how very interesting

my subconscious can be. dreams last night were vivid and waaaay existential (i really enjoyed Clueless).

it's tough to shake the aftertaste from that romp into old-wound territory, as We don't smoke cigarettes anymore. for some reason, a post Peter-Gabriel-In-Your-Eyes type moment cigarette tended to re-center me, and i haven't found its substitute yet.

tonight, we go to the McGill music building (Greetings, Queen Victoria!) to listen to the season ending concert, this year a Beethoven performance. of course, this is the only reason we're going. in this "cultural" city (*SIGH*) you'd be surprised how hard-pressed one can be for legitimate art performance. i ain't talking about the francofolies version of Stomp or some St-Denis UQAM funded theatre's rendition of Blue Man Group.

more to the point, i'd like more Deutsche Grammophone worthy performances of the meat-and-potatoes classics, be they one of the Tschaikovsky ballet thingies, Prokofiev crazies, or Beethoven masterpieces, and less with the Mahler Symphony He Wrote While Pooping at Rachmaninoff's House. The molecular gastronomy of theatre and music that seems to get the "cultured quebecers" so hot and bothered has started a little rage fire in my head.

in other news, you think i'll have success campaigning for a lakefront cottage in Saint-Adolphe-d'Howard? the one we have up at La Minerve, while very amazingly awesomeful in the summertime and non-skiing winter, is not conducive to weekly use due to its equidistant status with re: montreal and the ski hills...