just you and me
and diabetes
in a diabetic threesome
just you and me
so glad to be
in a diabetic threesome with you
I'm so hungry
for some candy
you give to me and never ask for much
you save me from pain
like multigrain
flax seeds, yogurt, fruit and such
you are my sweet
you're my reese's piece
a tasty treat that makes blood sugars bound
you're my honey pie
and I'd surely die
were it not for your lovely mound
just you and me
and diabetes
in a diabetic threesome
I hastily
overeat
in a diabetic threesome with you
I'd trade my legs
for some mini eggs
that you could feed me while I rest
because it's hard
when you just eat lard
but honey, overeating's what I do best
what's a little gangrene
when you've got a queen
who'll feed you jolly ranchers while you crash?
I love my skittles
and can't feel my toes
But who needs my toes when I've got your ass?
just you, and me
and diabetes
in a diabetic threesome
I'd happily
lose my feet
for a diabetic threesome with you
my doctors say that I should cut back
they say I'm headed to a heart attack
they that you're slowly killing me
but I say, hey, they just don't like their sweets
I love you... you're my mountain dew
you're my jelly bean; my sweet candy queen
you're my fun yun, you're my only one
you're my pig's ear, my third musketeer
and I love you
just you and me
and diabetes
in a diabetic threesome
excitedly
binge on sweet candy
in this diabetic threesome with you
Show Report: The Dodos
I've been meaning to write this for a few weeks now, but kept putting it off due to real life getting in the way. Better late than never though, eh?
April 1st, we went to go see the Dodos. It was the Savages, Happy Apple, and I. I had won some free tickets through the Dodos' facebook fan page, and so, for the first time ever in my list, I got to awkwardly say to the bouncer, "Uh, I'm on the guest list, uh, I think."
Suave charmer, I am not.
Anyways, I'll be brief, because at this point, there's no real reason to go into detail. Some of the key highlights:
April 1st, we went to go see the Dodos. It was the Savages, Happy Apple, and I. I had won some free tickets through the Dodos' facebook fan page, and so, for the first time ever in my list, I got to awkwardly say to the bouncer, "Uh, I'm on the guest list, uh, I think."
Suave charmer, I am not.
Anyways, I'll be brief, because at this point, there's no real reason to go into detail. Some of the key highlights:
- The opening act, named Reading Rainbow, started off okay... but then basically kept playing the same song over and over again - a simple drum line, a simple guitar line, and the girl basically just singing the harmony over the guy's basic vocals. Guh.
- Goddamn hipsters.
- Happy Apple slamming a drink glass into my face. All because I was innocently trying to throw ice cubes into her face. What's worse? Nearby women telling her "we saw the whole thing, and it's all his fault". Damn women, trying to stick together.
- The Dodos were awesome. They had an electric guitarist with them, and Merric Long was also playing an electric instead of his usual acoustic. They did a lot of songs from the new album, as you could expect, but also played a few standbys from Visiter. They didn't play a single song from Time to Die, which was a bit unusual, but oh well.
- The Dodos did NOT play Jodi, which bummed me out. But they did play "Fools" and finished on "Going Under", which is now my favourite Dodos song from the new album. Once you hear that song live, and the attendant wall of noise that accompanies it, your mind will be fully blown.
Weekly Haiku #49: T-Shirt Shopping
shop for threadless shirts
grin at icons, frown at some
speak without speaking
Stupid Hockey Superstitions
Hi. My name is Crazy Newt, and I am a crazy hockey fan.
"Hi Newt!"
I, uh, well... I'm a pretty rational guy. I'm not very religious, and I believe fully in the power of rational thought over mysticism and superstition. I am not spiritual in any way, and I don't believe in the supernatural, divine powers, or fate. I believe logic should always prevail over faith-based arguments. I am a skeptic.
But, well, all of that is thrown out the window when it concerns hockey.
"Tell us more, Newt!"
Okay. Every year, during the playoffs, I stop shaving the day my team starts playing, and I grow hideous neck beards as a result. And they're really hideous next beards, man. Every time I turn my head, the friction starts a small fire. And I already get enough "flaming beard" comments as it is! Not to mention the second degree burns are never fun.
But I sincerely believe that, by not shaving, I am contributing to my team's odds of success. Even though thousands of other fans are also not shaving, trying to affect their own teams' odds of winning.
"But Newt, Playoff Beards are a hockey tradition! You're not crazy for growing one!"
Ah, my fellow idiots, but that's not the whole story! It gets worse.
"Oh. Well, tell us more!"
Check this out. I cannot talk about my team winning. If they have a five goal lead, the other team's goalie is an asthmatic wheezing on the ice, and there's only two minutes left in the game, I will still not say "well, they've got this one in the bag" or anything to that effect. And I will get frightfully angry if the announcers say something to that effect. And heaven help them should they say the "shutout" word.
I fully believe that the second I make a prediction on my team's success that my team is DOOMED to fail. I blame the 2008 playoffs against the Calgary flames for this one, during which the Sharks blew a three goal lead in one game and nearly lost the entire series as a result.
"well, uh... that's just superstition, but I guess it's okay...."
Oh, you stupid fuckers. It gets worse.
"Um, tell us more? Also, hey!"
Listen up. Every time I watch the sharks play, I have a certain rule that I have to follow. I must have on me an odd number of items with a sharks logo upon them. Seriously. I feel compelled to do this.
I sincerely believe that, should I have an even number of logos on me, my team will lose. And possibly, people could die.
This means that, when I watch a game, I usually have my sharks-branded ipod in my pocket, a sharks toque on my head, and one of my sharks jerseys on. And should my head get hot and I need to take off the toque, I have to do so at the exact same time I remove the ipod from my pocket, bringing the number of logos down to one. I have also gone in the other direction, wearing two jerseys, my sharks ipod, drinking from sharks mug, wearing a sharks tshirt, my sharks toque, AND my sharks cap.
