one twelfth of a year
spent awaiting just one day
keep greasing the wheels
Anatomy of a Night On the Town:
Following are some of the texts I sent my brother, trying to convince him to leave his computer (he had just bought Skyrim) and come out drinking with me. Except for a few minor interruptions, I'll let them speak for themselves. I'm in blue. Bro is italics.
10:01 PM: Sugar. Come. there is a band. Booze is cheap. Women are cute and plentiful. Also... booze is plentiful and the women are cheap.
10:05 PM: You know what's better than pixels and imaginary adventure? 3$ shots and floozies. Also, parakeets, but that doesn't really apply here.
10:09 PM: K dragons down in free for sugar now.
10:16 PM: Woot! Get your ass down ehere!
10:16 PM: Working on it
10:16 PM: Score.
10:17 PM: Its 20 cover. If you camt get in well bounce and head somewhere
10:17 PM: spotting for NAME. Cant afford 40 in cover.
10:18 PM: Shit. Um. Meet up with us later then?
10:18 PM: ??
10:19 PM: I can do a night out but not a total of 40 cover.
10:20 PM: If youre spotting for NAME.. hm. Were catching a band. Meet us downtown at 1130 or so? You can skip the band and we can drink like pros.
10:21 PM: any ideas where we might just hit somewhere else to start
10:23 PM: Hm. Dunno. Im half blasted already. Hit bbjs?
(BBJs is code for "Big Bad John's", Victoria's oldest and sleaziest bar. The walls are covered in old photos and there's a house rule that if you hang your bra from the ceiling, you get a free drink. It is, in a word, AWESOME. It's a tradition of ours that we start all of our drinking at Big Bad John's).
10:24 PM: Can meet there at 11:30 then
10:25 PM: Gotcha. Will do.
11:14 PM: Muight be late. NAME and i are gonna drink 80 in shots.
11:28 PM: ...That sounds like a GREAT idea
11:28 PM: Agreed.
11:31 PM: Winning?
11:32 PM: Meh.
11:41 PM: K. Were doing this. Ohhhhh yeah.
11:42 PM: lmao
11:45 PM: fuckinjg awesome
11:45 PM: You gonna make it?,
11:46 PM: Oh yeah. they were just pormn stars
(Disclaimer: While I make off that I drank half of the 80$ in shots, this is not entirely true. A buddy bought 80$ in shots, but shared it with about six or seven people. I had quite a few of those drinks - as the original plan was to drink $40 each - but I didn't drink half of the shots.
I did, however, have about $30 in shots before this point, so I did ultimately drink more than $50 in shots before leaving Sugar. And that's not counting the triple rye and gingers I'd been drinking liberally for the past hour and a bit. I figure, by this point in the narrative, I'd already had at least $50 in cheap shots, three triple rye and gingers, and a single rye and ginger. And the night was still young).
11:49 PM: K. leaving sugar. Where you at?
11:49 PM: BBJ
11:50 PM: Gotcha. Wanna meet there or Garricks head?
11:52 PM: Here has table
11:52 PM: K. There in 10.
11:52 PM: 15... hot dog stand
(there was indeed an outdoor hot dog stand. But I wasn't drunk enough to pay five bucks for a hot dog. Apparently, I have standards, even when drunk).
11:53 PM: lol
11:55 PM: theres a line to get in dude2
11:56 PM: Yes there is dude1?
11:57 PM: Don't make if typies. Did you have 40 in shots? No? I didnt think so. All things considered, i am a drunk texting GOD.
11:57 PM: Well maybe a demigod. You are, after all, a dude.
11:57 PM: Think of the tradition dude1 think of the tradition!
12:00 AM: For Rome!
12:00 AM: For Rome!
(So my brother and I have another drinking tradition - we always order a drink known as a "Gladiator", and then clink glasses while making ridiculous postures and shouting "For Rome!". This tradition started on a rather unfortunate night, but for some reason, it's stuck.)
12:01 AM: Are we doing those? Or is it every man fior hisself?
12:01 AM: Sure thing!
12:03 AM: Groovy.
