Sometimes, I like to give very general answers to questions that expect a specific answer. If someone asks me what I feel like having for dinner, I'll them I feel like having some food. If I'm asked what I'm listening to, I'll say I'm listening to music.
And so forth. It's pretty obvious I like to be a smartass. It's less obvious as to why I still have friends.
Usually, people will roll their eyes at such a response, ask the question again, and I'll give a normal answer. Sometimes, though, I get an answer that makes me quite depressed.
I was on a break at my restaurant job, when a rather doe-eyed teenage co-worker sat down next to me. She saw I had my nose buried in a book (Shadowmarch, by Tad Williams, for those that are curious), and piped up.
"What're you reading?"
"A book."
She paused for a moment, vacant-faced. "Oh."
As if my answer was perfectly normal, and she had never seen a book before. Which I suppose may be true. Kids these days.
I would have proposed
We have an old boombox in our deli at work. We're only allowed to play it when there are no customers in the store, so it gets turned on from 5 am until 7 am, every morning.
Most days, it gets turned to the radio, where it plays the exact same top 40 music that is heard on the overhead speakers. There have been days where, I swear, both the in-store music and the radio were playing the same damn Christina Aguilera song at the same time. It was as if the radio and the digital satellite shared some sort of weird hive mind, set towards the goal of driving Dave slowly insane through ridiculously stupid pop music.
Luckily, the first person who opens is usually the one who gets to pick the music. And last week, I had the good luck of being the opener. While most people would scowl at a 4 am shift (and for me, this means getting up at 2 am!), I jump at it. Not only because I get off work from an eight hour shift at 12:30, but also because I get to be the keeper of the ipod.
No Aguilera on my watch.
Day one was a combination of the Beatles and The Fleet Foxes. Day two was The Flaming Lips and Dan Mangan. Day three was The Cold War Kids and The Cave Singers. Except for the Beatles, it was three days of indie paradise.
And then day four came around, and it was back to the radio, and Miss Aguilera trying to show everyone how many notes she can hit in three seconds. Some people call that talent. I call it indecisiveness.
But I digress.
Best part, though, was when one of the bakery girls came over to me, while I was making sandwiches, and whispered "I wish they'd stop playing this radio shit and put that other music on. The ipod music was so much better."
I would've proposed, then and there, but she was forty.
Most days, it gets turned to the radio, where it plays the exact same top 40 music that is heard on the overhead speakers. There have been days where, I swear, both the in-store music and the radio were playing the same damn Christina Aguilera song at the same time. It was as if the radio and the digital satellite shared some sort of weird hive mind, set towards the goal of driving Dave slowly insane through ridiculously stupid pop music.
Luckily, the first person who opens is usually the one who gets to pick the music. And last week, I had the good luck of being the opener. While most people would scowl at a 4 am shift (and for me, this means getting up at 2 am!), I jump at it. Not only because I get off work from an eight hour shift at 12:30, but also because I get to be the keeper of the ipod.
No Aguilera on my watch.
Day one was a combination of the Beatles and The Fleet Foxes. Day two was The Flaming Lips and Dan Mangan. Day three was The Cold War Kids and The Cave Singers. Except for the Beatles, it was three days of indie paradise.
And then day four came around, and it was back to the radio, and Miss Aguilera trying to show everyone how many notes she can hit in three seconds. Some people call that talent. I call it indecisiveness.
But I digress.
Best part, though, was when one of the bakery girls came over to me, while I was making sandwiches, and whispered "I wish they'd stop playing this radio shit and put that other music on. The ipod music was so much better."
I would've proposed, then and there, but she was forty.
Are You Calling Me Crazy!?
We were at work, shooting the shit while putting together pizzas, assembly-line style. My boss, a guy in his thirties who should probably watch what he says a bit more but thankfully doesn't, was talking about women.
In a deli. Staffed primarily by women.
So, the two of us are chatting about girls. Every time an attractive customer walks by, which is fairly frequently, he'd point to her and say "hey, she looks good. Ask her out. Give her our usual thrifty's customer service!" or some other dirty comment to that effect. Which was, really, pretty hilarious.
And then we started talking about weird dates we've both been on. After swapping a few, we conclude, rather loudly, that "all women are crazy". We said it jokingly, with that sort of fond affection that is usually reserved for a well-loved poodle that can't stop pooping on the rug.
