Howitzer Wedding...
Yes sir, it's everybody's lucky day, 07/07/07. Like many other people, I found myself at a wedding today. My former Chapters coworker Melissa (no, not that Melissa. The other Melissa) had one of those we're-getting-hitched-when-you're-done-your-tour-of-duty deals with her soldier boy, and thus did a bizarre mixture of family, booksellers and artillery gunners convene in the local Anglican church today.
Banshee-like toddlers and ham-fisted organist aside (the dude had somehow gotten through life without having ever played the Canon in D, so he sightread it at twice the standard tempo and promptly exploded into holy flames when he got to the sixteenth-note runs), it was a beautiful service, and they couldn't have asked for better weather. As a cute "haha, military wedding" finale, the couple was driven off in some kind of artillery trailer borrowed from the Guelph Armoury. I think everyone was secretly hoping they'd fire the thing down Woolwich Street, but no dice.
Not much else is new around here. I just killed my first mouse here at the Bradlands (with a flung shoe, no less. Khrushchev ain't shit), but my traps have lain fallow for the past four days, so I'll assume that he was the token bachelor in this bachelor pad. I'm lending out books like mad (Alex has my Snow Crash, Jenn my Cheese Monkeys), disturbing the neighbours with twelve-tone viola music (though Britten's Lachrymae is scary regardless), and trying not to let myself believe that I'm living The Truman Show or some kind of Fallout-style Vault experiment. That's all for now.
Banshee-like toddlers and ham-fisted organist aside (the dude had somehow gotten through life without having ever played the Canon in D, so he sightread it at twice the standard tempo and promptly exploded into holy flames when he got to the sixteenth-note runs), it was a beautiful service, and they couldn't have asked for better weather. As a cute "haha, military wedding" finale, the couple was driven off in some kind of artillery trailer borrowed from the Guelph Armoury. I think everyone was secretly hoping they'd fire the thing down Woolwich Street, but no dice.
Not much else is new around here. I just killed my first mouse here at the Bradlands (with a flung shoe, no less. Khrushchev ain't shit), but my traps have lain fallow for the past four days, so I'll assume that he was the token bachelor in this bachelor pad. I'm lending out books like mad (Alex has my Snow Crash, Jenn my Cheese Monkeys), disturbing the neighbours with twelve-tone viola music (though Britten's Lachrymae is scary regardless), and trying not to let myself believe that I'm living The Truman Show or some kind of Fallout-style Vault experiment. That's all for now.