12:03 AM: How far back in line
12:03 AM: 3rd
12:04 AM: Cool beans
(while texting here, I was also talking to two women well into their forties, trying to get into the bar. Eventually, I got in, had a few drinks with my brother and his friend, and we wound up wandering around Victoria.
In about an hour and a half, we hit both the Garrick's Head Pub, where we were kicked out because it was "last call" - at 1 am on a saturday night! - and then in some nameless bar that I insisted was the best bar in Victoria.
There was also an incident at a Burger King where I dared my brother to make his entire meal order in the form of haiku, which earned me the title of "Coolest guy ever" from some other drunk dude waiting in line.
Then the night ended, but not before I shot out one brilliant little text as I stumbled home).
1:46 AM: I have it all figured out. We form a band. Somehow, this gets me chicks. Then, world domination. Also, juno award.
10:01 PM: Sugar. Come. there is a band. Booze is cheap. Women are cute and plentiful. Also... booze is plentiful and the women are cheap.
10:05 PM: You know what's better than pixels and imaginary adventure? 3$ shots and floozies. Also, parakeets, but that doesn't really apply here.
10:09 PM: K dragons down in free for sugar now.
10:16 PM: Woot! Get your ass down ehere!
10:16 PM: Working on it
10:16 PM: Score.
10:17 PM: Its 20 cover. If you camt get in well bounce and head somewhere
10:17 PM: spotting for NAME. Cant afford 40 in cover.
10:18 PM: Shit. Um. Meet up with us later then?
10:18 PM: ??
10:19 PM: I can do a night out but not a total of 40 cover.
10:20 PM: If youre spotting for NAME.. hm. Were catching a band. Meet us downtown at 1130 or so? You can skip the band and we can drink like pros.
10:21 PM: any ideas where we might just hit somewhere else to start
10:23 PM: Hm. Dunno. Im half blasted already. Hit bbjs?
(BBJs is code for "Big Bad John's", Victoria's oldest and sleaziest bar. The walls are covered in old photos and there's a house rule that if you hang your bra from the ceiling, you get a free drink. It is, in a word, AWESOME. It's a tradition of ours that we start all of our drinking at Big Bad John's).
10:24 PM: Can meet there at 11:30 then
10:25 PM: Gotcha. Will do.
11:14 PM: Muight be late. NAME and i are gonna drink 80 in shots.
11:28 PM: ...That sounds like a GREAT idea
11:28 PM: Agreed.
11:31 PM: Winning?
11:32 PM: Meh.
11:41 PM: K. Were doing this. Ohhhhh yeah.
11:42 PM: lmao
11:45 PM: fuckinjg awesome
11:45 PM: You gonna make it?,
11:46 PM: Oh yeah. they were just pormn stars
(Disclaimer: While I make off that I drank half of the 80$ in shots, this is not entirely true. A buddy bought 80$ in shots, but shared it with about six or seven people. I had quite a few of those drinks - as the original plan was to drink $40 each - but I didn't drink half of the shots.
I did, however, have about $30 in shots before this point, so I did ultimately drink more than $50 in shots before leaving Sugar. And that's not counting the triple rye and gingers I'd been drinking liberally for the past hour and a bit. I figure, by this point in the narrative, I'd already had at least $50 in cheap shots, three triple rye and gingers, and a single rye and ginger. And the night was still young).
11:49 PM: K. leaving sugar. Where you at?
11:49 PM: BBJ
11:50 PM: Gotcha. Wanna meet there or Garricks head?
11:52 PM: Here has table
11:52 PM: K. There in 10.
11:52 PM: 15... hot dog stand
(there was indeed an outdoor hot dog stand. But I wasn't drunk enough to pay five bucks for a hot dog. Apparently, I have standards, even when drunk).
11:53 PM: lol
11:55 PM: theres a line to get in dude2
11:56 PM: Yes there is dude1?
11:57 PM: Don't make if typies. Did you have 40 in shots? No? I didnt think so. All things considered, i am a drunk texting GOD.
11:57 PM: Well maybe a demigod. You are, after all, a dude.
11:57 PM: Think of the tradition dude1 think of the tradition!
12:00 AM: For Rome!
12:00 AM: For Rome!
