it's the most wonderful-- tv is so distracting.

I'm going home for the holidays after work tomorrow. Which is odd, considering I also consider where I am at this particular moment to be home. I suppose I have two. One is where I find my family, and one is where I find my life (however uneventful).

I should be packing, but I've been distracted by a documentary on the Stratford Festival. I was flipping through channels (how guyish of me) when I heard a very familiar voice speaking in iambic pentameter. For those of you who are aware of my Graham Abbey admiration (I used his bathroom once) and my Stratford obsession, you can understand how the combination of the two makes it impossible to ignore. Jonathan Goad is yelling right now. Michael Therriault is hitting someone. Apparently, I'm some theatre geek who regards theatre actors as highly as movie stars. If Shakespeare were alive today, he'd need to take out a restraining order on me.

Now Graham (yes, it's a first-name basis. I have his phone number. That makes us the bestest friends ever) is killing Jonathan. Now Graham is dead. I love theatre.

I suppose this is a blog to wish you all a Merry Christmas, and to not expect any great blogging wisdom from me until the new year. Unless I find myself incredibly bored, in front of a computer, inspired with witticisms like none I've ever typed. In such a case, I may post a sentence or two.

I shall leave you with my thoughtss:

• Today, I heard the song "Itsy-Bitsy, Teeny-Weeny, Yellow Polka-Dot Bikini" in French.
• I had a conversation with someone who speaks little English yet was able to use the word "serendipitous" correctly in a sentence.
• A homeless man on roller skates shouted "Farts to you all!" as he sped down Queen Street.
• I'm reading a biography on Cary Grant (born Archie Leach). Not really my type of guy, what with the abuse, perfectionism, bisexuality, LSD use, cheapness and alleged nose job. But he wore suits well. I will give him that.
• She just kissed Graham. Stage-kissing cracks me up. I'm surprised they didn't do the finger-over-the-mouth trick. There are no commercial breaks. How am I ever going to pack?
  
• My boss thinks it's funny to respond with "Patience, grasshopper, patience" whenever I e-mail him with a job-related concern.
• We sang "Jingle Bells" at church on Sunday. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for not naming me Jingle. Or "Carol of the."

I must go now. To pack. After the Stratford thing decides to end. Which it might not. Ever.