I'm crazy.
And I honestly, seriously, believe that failure to do this will result in my team's losing.
"Okay, yeah... that's just crazy."
I know, guys. I know. My name is Crazy Newt, and I'm a superstitious hockey addict.
"That's great. But this is a McDonald's. Are you going to order anything?"
"Hi Newt!"
I, uh, well... I'm a pretty rational guy. I'm not very religious, and I believe fully in the power of rational thought over mysticism and superstition. I am not spiritual in any way, and I don't believe in the supernatural, divine powers, or fate. I believe logic should always prevail over faith-based arguments. I am a skeptic.
But, well, all of that is thrown out the window when it concerns hockey.
"Tell us more, Newt!"
Okay. Every year, during the playoffs, I stop shaving the day my team starts playing, and I grow hideous neck beards as a result. And they're really hideous next beards, man. Every time I turn my head, the friction starts a small fire. And I already get enough "flaming beard" comments as it is! Not to mention the second degree burns are never fun.
But I sincerely believe that, by not shaving, I am contributing to my team's odds of success. Even though thousands of other fans are also not shaving, trying to affect their own teams' odds of winning.
"But Newt, Playoff Beards are a hockey tradition! You're not crazy for growing one!"
Ah, my fellow idiots, but that's not the whole story! It gets worse.
"Oh. Well, tell us more!"
Check this out. I cannot talk about my team winning. If they have a five goal lead, the other team's goalie is an asthmatic wheezing on the ice, and there's only two minutes left in the game, I will still not say "well, they've got this one in the bag" or anything to that effect. And I will get frightfully angry if the announcers say something to that effect. And heaven help them should they say the "shutout" word.
I fully believe that the second I make a prediction on my team's success that my team is DOOMED to fail. I blame the 2008 playoffs against the Calgary flames for this one, during which the Sharks blew a three goal lead in one game and nearly lost the entire series as a result.
"well, uh... that's just superstition, but I guess it's okay...."
Oh, you stupid fuckers. It gets worse.
"Um, tell us more? Also, hey!"
Listen up. Every time I watch the sharks play, I have a certain rule that I have to follow. I must have on me an odd number of items with a sharks logo upon them. Seriously. I feel compelled to do this.
I sincerely believe that, should I have an even number of logos on me, my team will lose. And possibly, people could die.
This means that, when I watch a game, I usually have my sharks-branded ipod in my pocket, a sharks toque on my head, and one of my sharks jerseys on. And should my head get hot and I need to take off the toque, I have to do so at the exact same time I remove the ipod from my pocket, bringing the number of logos down to one. I have also gone in the other direction, wearing two jerseys, my sharks ipod, drinking from sharks mug, wearing a sharks tshirt, my sharks toque, AND my sharks cap.
I'm crazy.
And I honestly, seriously, believe that failure to do this will result in my team's losing.
"Okay, yeah... that's just crazy."
I know, guys. I know. My name is Crazy Newt, and I'm a superstitious hockey addict.
"That's great. But this is a McDonald's. Are you going to order anything?"
Wolverine
Lately, I've been working in a mall.
It's a temporary job, working a front desk, arranging appointments, and handling cash transactions for a tax-based company whose name shall remain Hidden and Restricted... Um, block.
Anyways, I get to sit a lot. Sometimes, I write emails. And sometimes, I people watch. And the best place to people watch is the lotto centre, because there are always so many interesting people to observe.
For example, the other day, I saw a guy with dark hair spiked up above the ears, cracking his knuckles while he played Keno. He was, in the fact, the spitting image of Wolverine from the x-men, only about a hundred pounds heavier and lacking in the claws department - at least, as far a I could tell.
Quietly, and without taking my eyes off him (lest he sneak up on me and skewer me with adamantium-fueled rage), I shot off a quick email to Happy Apple:
"There's a guy that looks like wolverine here, only with a beer belly. He's playing Keno. I don't think it's wolverine, but I'm not sure."
Within two minutes, I had a response.
"Well Dave, Wolverine IS Canadian, after all. So it could be him. Maybe wolverine just let himself go."
Happy Apple's awesome.
It's a temporary job, working a front desk, arranging appointments, and handling cash transactions for a tax-based company whose name shall remain Hidden and Restricted... Um, block.
Anyways, I get to sit a lot. Sometimes, I write emails. And sometimes, I people watch. And the best place to people watch is the lotto centre, because there are always so many interesting people to observe.
For example, the other day, I saw a guy with dark hair spiked up above the ears, cracking his knuckles while he played Keno. He was, in the fact, the spitting image of Wolverine from the x-men, only about a hundred pounds heavier and lacking in the claws department - at least, as far a I could tell.
Quietly, and without taking my eyes off him (lest he sneak up on me and skewer me with adamantium-fueled rage), I shot off a quick email to Happy Apple:
"There's a guy that looks like wolverine here, only with a beer belly. He's playing Keno. I don't think it's wolverine, but I'm not sure."
Within two minutes, I had a response.
"Well Dave, Wolverine IS Canadian, after all. So it could be him. Maybe wolverine just let himself go."
Happy Apple's awesome.
"Obama's A Liar"
I am a Canadian. I have lived in Canada for the entirety of my life, excluding the time my parents took a shortcut through Maine during a family vacation - I spent the entirety of that trip asleep in the back of the car. The point is, I have very little involvement with the United States, with the possible exception of my preferred hockey team.