One of my co-workers, doing the dishes, turns to us, holding a long knife in one hand.
"Are.... you.... calling... me.... crazy!?" she said, her eyes wild and this weird sneer on her face.
Funniest thing I've seen all week.
In a deli. Staffed primarily by women.
So, the two of us are chatting about girls. Every time an attractive customer walks by, which is fairly frequently, he'd point to her and say "hey, she looks good. Ask her out. Give her our usual thrifty's customer service!" or some other dirty comment to that effect. Which was, really, pretty hilarious.
And then we started talking about weird dates we've both been on. After swapping a few, we conclude, rather loudly, that "all women are crazy". We said it jokingly, with that sort of fond affection that is usually reserved for a well-loved poodle that can't stop pooping on the rug.
One of my co-workers, doing the dishes, turns to us, holding a long knife in one hand.
"Are.... you.... calling... me.... crazy!?" she said, her eyes wild and this weird sneer on her face.
Funniest thing I've seen all week.
Happy Birthday!
So, it's my friend Kate's birthday today. She is one year older, and beginning to enter those hazy years we like to describe as "the mid twenties". Or, as I like to look upon it, the time where, no matter where you are, you will be charged and tried as an adult for any misdemeanours you commit.
Or the time where "you should really know better".
Anyways. Enjoy the anniversary of your birth, Kate. Not that long ago (geologically speaking), you were, well, let's not think too deeply on what was going on. Because childbirth is icky. But yeah, that was what you were up to.
And I'm rambling.
This, ladies and gents, is what happens when you neglect your blog-writing duties for a while.
Or the time where "you should really know better".
Anyways. Enjoy the anniversary of your birth, Kate. Not that long ago (geologically speaking), you were, well, let's not think too deeply on what was going on. Because childbirth is icky. But yeah, that was what you were up to.
And I'm rambling.
This, ladies and gents, is what happens when you neglect your blog-writing duties for a while.
Weekly Haiku #62 - Streetside Lizards
...and they were pets, once
but now the garbage is home
"to serve in heaven"?
69 Years Ago...
Tomorrow is my birthday. I turn 28. For those that can't do math, I was born on August 20th, 1983. It's not really a very noteworthy day - The Police released "every breath you take" on an unsuspecting world, but beyond that, it was more or less an okay day.
Forty-one years before, though, it was hell in one little part of the world, for a small collection of Canadians who were ready to do their part for the War Effort going on. This was an event that would forever be known afterward as "The Dieppe Raid", or occasionally "The Dieppe Folly".
The raid was a dry rehearsal for later Allied amphibious assaults - the lessons learned would go on to influence the planning for the invasion of Normandy (D-Day) that would happen some two years later. But when this attack began, the planners were woefully unprepared for the devastation to come. The Canadians who were putting their asses on the line had no idea that their deaths were going to mean anything.
And they died. They died in droves.
Of the six thousand Canadians who were involved in the attacks, only 40% (a little over 2,400) made it back to England in one piece - the rest were killed, captured, or seriously wounded. In less than five hours, 3,600 Canadians had been taken from us, in one way or another. To be put another way, twelve men a minute were killed, wounded, or captured. For five hours.
The entire ten year mission in Afghanistan lost fewer people than those at Dieppe lost in twenty minutes.
I mention this because my grandfather was one of the people there. And he was one of the lucky few that made it back. There's this photo of his company taken a few days before the raid - all three hundred faces smiling at the camera. And then there's a photo of those still fit for active duty when they got back - eighteen beaten, haggard faces staring emptily at the camera.
And yet the raid is little remembered by anyone beyond war historians. Even in Canada, a country that celebrates Vimy Ridge and our landings on Juno Beach, the loss at Dieppe is one we rarely acknowledge. But every year, the day before I celebrate one more year of life in a land of freedom and boundless opportunity, I do my best to remember. And to reflect on the fact that many Canadian dead once lined the beaches of a far-off continent in a battle that is too often forgotten.
And every year, I promise to myself to do my part to help others - especially Canadians, as this battle was our legacy - to remember.
Hence, this post.
