Happy Victoria Day!


Happy Victoria Day to all of my friends north of the border!  I tip a virtual Molson to the following exceptional Canucks who have consistently gone above and beyond the meticulous standards of the RCMP in providing us with ootstanding entertainment: Suzanne at My Dang Blog!, Tanya at The Incurable Dreamer, Ryan Reynolds, Laura Harris, Todd Talbot, Robyn Ross, Sarah Douglas, Ken Angel, Corky Martin, John Binkley, Andrew Baskin, Arseman Yohannes, Aubrey Nealon, Enuka Okuma, Rekha Shah, Ahnee Boyce, David Wight, Lisa Warner, Claire Langlois, Roxane Alexander, Janine Cox, Erin Inglis and everyone else involved in the creation of the greatest television show since the invention of the cathode ray tube!

Here’s a little Victoria Day primer from Rush for any curiously xenophobic American ignoramuses that may have stumbled upon this page.  Take off, you hosers.

Mama Says Be Glad


A Season 2 teaser!  Dylan forms a band and needs a singer.  Arseman and Ashley both audition by singing the same song, “Mama Says Be Glad”, a hastily-penned formulaic blues number all aboot the difficulties of being fifteen that the writers try to pass off as a Canadian rock and roll standard.  The lyrics:

Well, I’m too old to cry and I’m too young to fly/but Mama says be glad I’m young and I don’t ask why/’cause I’m 15, not old enough to be free/Yes, I’m fifteen years old/and that’s the trouble with me.

It’s an awkward stage and a difficult age/pacing in your space like a rat in a cage/’cause you’re fifteen/beyond a shadow of a doubt/yes, I’m fifteen years old/not old enough to get out.

Ashley’s rendition is too quiet to make oot and Arseman’s is too mediocre – not bad enough to be funny but not good enough to be good.  So here’s Brooke belting oot Hillside High’s favorite song:


Satire Or Long-Winded Nihilist Screed?


Is there, Dylan?  Is there really more to life?

Obviously, I have turned my blog page into something that is purely for my own amusement.  Those who used to enjoy my writing before it became laser-focused on an obscure teen soap opera have either politely stuck around in the hopes that I’ll become bored of this soon or just stopped reading altogether, which is exactly what I expected.  But if you do fall into either of those camps, this post is for you.

As I’ve already said, I have completely resigned myself to the fact that people are silly animals with an unjustified sense of importance and a flair for shooting themselves in the foot over and over and over again.  These days, this realization has aboot as much of an emotional impact on me as the fact that slugs have four noses (they do!).  It’s just something that’s true.  If I refrain from making them so, such things are neither good nor bad, spiritual nor vulgar.  They just are.

Morality is the ultimate expression of human self-importance.  Our behavior is not scrutinized by some supernatural entity ootside of ourselves, nor does the Universe engage in value judgments.  Sorry, folks, but that’s just the way it is.  If you don’t like it, blame Werner Heisenberg, but don’t blame god because that’s just silly.  That being said, it would be just as ridiculous for me to behave in ways that don’t conform to my (ever-changing) nature, so guilt-averse as I am, I still try to live according to Gandhi’s famous philosophy of “Ahimsa” (non-harm), not from any religious or spiritual basis but just to minimize my own suffering that seems to increase when I intentionally hurt people.  This isn’t admirable or right – in fact, if you re-read the last sentence, you’ll see that it is, like all possible choices a person can make, motivated by self-interest.

The always thought-provoking Anony Mole opined in a recent post that the only worthwhile human pursuits are those of food, sex, rush (excitement), and chill (relaxation).  I commented that I agree with 50% of his list – food and chill.  Food, along with water and oxygen, are of course the only real basic human needs.  The possible import of anything else is entirely dependent upon the individual, particularly the ego of the individual.  Therefore, when someone is complaining that, say, their emotional or sexual or romantic “needs” aren’t being met, I counter with a line from the late, great George Carlin: “Then get rid of some of your needs.”

As far as the “need” for the occasional rush of excitement for excitement’s sake, I understand but am no longer driven to seek it oot and this may just indicate that I’m fucking old and exhausted.  My first half century of life has often been difficult, but before anyone sheds a tear, remember that such difficulties were always my own creation.  And I can’t sit here and claim that I’m not jaded, so I guess those pursuits that still get a rise oot of most folks just seem to me to require a pointless amount of effort for zero reward.  I like sittin’ and starin’.  Others like to bungee jump and skydive.  Whatever floats yer scrote.

Sex is a little more complicated.  I have never had the desire to reproduce, but I used to be saddled with a libido that could power several hadron colliders.  Age is almost certainly a factor in the weakening of that drive, but of course, philosophy and psychology have played crucial roles, too.   I haven’t abandoned the possibility that I may yet again find someone worth dating and/or boinking, but I also don’t spend any time trying to anticipate it.  A friend recently asked me how I was able to suddenly adopt such a nonchalant attitude aboot something that holds such a high position of importance for most people below the age of 80 and I had a simple answer at the tip of my tongue: remove your ego from the equation entirely, then tell me how much of a “need” an overactive libido constitutes.  Very few of us realize that the actual sexual physiological response is usually an expression of the ego above all else.  We utilize our partners to fill us with a sense of worth and desirability, which is why rejection so often causes such violent visceral reactions from those who feel spurned.  But what aboot those of us who have analyzed the importance and meaning right oot of the notions of personal worth and desirability?  As unbelievable as this may sound to most readers, especially those harboring under-deployed rockets in their pockets, the notion of sex becomes something that’s available should I decide to put oot the effort to obtain it – kind of like a nice Granny Smith apple.  If I’m denied a specific opportunity to eat an apple, does that mean my apple needs haven’t been met?  Of course not.  That’s fucking ridiculous.  And so is the self-torturous approach to sex that’s shared by the majority of people.  Mind you, it’s nothing to avoid, it’s not intrinsically immoral, and fuck, it’s just plain fun.  But what it’s not is necessary, just like the very perpetuation of our defective species.