And really, that's generally the way it is up here. As a rule, Canadians generally don't worry about American Politics, or U.S. Medicare, or any of those hot button issues. We have our own problems to worry about. Like Polar Bears, or getting enough Maple Syrup for our pancakes. Or Maple Syrup-crazed French Canadian Polar Bears.
Because man, those fuckers are a pain in the ASS.
It is always a surprise when American issues creep up into everyday life. And quite often, I have no idea how to deal with them. I suppose I should just learn to run for "dem dere hills" or something stupid like that.
For example, yesterday. I was sitting at the front desk at my little mall kiosk, reading up on tax law (no, seriously), when I realized there was an ancient old man hovering over me. He had that look that said "while I am harmless now, in my younger days I used to murder hitchhikers and I still keep their ears in an old crackerjack box at the old folks' home"
His T-Shirt said the same thing. In an old english font, to make it look classy.
"Um, can I help you?" I said, immediately after my heart had stopped and jumped up somewhere between my mouth and throat.
"When did Hawaii join the United States?" He asked me, intently.
This was it! My moment to shine! As a lifelong Jeopardy fanatic, this was the chance to show off my mad skills! I tried to think of an answer - it must have been in the 1930s, right? But then I realized this was one of those cases where being a brainiac was a bad idea. I mean, I didn't want to engage this crazy old coot in a historical converation, so I just shrugged.
"1959" he said, proudly. It didn't sound right to me (I mean, Pearl Harbour was attacked in the 40s? How does that work?) but it turns out that, yeah, he's right. At the time, I just smiled and said "That's nice" or something to that effect.
I then went back to my reading, hoping the crazy old bastard would leave. But no. He just kept hovering.
"Obama's a liar".
"Hm?"
"Obama. He's a liar. He doesn't have the birth certificate to prove it."
I'd heard of a lot of Americans saying this. I imagine it's pretty common to hear, down there. But up here, it was my first time actually encountering it. And then, following on the footsteps of that crazy announcement, was this gem:
"I don't like a lying black muslim leading the country."
Crazy little fucker, I thought to myself. "Um. Okay."
"Look it up, on your computer. He's a lying black muslim."
"Um. Sir, this computer is for tax purposes. It, uh, has nothing to do with Obama."
"You could look it up... right now."
"I could, but that's not my job. My job is to do taxes. If you'd like help with your taxes..."
Please God, no, please don't let this man need help with his taxes, I thought.
"But, Obama..."
"...Is not paying Canadian taxes this year. Because he's not a Canadian citizen."
And really, that's generally the way it is up here. As a rule, Canadians generally don't worry about American Politics, or U.S. Medicare, or any of those hot button issues. We have our own problems to worry about. Like Polar Bears, or getting enough Maple Syrup for our pancakes. Or Maple Syrup-crazed French Canadian Polar Bears.
Because man, those fuckers are a pain in the ASS.
It is always a surprise when American issues creep up into everyday life. And quite often, I have no idea how to deal with them. I suppose I should just learn to run for "dem dere hills" or something stupid like that.
For example, yesterday. I was sitting at the front desk at my little mall kiosk, reading up on tax law (no, seriously), when I realized there was an ancient old man hovering over me. He had that look that said "while I am harmless now, in my younger days I used to murder hitchhikers and I still keep their ears in an old crackerjack box at the old folks' home"
His T-Shirt said the same thing. In an old english font, to make it look classy.
"Um, can I help you?" I said, immediately after my heart had stopped and jumped up somewhere between my mouth and throat.
"When did Hawaii join the United States?" He asked me, intently.
This was it! My moment to shine! As a lifelong Jeopardy fanatic, this was the chance to show off my mad skills! I tried to think of an answer - it must have been in the 1930s, right? But then I realized this was one of those cases where being a brainiac was a bad idea. I mean, I didn't want to engage this crazy old coot in a historical converation, so I just shrugged.
"1959" he said, proudly. It didn't sound right to me (I mean, Pearl Harbour was attacked in the 40s? How does that work?) but it turns out that, yeah, he's right. At the time, I just smiled and said "That's nice" or something to that effect.
I then went back to my reading, hoping the crazy old bastard would leave. But no. He just kept hovering.
"Obama's a liar".
"Hm?"
"Obama. He's a liar. He doesn't have the birth certificate to prove it."
I'd heard of a lot of Americans saying this. I imagine it's pretty common to hear, down there. But up here, it was my first time actually encountering it. And then, following on the footsteps of that crazy announcement, was this gem:
"I don't like a lying black muslim leading the country."
Crazy little fucker, I thought to myself. "Um. Okay."
"Look it up, on your computer. He's a lying black muslim."
"Um. Sir, this computer is for tax purposes. It, uh, has nothing to do with Obama."
"You could look it up... right now."
"I could, but that's not my job. My job is to do taxes. If you'd like help with your taxes..."
Please God, no, please don't let this man need help with his taxes, I thought.
"But, Obama..."
"...Is not paying Canadian taxes this year. Because he's not a Canadian citizen."
Fun with Records!
I had forgotten how fun it can be to go through thrift stores in search of music. Especially when it's dirt cheap music, and you wind up buying absolutely atrocious tunes just for shits and giggles. Yesterday, for a grand total of three dollars, I wound up with:
- Two albums from K.C. And the Sunshine Band... cuz that's the way (uh huh, uh huh) I like it.
- Billy Joel's The Stranger (so Happy Apple can stop sarcastically saying "Play some goddamn Billy Joel!"
- A Christopher Cross classic (which I accidentally played at 45 rpm.... it sounded better that way)
- the Flashdance soundtrack (if only to piss off my neighbours)
- ABBA's greatest hits. The first one. When they'd only released, like, two albums. I think I only bought it because it was released by Atlantic Records, and I wanted a vinyl with the Atlantic records logo on it. I'm silly.
