Notebooks and weddings and editors.

The Moleskine notebook has become one of my favourite tools lately. I've taken mine everywhere, from Paris to Chilliwack, and my beloved book has had phone numbers, names of composers and theorists, notes on kinship and gender for my anthropology class, notes for an amateur ethnography on the chess players outside the Vancouver Art Gallery and stories and poems and observations scribbled inside.

Our friend Tala is getting hitched soon. Normally I wouldn't have a problem with this, except for the fact the reception will have an open bar during the festivities. That could only spell doom for our intrepid debutante.

To be fair, life has gotten pretty dull lately. I work, I go home, I play football and I see my friends once in awhile. Not that I'm complaining. I understand that the working life isn't always conducive to high adventure and sensuous pleasures, especially during the first few weeks. Although I have the title, I don't feel like an editor. The routine hasn't settled into my brain yet. So far, the worse part is chasing after people for submissions and waiting for said submissions to appear in my inbox. I suppose those are parts, in the plural.