Forty-one years before, though, it was hell in one little part of the world, for a small collection of Canadians who were ready to do their part for the War Effort going on. This was an event that would forever be known afterward as "The Dieppe Raid", or occasionally "The Dieppe Folly".
The raid was a dry rehearsal for later Allied amphibious assaults - the lessons learned would go on to influence the planning for the invasion of Normandy (D-Day) that would happen some two years later. But when this attack began, the planners were woefully unprepared for the devastation to come. The Canadians who were putting their asses on the line had no idea that their deaths were going to mean anything.
And they died. They died in droves.
Of the six thousand Canadians who were involved in the attacks, only 40% (a little over 2,400) made it back to England in one piece - the rest were killed, captured, or seriously wounded. In less than five hours, 3,600 Canadians had been taken from us, in one way or another. To be put another way, twelve men a minute were killed, wounded, or captured. For five hours.
The entire ten year mission in Afghanistan lost fewer people than those at Dieppe lost in twenty minutes.
I mention this because my grandfather was one of the people there. And he was one of the lucky few that made it back. There's this photo of his company taken a few days before the raid - all three hundred faces smiling at the camera. And then there's a photo of those still fit for active duty when they got back - eighteen beaten, haggard faces staring emptily at the camera.
And yet the raid is little remembered by anyone beyond war historians. Even in Canada, a country that celebrates Vimy Ridge and our landings on Juno Beach, the loss at Dieppe is one we rarely acknowledge. But every year, the day before I celebrate one more year of life in a land of freedom and boundless opportunity, I do my best to remember. And to reflect on the fact that many Canadian dead once lined the beaches of a far-off continent in a battle that is too often forgotten.
And every year, I promise to myself to do my part to help others - especially Canadians, as this battle was our legacy - to remember.
Hence, this post.
Weekly Haiku #65 - August 19th, 1942
feed the hungry guns
birds sweep down from leaden skies
and feast on lost boys
True Story:
I've decided that "hipster" shouldn't just apply to music. And it shouldn't just apply to douchebags in their mid twenties. Case in point, at my deli. I'm dealing with a customer who has to be in her sixties.
"I love Edamame."
"Yes, I know, it's really good. How much would you like?"
"I've been eating Edamame for years."
"That's great. So, a medium....?"
"When I first started eating Edamame, you couldn't get it in the grocery store. Nobody had ever heard of it. That's when I first had it. I was probably one of the first people in this city who ate Edamame...."
"...or a large....?"
"You couldn't get it a grocery store. You'd ask for Edamame, and they'd just look at you. But now it's popular, and everyone's eating it."
"Well, it is good."
"Yes, yes it is."
"So, how much Edamame can I get for you?"
"Oh, I don't eat Edamame anymore."
*walks away*
"I love Edamame."
"Yes, I know, it's really good. How much would you like?"
"I've been eating Edamame for years."
"That's great. So, a medium....?"
"When I first started eating Edamame, you couldn't get it in the grocery store. Nobody had ever heard of it. That's when I first had it. I was probably one of the first people in this city who ate Edamame...."
"...or a large....?"
"You couldn't get it a grocery store. You'd ask for Edamame, and they'd just look at you. But now it's popular, and everyone's eating it."
"Well, it is good."
"Yes, yes it is."
"So, how much Edamame can I get for you?"
"Oh, I don't eat Edamame anymore."
*walks away*
AWOL
I've been AWOL for a little while. This was entirely due to being overworked, and worried far too much about my upcoming surgery. Well, the surgery is over with and done, and work has slowed down for a little bit over the next few weeks (but not so slow that I won't make money, thank the godless universe!).
Anyways. I hope to get back to my regular blogging self, but it still might be a few more days while I deal with painkillers, dressings, and all the other post surgery crapola that is about as fun, as, well, pre-surgery.
The Canadian music reviews will be finished in one massive post. I'm kind of upset I didn't accomplish my original plan... but real life trumps blog, I guess.
Anyways. I hope to get back to my regular blogging self, but it still might be a few more days while I deal with painkillers, dressings, and all the other post surgery crapola that is about as fun, as, well, pre-surgery.
The Canadian music reviews will be finished in one massive post. I'm kind of upset I didn't accomplish my original plan... but real life trumps blog, I guess.
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