Naked with our Clothes On
So, tuesday I posted an old poem I wrote when I was around seventeen. I figured, for the sake of comparison, that I'd post a song I've been working on, as of this week. The lyrics are still a little rough, but hey, who the fuck cares, right?
It's a fairly pretty song, once you get the chords in on it. Not sure how I feel about the whole thing, but would love feedback on the lyrics.
Regular funny/music/victoria updates resume tomorrow.
Naked with our Clothes On
If I said I love you
would silence follow
or would you wince in pain?
I've never say it again
But I'd think it forever
and hope you'd change your mind
I can't change the way I think
like I can't change your mind
we're both naked with our clothes on
naked with our clothes on
in the dark with the light on
we're naked with our clothes on
if I never said a lie
would it change the course of time
or would it just ring out hollow
a sign of bad things to follow?
i'd like to think you've kept me
that i'm sitting at the back of your mind
you've kept me at the ready
for the day you change your mind
we're both naked with our clothes on
naked with our clothes on
slipping below the waters
we're naked with our clothes on.
It's a fairly pretty song, once you get the chords in on it. Not sure how I feel about the whole thing, but would love feedback on the lyrics.
Regular funny/music/victoria updates resume tomorrow.
Naked with our Clothes On
If I said I love you
would silence follow
or would you wince in pain?
I've never say it again
But I'd think it forever
and hope you'd change your mind
I can't change the way I think
like I can't change your mind
we're both naked with our clothes on
naked with our clothes on
in the dark with the light on
we're naked with our clothes on
if I never said a lie
would it change the course of time
or would it just ring out hollow
a sign of bad things to follow?
i'd like to think you've kept me
that i'm sitting at the back of your mind
you've kept me at the ready
for the day you change your mind
we're both naked with our clothes on
naked with our clothes on
slipping below the waters
we're naked with our clothes on.
Weekly Haiku #48: Game Night
cast your fate poorly
and lament fortune's humour
you rolled a one, dude
1 minute
I used to have a website dedicated to old stories and poems I wrote. And most of them were complete bullshit - the usual stuff that sort of creative kids with a heavy dose of angst write when they're seventeen. However, I was skimming the site, laughing my ass off (and no, I won't give a link), when I came across an old poem I wrote.
It's not funny, at all, but I like it. So why not post it up here?
1 minute
(written 2001)
a single man, holding an axe in both hands
spread out - to get a better grip for chopping, mind-
wearing a stained white T-shirt that had more holes than cloth
and a flannel jacket that was unbuttoned
(and unwashed – it wasn’t a social jacket)
he brings the axe down to the fallen tree
each swing followed with a grunt
as if the grunts have a magical power
all of their own
each breath is a cloud,
twisting upwards toward heaven
to become a peace of beauty
the dog sniffs at the ferns, the trees, and the ground
tail raised, large paws crunching the pine needle blanket
again the axe swings down
the man focuses, forgetting of
Work, of fights lost
of lovers lost
-or forgotten-
focused on cutting a fallen log
(it had fallen in a storm three days prior)
each grunt holds power
but the strength ebbs, so the man sits down on his target
chest heaving, hands flexing
and the sounds of the forest engulf
(birds, mostly, though the wind is soothing all on its own)
and the man
comes to realize
that there’s a purpose to it all
after all
It's not funny, at all, but I like it. So why not post it up here?
1 minute
(written 2001)
a single man, holding an axe in both hands
spread out - to get a better grip for chopping, mind-
wearing a stained white T-shirt that had more holes than cloth
and a flannel jacket that was unbuttoned
(and unwashed – it wasn’t a social jacket)
he brings the axe down to the fallen tree
each swing followed with a grunt
as if the grunts have a magical power
all of their own
each breath is a cloud,
twisting upwards toward heaven
to become a peace of beauty
the dog sniffs at the ferns, the trees, and the ground
tail raised, large paws crunching the pine needle blanket
again the axe swings down
the man focuses, forgetting of
Work, of fights lost
of lovers lost
-or forgotten-
focused on cutting a fallen log
(it had fallen in a storm three days prior)
each grunt holds power
but the strength ebbs, so the man sits down on his target
chest heaving, hands flexing
and the sounds of the forest engulf
(birds, mostly, though the wind is soothing all on its own)
and the man
comes to realize
that there’s a purpose to it all
after all
Kind of gross:
Drank with Happy Apple last night. We both had the night off, and figured it'd be nice to stay inside, have a few drinks, and pack up my apartment (as I'm moving fairly soon). So, we hung out, and after burning through the small amount of booze we had brought, decided to clean out my old bar fridge.
I found a bunch of bottles that were half empty, and took that as some sort of personal affront.
Namely, I found bottles of Bailey's, Grand Marnier, and Kahlua. I vaguely remembered buying the bottles to make B 52s at a party, because I used to love those shots. Once Happy Apple told me she had never had a B 52, I started putting them together.
It wasn't until the shot was about to go down that I remembered - I had bought this combo for a camping trip. And I had gone on this camping trip before I had even moved into this apartment. I've been in this apartment for at least four years, meaning these half-empty bottles were approximately five years old.
We drank cream liquors that were old enough to be kindergartners.
I've never seen someone run to the bathroom so quickly. Poor, poor Happy Apple.
But still, kind of a funny story.
I found a bunch of bottles that were half empty, and took that as some sort of personal affront.
Namely, I found bottles of Bailey's, Grand Marnier, and Kahlua. I vaguely remembered buying the bottles to make B 52s at a party, because I used to love those shots. Once Happy Apple told me she had never had a B 52, I started putting them together.
