There was something in the air that night, the stars were bright, Fernando...

...Pisani.
A friend of mine has a theory. She thought that if my beloved Edmonton Oilers won against the Calgary Flames in Friday's game, then the Edmonton Eskimos would lose to the Montréal Alouettes in the Grey Cup tomorrow. As it turned out, the Oilers gave the Flames just a light tap on the arse, but they won nonetheless (With Pisani's shoot out goal). In other oiler news, it turns out that Shawn Horcoff is married (much to my dismay). Oh well, there's always Igor Ulanov (apparently I like my men Russian and 36). I read in Dose magazine (motto: We use newsprint that rubs off on your hands, and our corssowrd is ridiculous. Also, we're not a very good magazine) that NHL referee Don Van Massenhoven (didn't spell that right, I'm sure) got a puck in the face and had to undergo seven hours of reconstructive surgery. Three words come to mind...
It was a musical weekend for me. On Friday night I went to the Powerplant and saw Five O'Clock Charlie, and I was finally able to buy their CD. It's damn good. Jo and I went, and I ran into my brother (I'd provide a link but a. you already know it and b. he hasn't posted in over a month anyway) and I learned that he had appeared in drag the night before. I missed it because Dominic and I were consuming wine at the art show. Tonight I went to see The Cottars play in Sherwood Park. They were amazing, as I assumed they would be. It makes me jealous, seeing as the oldest member is four years younger than I am. It was a grand evening of Cape Breton celtic fun. I just got back, actually.

That is all for now. I will leave you with the lyrics of one delightful tune...

"Alouette, gentille alouette. Alouette, je tu plumerai..."

Do you ever feel like your computer is judging you?

I do. I'm working on yet another essay, and this computer is judging the hell out of me. Mr. Word is making me feel like a traitor to Canadian spelling. "Gray" is the name of a person I'm writing about, but the program underlines it with that nasty little squiggly red line every time I write it. "It's with an 'e', you moron," it seems to be telling me, "you have me set at Canadian English. Why are you writing as though you're a Yankee?" Well first of all, this essay is for my History of American Medicine class, and my prof is from California so she likely wouldn't care how I decided to spell the word. Regardless, it's a name! Jerk. Maybe I should call up a dear old friend, Eliza. She'll make me feel better, by repeating everything I say.

I'm alive, I can feel the [caffeinated] blood rushing through my veins...

Caffeine is my friend on late nights like these. Gazillion-page essays are not. Message to my nesty bed: see you at 5am, if I'm lucky.

Gazillion=gasoline