(So my brother and I have another drinking tradition - we always order a drink known as a "Gladiator", and then clink glasses while making ridiculous postures and shouting "For Rome!". This tradition started on a rather unfortunate night, but for some reason, it's stuck.)
12:01 AM: Are we doing those? Or is it every man fior hisself?
12:01 AM: Sure thing!
12:03 AM: Groovy.
12:03 AM: How far back in line
12:03 AM: 3rd
12:04 AM: Cool beans
(while texting here, I was also talking to two women well into their forties, trying to get into the bar. Eventually, I got in, had a few drinks with my brother and his friend, and we wound up wandering around Victoria.
In about an hour and a half, we hit both the Garrick's Head Pub, where we were kicked out because it was "last call" - at 1 am on a saturday night! - and then in some nameless bar that I insisted was the best bar in Victoria.
There was also an incident at a Burger King where I dared my brother to make his entire meal order in the form of haiku, which earned me the title of "Coolest guy ever" from some other drunk dude waiting in line.
Then the night ended, but not before I shot out one brilliant little text as I stumbled home).
1:46 AM: I have it all figured out. We form a band. Somehow, this gets me chicks. Then, world domination. Also, juno award.
The night of Rich Aucoin
I was going to write a review about The Arkells' live show, held at Sugar last saturday night. But, unfortunately, that plan fell through. And the blame rests solely on the shoulders of Rich Aucoin.
But allow me to take a step back.
It all started a few months ago, when the Schlesbian said something along the lines of "Hey, who wants to go see the Arkells in a few months?"
About three seconds after saying "Sure, I'd love to spend twenty bucks on a ticket to go see the Arkells!" I said "Hey, who are the Arkells?"
I was played a clip of one of their songs, listened to it for a few seconds, and figured, meh, why not? This was, more or less, my only knowledge of the band heading into their show. But I've gone into live shows with even less foreknowledge of the band, so this was really nothing new.
I got to Sugar early enough that I was able to strike up a friendship with the bartender - enough that he decided he was going to give me double rye and gingers (that were really triples) for the price of a single. As I am not a very charismatic individual, I believe this once again proves my theory that simply talking to your bartender (and a generous tip) will pay dividends down the road.
I met up with some friends, and we had a few drinks and discussed the events of the day. We noted that we were "the old guys" in the crowd - the average age seemed to be around 20, which is odd when it's not an all-ages show. But, whatever... it was bound to happen sooner or later.
Then, Rich Aucoin, the opener, came on stage. And let me just say - gah. He had a projector that played little homemade videos that accompanied his songs. He made sure to let the audience know the lyrics to each song, so they would join in on the singing. He played simplified dance music that was adorned with indie-punk style repetitive vocals. He held an arclight in one hand so that the crowd could always see him. And he just projected the utmost neediness I've never seen in an opener. Ever.
Even when he did cool stuff - like taking a parachute out and letting the crowd play with it while he sang a song - it failed to catch me, because he was using far too many props to accompany piss poor music. Timing your banter in between songs so it syncs up with your multimedia presentation so you can have a "conversation" with Antoine Dodson (dude, that was so last year!) is probably the lamest thing in the world - it just shows that you have absolutely no musical improvisation skills!
Also, skinny white guys should never wear muscle shirts. I am guilty of this, too, but I don't wear them in front of large crowds.
The best part? At the end of the show, he put up his phone number, so people could text him with feedback on his show and ask for free copies of his music (even though he was tryign to sell his music in the merch section). This so reeked of neediness that Squee and I sent him some very disparaging texts that I feel sort of bad about, after the fact.
Of course, by the end of the show, I was pretty drunk - I needed something to get me through the worst opener ever, and the bartender was doing his best to speed things along. Not to mention the point in the night where eighty dollars of shots were downed by a handful of people in only thirty seconds (true story).
I watched the first three songs by the Arkells, and don't remember them at all. I do remember stumbling out of the club and going on a random adventure with my brother that was just a little shy of epic. So I guess I can thank Mr. Aucoin for that, at least.
But allow me to take a step back.
It all started a few months ago, when the Schlesbian said something along the lines of "Hey, who wants to go see the Arkells in a few months?"