It wasn't until the shot was about to go down that I remembered - I had bought this combo for a camping trip. And I had gone on this camping trip before I had even moved into this apartment. I've been in this apartment for at least four years, meaning these half-empty bottles were approximately five years old.
We drank cream liquors that were old enough to be kindergartners.
I've never seen someone run to the bathroom so quickly. Poor, poor Happy Apple.
But still, kind of a funny story.
Noodle Land
Warmth is returning to Victoria, ever so slowly. Winter is fading away, and people are once again beginning to flock to the bustling downtown core, wearing tank tops and flip flops even though the weather is what Victorians like to call "spring jacket weather".
Tourists call it "still really fucking cold".
But a certain subset of women like to be the first to bust out the summer clothes. I have no idea why this is, but I imagine it's a neurological response to seasonal changes. Sort of like how ducks know to fly south for the winter.
I was walking downtown, admiring all the twenty-something women in low-cut tops and short skirts as they shivered, all sexy-like, when I felt that old hunger come upon me once again. I saw those shaking legs, those blueish fingers, and the urge descended. I couldn't fight it. It was irresistable, and I felt myself drawn in to a seasonal urge of my own, succumbing to its siren call...
I needed me some noodle box.
I power-walked to the fisgard location, drawing out my stamped noodle card while I waited in the line. It occurred to me that the last time I had eaten there was in 2010, probably around mid-November. I had been noodle-free for almost five months... the entire length of winter, and then some.
I was a bear who had just come out of his hibernation. And like a bear, I needed to eat to make up for months spent in slumber. Like a bear, I had to eat my body weight in spicy black bean noodles.
I left with my trendy little take-out box, happily walking past the throngs of tight white shirts, diamond-hard nipples, and hypothermic hussies while the april rains began to fall once more.
I didn't care. I was back in noodle-land, and it felt good.
Tourists call it "still really fucking cold".
But a certain subset of women like to be the first to bust out the summer clothes. I have no idea why this is, but I imagine it's a neurological response to seasonal changes. Sort of like how ducks know to fly south for the winter.
I was walking downtown, admiring all the twenty-something women in low-cut tops and short skirts as they shivered, all sexy-like, when I felt that old hunger come upon me once again. I saw those shaking legs, those blueish fingers, and the urge descended. I couldn't fight it. It was irresistable, and I felt myself drawn in to a seasonal urge of my own, succumbing to its siren call...
I needed me some noodle box.
I power-walked to the fisgard location, drawing out my stamped noodle card while I waited in the line. It occurred to me that the last time I had eaten there was in 2010, probably around mid-November. I had been noodle-free for almost five months... the entire length of winter, and then some.
I was a bear who had just come out of his hibernation. And like a bear, I needed to eat to make up for months spent in slumber. Like a bear, I had to eat my body weight in spicy black bean noodles.
I left with my trendy little take-out box, happily walking past the throngs of tight white shirts, diamond-hard nipples, and hypothermic hussies while the april rains began to fall once more.
I didn't care. I was back in noodle-land, and it felt good.
This conversation didn't happen. But it almost did.
Sometimes, I hold my tongue, and don't say what I want to say. While doing this is a sign of maturity and wisdom, it can be boring sometimes. And annoying, when you're dealing with idiots. Luckily, I have a blog, so I can post how the conversation should have gone.
The first half of this conversation is true, although I may have changed the dialogue slightly because I don't remember exactly what words were said. The second half is, unfortunately, what I wanted to say but didn't actually say, because I'm all, like, adult and shit.
Bummer.
DAVE: Alright sir, so let's book your appointment for taxes. It's April 6th today, so I could book you next week on the 13th, which is a wed-
GUY: (Completely serious) Do you have a space open for April 3rd?
DAVE: Excuse me?
GUY: April 3rd? Around three pm. I have that day off, so it'd be easier for me to show up then.
DAVE: Well, that all depends.
GUY: On what?
DAVE: On whether your delorean can still hit 88.
The first half of this conversation is true, although I may have changed the dialogue slightly because I don't remember exactly what words were said. The second half is, unfortunately, what I wanted to say but didn't actually say, because I'm all, like, adult and shit.
Bummer.
DAVE: Alright sir, so let's book your appointment for taxes. It's April 6th today, so I could book you next week on the 13th, which is a wed-
GUY: (Completely serious) Do you have a space open for April 3rd?
DAVE: Excuse me?
GUY: April 3rd? Around three pm. I have that day off, so it'd be easier for me to show up then.
DAVE: Well, that all depends.
GUY: On what?
DAVE: On whether your delorean can still hit 88.
Goddamn Hipsters
I was at the Dodos' show last week, along with Happy Apple and The Savages. Except for a rather lacklustre opening band, it was a good show, and I'm sure I'll write a blog post about it one of these days.
But this post is not it.
Nope, this post is all about douchey hipsters. Goddamn annoying-ass hipsters.
The four of us were pretty much the first people at the venue, so we grabbed some nice seats and a table on the balcony, and proceeded to people-watch while having a few drinks. That was when we saw two hipsters - black-rimmed glasses, flannel, bright converse chuck all-stars, tight black jeans, and all. One of them even had a bandana around his neck, which basically screamed "look at me, I'm trying too hard"
We watched, quietly amused, as the hipsters got up on our balcony. The place was empty, so we initially questioned why they would come to where the only other people in the venue were hanging out. And then it became readily apparent. One of the Savages raised an eyebrow as the hipsters began to stretch.
Seriously. They were stretching - their legs, twisting their arms, and going through simple yoga movements that you learn from level one of any wii fit game. And they were doing this in front of us because, like most hipsters, they won't do anything unless there's an audience. In their incredibly tiny hipster brains, they don't see a point in doing anything unless others are observing it... as if we would be impressed. Though, I was just a little impressed - how anyone can stretch in such tight ass pants is a miracle. Wouldn't that destroy one's testicles?