So I guess what all this means is that I have officially embraced nihilism, albeit of a somewhat compassionate sort.  We have an illiterate buffoon governing the country not because evil is getting a foothold over goodness or any such lofty explanation, but because Americans are so fucking stupid, stubborn, self-important, cowardly and insecure that they actually chose to elect him.  There ain’t shit any of us can do aboot that.  It’s the very nature of the beast that we are.  Therefore, I won’t spare it another thought.  And why would I when there are still 58 episodes of Fifteen left to dissect?   Embrace your intrinsic meaningless and ridiculousness, my friends.  They’re literally all you’ve got.

Six Hours On Facebook


The Glorious Results of a Courageous Fifteen Info-Gathering Mission

Good Lord, how do you people do it?  For all of my apprehension of the world at large as an overcrowded hive of noisy automatons, viewing it through the lens of Facebook makes it seem so much worse.  Yesterday, I created a temporary FB page for two purposes: to inform more people of the existence of Notes From The Avalon, and to see what I might be able to find oot aboot what some of the cast members are up to in 2019.  I lasted for 6 hours before I had to delete the account in order to retain my tenuous grip on sanity.

As far as informing more people about my blog is concerned, I re-rediscovered that aside from my sister, nieces, brother-in-law, and one or two of my cooler cousins, I can no longer communicate with people from my extended and extensive Irish-Catholic family.  Cousins who were former dirt bags and Deadheads are now Trump supporters, Jesus freaks, and right-wing conspiracy theorists.  Blood may be thicker than water, but so is diarrhea.  Fuck ‘em all, the miserable pricks.  Old friends from New Jersey were all there in spades, too, of course, but as soon as they realized I was back on Facebook, I was inundated with instant messages from distant acquaintances that seem to still be fine people, I guess, but that doesn’t mean I give a flying fuck who they married, where they last went on vacation and whether the next generation of little monsters they created have mastered the art of taking a dump on the commode.  No, thanks.  Get back to me in 25 years or do something interesting before assaulting all of your friends with photographic proof that you eat, work and reproduce.

I was much more successful in gleaning some recent info aboot the Fifteen cast.  First of all, there IS an official Fifteen fan page that’s been active since 2011 and has just over 100 followers.  One of those followers is the lovely Robyn Ross (Brooke) whose inside access to the restricted personal pages of her former castmates makes her the only worthwhile contributor to the fan page.  I get the impression that she’s extremely cool and down to earth.  She posted a comment aboot running into Arseman Yohannes (seasons 2 – 4) in Brooklyn recently, but that was as much info as I could find aboot Arseman.  Robyn Ross is on the show Riverdale now and she looks like this:

robyn ross

Ryan Reynolds, of course, is untouchable, but Robyn did re-post this recent gem from his Twitter feed:


And of course, we all know what Ryan looks like now:


Todd Talbot (Matt) is the co-host of Love It Or List It Vancouver, so you can find plenty of videos of him talking aboot home buying and renovation in British Columbia.  He looks pretty much the same, but seems to have adopted the ridiculous habit of wearing bowties.  At least he seems to be having fun:


Laura Harris has a page that can be viewed but there’s no option of friend requesting her.  She looks great, but I can’t tell you whether she’s learned how to speak above a whisper.


Enuka Okuma (Kelly) is also seemingly untouchable due to her starring role on Rookie Blue, which is a TV show, apparently.


Chris “Corky” Martin (Dylan) still acts, but I’m not sure if he has any notoriety ootside of Canada.


Aubrey Nealon (Olaf) is a writer, producer and director, but humble enough to have a public and accessible page.  He looks exactly the same, something I found oddly comforting.


Ahnee Boyce (Cindy) still exists and seems to have aged well.


Janine Cox (Dutch Boy) looks like this now:

janine cox

I couldn’t find diddly-squat aboot Ken Angel (Jake).

jake red

And that brings us to Sarah Douglas (Courtney).  For some fucking reason, she now goes by the name Sarah Nakatsuka although there was no photographic evidence that she’s married to a Japanese person.  I guess I can’t blame her for the possible alias, because if I were her, I’d be trying to put as much distance between myself and the horrible role I played as a teenager as humanly possible, too.  Check a look:


So there you have it!  The hard-fought results of a brave six hour long experiment performed by your humble narrator.  I hope y’all appreciate the sacrifices I make for my art.  Stay tuned for the episode 8 synopsis coming soon!

Fifteen Minutes of Fame


A Fifteen autograph signing event!  This must have occurred during season 2, since Deadpool still looks like a little kid and Arseman, who we don’t meet until the second season, is present.  Visible from L to R: Ryan Reynolds (hilariously identified as ‘Billy’ on his ID placard), Corky Martin, Todd Talbot, Sarah Douglass, Arseman Yohannes, and probably Laura Harris and Robyn Ross obscured at the far end of the table.  Note the woman looking utterly starstruck by Corky Martin while completely ignoring the future Sexiest Man Alive.