About three seconds after saying "Sure, I'd love to spend twenty bucks on a ticket to go see the Arkells!" I said "Hey, who are the Arkells?"
I was played a clip of one of their songs, listened to it for a few seconds, and figured, meh, why not? This was, more or less, my only knowledge of the band heading into their show. But I've gone into live shows with even less foreknowledge of the band, so this was really nothing new.
I got to Sugar early enough that I was able to strike up a friendship with the bartender - enough that he decided he was going to give me double rye and gingers (that were really triples) for the price of a single. As I am not a very charismatic individual, I believe this once again proves my theory that simply talking to your bartender (and a generous tip) will pay dividends down the road.
I met up with some friends, and we had a few drinks and discussed the events of the day. We noted that we were "the old guys" in the crowd - the average age seemed to be around 20, which is odd when it's not an all-ages show. But, whatever... it was bound to happen sooner or later.
Then, Rich Aucoin, the opener, came on stage. And let me just say - gah. He had a projector that played little homemade videos that accompanied his songs. He made sure to let the audience know the lyrics to each song, so they would join in on the singing. He played simplified dance music that was adorned with indie-punk style repetitive vocals. He held an arclight in one hand so that the crowd could always see him. And he just projected the utmost neediness I've never seen in an opener. Ever.
Even when he did cool stuff - like taking a parachute out and letting the crowd play with it while he sang a song - it failed to catch me, because he was using far too many props to accompany piss poor music. Timing your banter in between songs so it syncs up with your multimedia presentation so you can have a "conversation" with Antoine Dodson (dude, that was so last year!) is probably the lamest thing in the world - it just shows that you have absolutely no musical improvisation skills!
Also, skinny white guys should never wear muscle shirts. I am guilty of this, too, but I don't wear them in front of large crowds.
The best part? At the end of the show, he put up his phone number, so people could text him with feedback on his show and ask for free copies of his music (even though he was tryign to sell his music in the merch section). This so reeked of neediness that Squee and I sent him some very disparaging texts that I feel sort of bad about, after the fact.
Of course, by the end of the show, I was pretty drunk - I needed something to get me through the worst opener ever, and the bartender was doing his best to speed things along. Not to mention the point in the night where eighty dollars of shots were downed by a handful of people in only thirty seconds (true story).
I watched the first three songs by the Arkells, and don't remember them at all. I do remember stumbling out of the club and going on a random adventure with my brother that was just a little shy of epic. So I guess I can thank Mr. Aucoin for that, at least.
First Aid Stuff
I had a first aid call last weekend. It was a pretty hectic one, too - an unconscious patient, maintaining of C-Spine, paramedics, oxygen, and everything else. I spent a good twenty minutes cramped in a cashier booth, doing my best to comfort an unconscious woman while she went through multiple seizures.
That's not the interesting part. Or rather, while it was interesting for me, I can't really go into details anyway, and it's not a particularly funny story worth sharing here.
What is interesting, and maybe just a bit funny, was me, immediately afterwards.
Because, while everyone else was worried that my patient (is that the right word?) might not make it through the night, I was riding an adrenaline high, and felt like I could take on the world.
I didn't do a great job hiding the grin. So I hid in the deli cooler, stacking hams until I came down from the high.
Sometimes, I think there's something really wrong with me.
For what it's worth, the woman is okay, and will return to work within a few days.
That's not the interesting part. Or rather, while it was interesting for me, I can't really go into details anyway, and it's not a particularly funny story worth sharing here.
What is interesting, and maybe just a bit funny, was me, immediately afterwards.
Because, while everyone else was worried that my patient (is that the right word?) might not make it through the night, I was riding an adrenaline high, and felt like I could take on the world.
I didn't do a great job hiding the grin. So I hid in the deli cooler, stacking hams until I came down from the high.
Sometimes, I think there's something really wrong with me.
For what it's worth, the woman is okay, and will return to work within a few days.
And now, another episode of...
True story:
I was walking to work this morning, blearily rubbing the remnants of sleep out of my eyes. I had been awake until the wee hours, engaged in a marathon run through the entire Walking Dead series.