Oh, yeah, right.
So they carried on their annoying little hipster stretches, while we made fun of them and drank. Happy Apple and I started stretching too, mimicking their movements, which got the nearby bouncer to break out laughing.
The hipsters pretended to not hear me when I coughed "douche!" really loudly. But I know they heard me; they were, after all, putting their feet on our table so they could stretch their calves or some stupid shit. That's right... their feet. On our table. Probably so we could clearly see those snazzy shoes their parents bought them.
But hey, maybe they weren't douchebags, right? Maybe they just wanted to stretch so they could spend all their time on the dance floor, right? Maybe I'm just being overly critical?
I thought all these things. Until they got down on the dance floor.
Because that's when they began to dance to the canned music (the latest Born Ruffians album, which was considerably better than the opening act). And they did the hipster dance - bend the knees, don't really move the feet, and flail your arms around while you rotate your torso. Other people on the dance floor watched, perplexed, and then laughed. And the nearby bouncer laughed when I shouted out "Wanker!" at the top of my lungs.
"That guy's legs were like non-conformist jell-o," as one observer put it. "Convulsing in a full body hipster trance."
They only danced for two or three songs, before they were completely winded. Satisfied that everyone saw them doing their douchey little hipster mating display, they went back up onto our balcony, and leaned against the wall like well-seasoned pros. They wound up spending more time stretching than dancing. Which, as anyone who is familiar with physical activity will tell you, is really fucking pathetic. It's like the guy who gets dressed up in his spandex, spends an hour stretching his legs while watching a workout video, and then does three sit ups before he calls it a day.
The hipsters spent the rest of the show not paying attention to the band and appearing uninterested. They just sat there, using their body language to say "my parents bought these twenty dollar show tickets so they could get me out of the house on a friday night". And of course, every now and then, when they felt they weren't being watched, they'd start stretching again.
Morons.
But this post is not it.
Nope, this post is all about douchey hipsters. Goddamn annoying-ass hipsters.
The four of us were pretty much the first people at the venue, so we grabbed some nice seats and a table on the balcony, and proceeded to people-watch while having a few drinks. That was when we saw two hipsters - black-rimmed glasses, flannel, bright converse chuck all-stars, tight black jeans, and all. One of them even had a bandana around his neck, which basically screamed "look at me, I'm trying too hard"
We watched, quietly amused, as the hipsters got up on our balcony. The place was empty, so we initially questioned why they would come to where the only other people in the venue were hanging out. And then it became readily apparent. One of the Savages raised an eyebrow as the hipsters began to stretch.
Seriously. They were stretching - their legs, twisting their arms, and going through simple yoga movements that you learn from level one of any wii fit game. And they were doing this in front of us because, like most hipsters, they won't do anything unless there's an audience. In their incredibly tiny hipster brains, they don't see a point in doing anything unless others are observing it... as if we would be impressed. Though, I was just a little impressed - how anyone can stretch in such tight ass pants is a miracle. Wouldn't that destroy one's testicles?
Oh, yeah, right.
So they carried on their annoying little hipster stretches, while we made fun of them and drank. Happy Apple and I started stretching too, mimicking their movements, which got the nearby bouncer to break out laughing.
The hipsters pretended to not hear me when I coughed "douche!" really loudly. But I know they heard me; they were, after all, putting their feet on our table so they could stretch their calves or some stupid shit. That's right... their feet. On our table. Probably so we could clearly see those snazzy shoes their parents bought them.
But hey, maybe they weren't douchebags, right? Maybe they just wanted to stretch so they could spend all their time on the dance floor, right? Maybe I'm just being overly critical?
I thought all these things. Until they got down on the dance floor.
Because that's when they began to dance to the canned music (the latest Born Ruffians album, which was considerably better than the opening act). And they did the hipster dance - bend the knees, don't really move the feet, and flail your arms around while you rotate your torso. Other people on the dance floor watched, perplexed, and then laughed. And the nearby bouncer laughed when I shouted out "Wanker!" at the top of my lungs.
"That guy's legs were like non-conformist jell-o," as one observer put it. "Convulsing in a full body hipster trance."
They only danced for two or three songs, before they were completely winded. Satisfied that everyone saw them doing their douchey little hipster mating display, they went back up onto our balcony, and leaned against the wall like well-seasoned pros. They wound up spending more time stretching than dancing. Which, as anyone who is familiar with physical activity will tell you, is really fucking pathetic. It's like the guy who gets dressed up in his spandex, spends an hour stretching his legs while watching a workout video, and then does three sit ups before he calls it a day.
The hipsters spent the rest of the show not paying attention to the band and appearing uninterested. They just sat there, using their body language to say "my parents bought these twenty dollar show tickets so they could get me out of the house on a friday night". And of course, every now and then, when they felt they weren't being watched, they'd start stretching again.
Morons.
Finally! Someone made a youtube video about me!
Yes, I occasionally do vanity searches...
Why do you ask?
Why do you ask?
Weekly Haiku #47: Destroyer's Tao
fire depth charges
random bursts at submerged ghosts
kill lest you sink, too
I'm a music dork:
"Hey, cool! A band's merchandise stand that sells Vinyl records. I love how vinyl is coming back."
"I know. The band just started releasing their albums on vinyl, too."
"Um. No, they haven't."
"Yeah, they have. They released them on vinyl just a few weeks ago."
"I bought one of their albums six months ago. On vinyl."
"No you didn't."
"Um. I'm pretty sure I did...."
"No, you didn't. They just got printed on vinyl a few weeks ago. You must have got it on CD."
"I'm pretty sure I know the difference between a vinyl record and a CD. I bought their vinyl, trust me."
