And that, friends, is why I don't go cliff diving.


And now, the best part of the weekend: my new Phoenix album, "Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix". French rock/pop band with a great single (1901) that I've played approximately 37 times over the course of the weekend. Nothing short of euphoric. Please, buy this album. The songs gave me goosebumps and made me smile when I'd rather have been grumbling about idiot canines.

Have a good week. Immerse yourself in Lisztomania. You won't be sorry.