I was headed down gorge road as a light rain fell. The streets were quiet, with only a single car pulled over, flashing lights. An ill wind blew through the streets. Looking to my right, I saw a shape shamble out from behind a building, moving jerkily. The skin was pallid, and the clothing was all a uniform gray, tattered and torn.
Walker! my mind screamed, as it shambled towards me.
I reached for my shotgun, and levelled it at the walker's face, waiting for it to draw closer so I wouldn't waste the ammunition. And that was when I realized my "walker" was actually just an old woman - complete with a miniature poodle-rat, lime green jumper, and those little ropes that keep your glasses attached to your face that are standard issue for anyone over the age of sixty three.
I breathed a sigh of relief, though I was a bit shaken at how close I had come to blowing little ol' Gams' face off.
I mean, Public education people! Knowing how to distinguish between walkers and senior citizens might just save your own life... it could save the life of your grandparents.
In the interest of public safety, it's time for another episode of...
I was walking to work this morning, blearily rubbing the remnants of sleep out of my eyes. I had been awake until the wee hours, engaged in a marathon run through the entire Walking Dead series.
I was headed down gorge road as a light rain fell. The streets were quiet, with only a single car pulled over, flashing lights. An ill wind blew through the streets. Looking to my right, I saw a shape shamble out from behind a building, moving jerkily. The skin was pallid, and the clothing was all a uniform gray, tattered and torn.
Walker! my mind screamed, as it shambled towards me.
I reached for my shotgun, and levelled it at the walker's face, waiting for it to draw closer so I wouldn't waste the ammunition. And that was when I realized my "walker" was actually just an old woman - complete with a miniature poodle-rat, lime green jumper, and those little ropes that keep your glasses attached to your face that are standard issue for anyone over the age of sixty three.
I breathed a sigh of relief, though I was a bit shaken at how close I had come to blowing little ol' Gams' face off.
I mean, Public education people! Knowing how to distinguish between walkers and senior citizens might just save your own life... it could save the life of your grandparents.
In the interest of public safety, it's time for another episode of...
Scenario One: Individually-Wrapped Candies
Situation: You are at an ABC Country restaurant, sitting in a diner that hasn't seen a vaccuum since the 1950s, back when they were called "Double Turbine Vacu-Flush-amatic machines". In the booth next to you, a creature with curly blue hair, numerous vericose veins, and long talons studiously works at trying to open a caramel candy wrapped in a gold foil. It takes long, sharp breaths, assisted by a gas mask strapped to its face. In front of the creature is a plate of mashed potatoes that have long since gone cold.
Zombie, or Bitty?
Answer: Dude, that's someone's grandmother! And open her damned candy, before she passes out. She's diabetic, you know.
Scenario Two: The Blue Nudist
Situation: While sitting at a beach with your delightfully trampy girlfriend, you can't help but discuss the possibility of sex. "Come on, baby, no one will notice us out here...." you say, slipping an arm around her while she snuggles into your varsity jacket. Of course, at this moment, a strange creature emerges from the surf, with pallid skin that hangs down in folds. It has shaggy, disgusting hair that is matted with sand, seaweed, and trapped sea creatures. Whatever clothing it may once have had has long since dissolved away from the sea foam.
Zombie, or Bitty?
Answer: This is what happens to hippies who grow old - they wander naked around beaches unashamed of their bodies, even though they really should be. And it's only going to get worse, because soon, the hippies won't just be going naked due to misguided notions of sexual freedom, but because they've forgotten to take their Alzheimer's meds. Don't worry if you guessed "Zombie", though - no one's going to mind if you put a bullet in an aging hippy's skull.
Scenario Three: Scrubs
Situation: You are in a hospital, having just awakened from a coma caused by a gunshot/car crash/paralytic plant venom/global warming. No one seems to be around, and it is strangely quiet. After exploring a few rooms, you pull a call light for urgent response. A moment later, a figure dressed in scrubs shuffles towards you, a towel folded underneath one arm. Blue hair emerges from a tatterred bandana. "Brains?" the figure asks politely, still shuffling towards you.
Zombie, or Bitty?