"I'm pretty sure you're wrong."
"If they just released their albums on vinyl for the first time, why would they release all four albums on vinyl at once? And why would you have their first album labelled 'out of stock' if they were just printed!?"
"Um."
"Trust me. I'm right."
"Look, do you want to buy an album, or not?"
"Nah. I've already got them all... on vinyl."
"I know. The band just started releasing their albums on vinyl, too."
"Um. No, they haven't."
"Yeah, they have. They released them on vinyl just a few weeks ago."
"I bought one of their albums six months ago. On vinyl."
"No you didn't."
"Um. I'm pretty sure I did...."
"No, you didn't. They just got printed on vinyl a few weeks ago. You must have got it on CD."
"I'm pretty sure I know the difference between a vinyl record and a CD. I bought their vinyl, trust me."
"I'm pretty sure you're wrong."
"If they just released their albums on vinyl for the first time, why would they release all four albums on vinyl at once? And why would you have their first album labelled 'out of stock' if they were just printed!?"
"Um."
"Trust me. I'm right."
"Look, do you want to buy an album, or not?"
"Nah. I've already got them all... on vinyl."
Rural Alberta Advantage: Departing
I found myself digging one or two albums that I can't even remember now, while completely overlooking Kyuss' Sky Valley, an album that almost single-handedly changed how I listened to music. Thankfully, I realized my mistake, and became a Kyuss junkie for a good three years. I pursued new converts with the same fervor that shaven-headed idiots go after busy people at an airport.
But that's another story. One that I will most likey never think of again.
The moral of all this is that when you purchase music in large quantities, you sometimes miss gems in favour of albums that have a bit more polish yet less content. Such was nearly the case for The Rural Alberta Advantage's sophomore album Departing, which got a few plays on my stereo before being abandoned in favour of Mother Mother's Eureka and the Cave Singers' No Witch, both albums that, despite being loger, really have less content than Departing.
(Cue angry replies about the Mother Mother album. For the record, I don't dislike the album, but the jury's still out on whether I actually like it. Long story, there.)
Anyways, Departing is one of those albums that starts off slow, and then turns into this hyperactive rock album that rarely lets up. It has an almost punk-rock aesthetic - short songs, boiled down to a few core riffs, without the overproduced nature that can often plague rock albums. This is an album that starts off with an acoustic ballad, and then quickly changes tempo into stripped-down, energetic rock reminiscent of a simpler form of the Arcade Fire.
The funny part about the whole thing is that the band isn't from Alberta. They're actually based out of Toronto. That being said, the frontman, Nils Edenloff (who reminds me of the Smashing Pumpkins' Billy Corgan, only much less of a douche), did grow up in Fort MacMurray... one of those little towns in northern Canada that smug islanders such as myself only speak of with our noses raised firmly in the air.
They start the album off with a touching yet slightly threatening love song in "Two Lovers" ("I hope your heart is good and strong/if you find yourself in my arms"), and then speed up into bouncing rock with "The Breakup" that almost offers a lyrical counterpoint. We then get slower piano-driven pieces like "North Star" that beg for attention ("if you hit the city limits/don't forget me for a minute tonight"). And then there's "Stamp", the first single, which has a hectic drum beat that is almost as infectious as the Ebola virus, though definitely much prettier. Not to mention a hilarious music video.
The second half of the album is perhaps a bit less hectic than the first half, though it ends with the slightly folksy "Good Night", which of course will draw references to the Beatles' White Album, which ended with a song of the same title - and considering the nearly pure white cover of RAA's album, I have to wonder if it's all deliberate?
All in all, the whole thing comes off as this energetic mix of boiled down rock music that keeps up a steady energetic tempo. However, it does burn out rather quickly - the entire collection is less than forty minutes long, and probably closer to half an hour.
In short, pick it up. By itself. Because if you lose out on hearing this album just because you happened to buy a new Bon Jovi album on the same day, you're going to miss out on something amazing.
Letters to Myself:
Sometimes, when I'm sitting in the office with nothing to do, I'll take a quick five minute break and write. I'll open up hotmail, and write a letter to myself. Often, these are just blog posts that wind up getting edited and put here; sometimes, they're just dumb little snippets that amuse me a few weeks later, when I read it. Mostly, I write these e-mails as a way to satisfy my writer's itch, doing so in a waythat passers-by will associate with work.
And then, sometimes, I write entries like this. I was sitting in the office by myself, and was pretty down about the fact that I had no money and a shitty job. So I wrote a dumb little letter to "future Dave" as a way of cheering myself up. It did the job, and a few weeks later reading it, it's cheered me up once again.
I figured I'd share it with you all, because it's kind of funny.
Dave. This job is making you miserable. You need to find some way to get your ass out of this cycle. Maybe you should just start killing random strangers and taking their money... you could also donate their organs, for extra cash value. Either that, or you need to find some sort of job that is more appealing than this current one. Which is, pretty much, all of them. Hell, you could work at a convenience store at three in the morning, dealing with the drunks, drug addicts, and smackheads, and it'd still be better than sitting here and saying "Hi, this is Dave from H&R Block, just calling in regards to the current tax year. If you'd like, give us a call at 250 380 xxxx."
I don't know if you, being Future Dave, knows this, but saying that shit, over and over again, is terrible. Soul-sucking. And doing it with only ten cents to your name is even harder, because you can't even buy a fucking can of diet coke or a sandwich. Jesus, future Dave, I've been eating nothing but oatmeal and Lipton's sidekicks for a week. Do you know how close I am to flipping SCURVY!? Scurvy, Future Dave. Honest to god Scurvy. I'm one day's worth of oatmeal away from turning into a pirate.
