OK, I have a question: How do you maintain the desire and motivation to keep up a diary? I appear to have lost these things, and I don't quite know why. Maybe it's cause I know too many people here, or maybe it's because there's not much strife in my life these days, or maybe it's just that I really have nothing to say.

What's the deal? How do you do it?

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Trip to Van
So Poli and I (and Geelitika) went out to Vancouver the weekend before Canadian Thanksgiving. Unfortunately I had to leave them for California on the Monday for business, but it was fun seeing Vancouver Gramps and his wife ooh and aah over the the little one, and by all accounts they treated Poli like a princess while I was away, which she deserves. Apparently they shed some tears the first day she and Geelitika were gone.

As for me, well, I got to see a bit of Van for the first time, and can understand why people speak so well of it. A slightly hippie-inflected, health conscious community set between water and mountains -- heh, where can you go wrong?

On my way home from California, facing a quiet weekend solo in Montreal, I actually found myself taking pix out of my wallet, as a small way of reuniting with my family; in particular, I wanted to see Geelitika's pic to make sure I wouldn't forget what she looks like. This provided a small window of light in a day clouded by 17 hours of travel to get from San Francisco to Montreal, mostly due to a delayed flight out of Chicago.

Now the three of us are back, and Eldest and Middlest will be here tonight. All is good.

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Every guy's fantasy gone wrong

Last Thanksgiving Monday, the last day of my "solo" weekend in Montreal, I was practising banjo when I got interrupted by a knock on the door. I was sure it was a neighbour finally breaking down and complaining about the noise. Sure enough when I opened it, my neighbour from across the hall was standing there with a pleading look in her eyes. Er, I should mention: my rather *buxom* and *attractive* neighbour.

She opened her mouth, and words came out that I was not expecting. Something about coming over to her apartment.

And then, I thought; wait a minute, this sounds like something out of P*nthouse F*rum.

I asked her to repeat what she said, 'cause I really didn't catch all of it (sometimes it takes the brain a few moments to switch over to another language -- French): "I'm really sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if you could please come over and help me pull my.... DEAD RABBIT from its cage..."

Oh.

So I walked across the hall with her, and indeed pulled her dead pet rabbit from its cage. Meanwhile her cats escaped out the front door and started scurrying around the building halls. I handed her the bag of rabbit ('cause she asked), and the poor girl chased down her cats while I tried in vain to help.

Boy was she ever having a bad day. Not as bad as the rabbit's, though.

As for me, well, after the commotion was over I shuffled my unshaven, sweat-pants wearing self back to the couch and my banjo, and looked forward to Politika returning from the West coast.

Ah, the life of a guy doing the bachelor thing in the big city... ;-)

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