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I got this picture from a shop in St Joseph in Michigan, it was nestled amongst a collection of old portrait shots labeled “instant ancestors,” I naturally chose the one who most resembled me. I like to think she was a elegant woman who was married off into the Clergy for a suitable dower, and although she got on okay with her husband, the priest, her unnaturally high sexual appetite lead her to have wild passionate affairs with the guy who played the organ and the dude who repaired the pews. She probably had about 8 children, all increasingly dull before she did a Julia Roberts and went to various countries to find herself but instead contracted syphilis and died alone in a Tibetan opium den.
Today we are in Lava Quebec after a thoroughly enjoyable gig in Toronto, we played a song which has been absent from set lists for a good long while and the response to it was reassuring, as was the crowds general elation. It was like a warm sweaty collective hug. Post gig we tried out some Poutin, marvelled at the general attractiveness of Toronto inhabitants (what would they be called? Torontoites?) and ended up at a “house party” where upon arrival it seemed we were the only guests.
Us, the owners of the house a dog called George Pooney and a topless man. Awwwwwwwkward.
I will leave you with some invaluable advice I found in a book in Toronto.
Because everyone loves it when some stranger shuffles up them on a park bench
This just seems reckless.
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