Now, I know that you're Future Dave, and that you can't do anything about me. I'm stuck in the past, and everything you do is only going to affect Future Future Dave. You're basically useless to me. HOWEVER, I kind of like Future Future Dave, even though I've never met him. And I'd like to see him avoid this situation I find myself in now. And it all rests on your shoulders, Future Dave. Get yourself a good source of income. Get your shit together. And make sure that Future Future Dave doesn't find himself sitting in this cubicle, plotting to kill the entire staff of Housewares and/or China because the frequent pages over the speakers are driving him slowly crazy.
Fun Fact: the staff of Housewares and China share about four kidneys between them. On the black market, that's a good couple thousand dollars. Which can buy a lot of diet coke. Or Lipton's Sidekicks. Or Oatmeal, for that matter. Just, if you go for the oatmeal route, pick up some vitamin C. Scurvy, after all.
Allow me to reiterate this, Future Dave: WORKING THIS JOB SUCKS. It sucks BALLS. Don't ever find yourself in this situation, and do everything in your power to prevent it from ever happening again. Because if you don't, I'm going to get ahold of some sort of time machine and travel to the future and kick your ass.
Don't fuck up, Future Dave. Because Future Future Dave is counting on you.
You asshole.
And then, sometimes, I write entries like this. I was sitting in the office by myself, and was pretty down about the fact that I had no money and a shitty job. So I wrote a dumb little letter to "future Dave" as a way of cheering myself up. It did the job, and a few weeks later reading it, it's cheered me up once again.
I figured I'd share it with you all, because it's kind of funny.
Dave. This job is making you miserable. You need to find some way to get your ass out of this cycle. Maybe you should just start killing random strangers and taking their money... you could also donate their organs, for extra cash value. Either that, or you need to find some sort of job that is more appealing than this current one. Which is, pretty much, all of them. Hell, you could work at a convenience store at three in the morning, dealing with the drunks, drug addicts, and smackheads, and it'd still be better than sitting here and saying "Hi, this is Dave from H&R Block, just calling in regards to the current tax year. If you'd like, give us a call at 250 380 xxxx."
I don't know if you, being Future Dave, knows this, but saying that shit, over and over again, is terrible. Soul-sucking. And doing it with only ten cents to your name is even harder, because you can't even buy a fucking can of diet coke or a sandwich. Jesus, future Dave, I've been eating nothing but oatmeal and Lipton's sidekicks for a week. Do you know how close I am to flipping SCURVY!? Scurvy, Future Dave. Honest to god Scurvy. I'm one day's worth of oatmeal away from turning into a pirate.
Now, I know that you're Future Dave, and that you can't do anything about me. I'm stuck in the past, and everything you do is only going to affect Future Future Dave. You're basically useless to me. HOWEVER, I kind of like Future Future Dave, even though I've never met him. And I'd like to see him avoid this situation I find myself in now. And it all rests on your shoulders, Future Dave. Get yourself a good source of income. Get your shit together. And make sure that Future Future Dave doesn't find himself sitting in this cubicle, plotting to kill the entire staff of Housewares and/or China because the frequent pages over the speakers are driving him slowly crazy.
Fun Fact: the staff of Housewares and China share about four kidneys between them. On the black market, that's a good couple thousand dollars. Which can buy a lot of diet coke. Or Lipton's Sidekicks. Or Oatmeal, for that matter. Just, if you go for the oatmeal route, pick up some vitamin C. Scurvy, after all.
Allow me to reiterate this, Future Dave: WORKING THIS JOB SUCKS. It sucks BALLS. Don't ever find yourself in this situation, and do everything in your power to prevent it from ever happening again. Because if you don't, I'm going to get ahold of some sort of time machine and travel to the future and kick your ass.
Don't fuck up, Future Dave. Because Future Future Dave is counting on you.
You asshole.
The New Ditch Records
Ditch Records, my faovurite record store in the whole entire world, has changed locations. It has gone from a store of about 150 square feet to one that is easily over a thousand square feet. When I first set foot in the place, I died and went to nerd heaven... one of the first finds was a vinyl copy of Unida's Coping with the Urban Coyote, an album I have literally wanted to own for almost ten years, but have never been able to find (often even through ebay and Amazon, where copies can cost upwards of $150).
The next hour in the store was kind of a blur. I may have cried a little.
To celebrate, they're having a big record release day party for April 16th. Some of the albums they're putting big discounts include early Pink Floyd bootlegs, a limited Dodos EP pressing, the new Matt and Kim release, the new Fleet Foxes release, and about a bajillion more records I want. I have a feeling I'll be one of the guys waiting in line come saturday morning.
Anyone wanna keep me company?
The next hour in the store was kind of a blur. I may have cried a little.
To celebrate, they're having a big record release day party for April 16th. Some of the albums they're putting big discounts include early Pink Floyd bootlegs, a limited Dodos EP pressing, the new Matt and Kim release, the new Fleet Foxes release, and about a bajillion more records I want. I have a feeling I'll be one of the guys waiting in line come saturday morning.
Anyone wanna keep me company?
April Playlist:
For some reason, the music I've been listening to has, for the most part, been very acoustic-y in nature. I'm not sure why this is, but I'm not going to complain, because I've been listening to some particularly great music these days. Check any of these guys out, and you'll be happy.
I promise.
I promise.
- The Rural Alberta Advantage - Two Lovers
- Apollo Sunshine - Money
- The Cave Singers - Falls
- ZZ Top - Legs
- Forest City Lovers - Tell Me, Cancer
- melpo mene - Snakes and Lions
- Led Zeppelin - Black Country Woman
- Radiohead - Give up the Ghost
- Said the Whale - The Light is You
- The Awkward Stage - I hurt the ones that love me
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