Answer: This one's a toughy. While the figure is polite, and asks for brains in a reasonable voice, the fact that it is asking for brains at all suggests zombie. However, the real clue here is the response to the call light - everyone knows that real hospital staff never instantly respond to call lights. Yup, that's a zombie: have fun shooting!
Your Score:
How'd you do? If you did poorly, don't feel too bad - think of this as a learning experience! Just be on your guard in future scenarios. And remember the golden rule: when in doubt, assume zombie! Failing to shoot a zombie will result in a violent death, and the loss of vital brains, whereas killing a senior citizen will only be noticed at the next civic holiday.
Weekly Haiku #70 - The Banana Slug
the banana slug
-named for its shape and colour-
...not fun to step on
Evil Crevaka...
Way, way back in 2008, I had a friend who insisted I watch Fox's discontinued series, Firefly. I refused. "Dave, the show is awesome. You'll totally love it!"
"No thanks. I don't like Star Wars or Star Trek. Space TV shows suck. Not my thing," I said, absolutely confident that I had the show pegged.
Of course, I unknowingly rented Serenity, the movie based off Firefly, and loved it. Loved it so much, in fact, that I watched the special features and learned of the Firefly connection. Then I watched Firefly, and fell in love with the show.
Then, a year later, in 2009, I mentioned this to another friend of mine, and she told me in response that I should watch Dr. Horrible's Singalong Blog. Once again, I shook my head.
"No thanks. I'm not a big fan of musicals, and I think the Neil Patrick Harris love is kind of overrated."
And, once again, I ate my words.
2010 rolled around, and another friend was amazed I hadn't seen the IT Crowd, and that I had to watch it - after all, it was pretty much the UK version of The Big Bang Theory, a show I absolutely love.
"No thanks. I'm not big on British Comedy for the most part, and shows about Nerds aren't really my thing."
My words were eaten again.
Flash forward to most of 2011, when that friend from 2008 told me I had to watch AMC's The Walking Dead - that it was a show right up my alley. And, still having not learned my lesson, I shrugged and said,
"No thanks. I've never liked Zombie movies."
Then I watched an episode (it was on in the background) and fell in love. I watched the entire series in one day. And have become thoroughly addicted to the show.
I've also realized I need to listen to my friends when they offer recommendations. This is a big revelation for me... but it also means that now I've got a LOT of TV to catch up on. The entire Buffy the Vampire Slayer series, for example. Dollhouse. Various incarnations of Dr. Who. And perhaps most frighteningly, Lost.
I have a feeling I'll have a lot of work cut out for me in 2012.
"No thanks. I don't like Star Wars or Star Trek. Space TV shows suck. Not my thing," I said, absolutely confident that I had the show pegged.
Of course, I unknowingly rented Serenity, the movie based off Firefly, and loved it. Loved it so much, in fact, that I watched the special features and learned of the Firefly connection. Then I watched Firefly, and fell in love with the show.
Then, a year later, in 2009, I mentioned this to another friend of mine, and she told me in response that I should watch Dr. Horrible's Singalong Blog. Once again, I shook my head.
"No thanks. I'm not a big fan of musicals, and I think the Neil Patrick Harris love is kind of overrated."
And, once again, I ate my words.
2010 rolled around, and another friend was amazed I hadn't seen the IT Crowd, and that I had to watch it - after all, it was pretty much the UK version of The Big Bang Theory, a show I absolutely love.
"No thanks. I'm not big on British Comedy for the most part, and shows about Nerds aren't really my thing."
My words were eaten again.
Flash forward to most of 2011, when that friend from 2008 told me I had to watch AMC's The Walking Dead - that it was a show right up my alley. And, still having not learned my lesson, I shrugged and said,
"No thanks. I've never liked Zombie movies."
Then I watched an episode (it was on in the background) and fell in love. I watched the entire series in one day. And have become thoroughly addicted to the show.
I've also realized I need to listen to my friends when they offer recommendations. This is a big revelation for me... but it also means that now I've got a LOT of TV to catch up on. The entire Buffy the Vampire Slayer series, for example. Dollhouse. Various incarnations of Dr. Who. And perhaps most frighteningly, Lost.
I have a feeling I'll have a lot of work cut out for me in 2012.
A Challenge:
Today is remembrance day. The day that we honour the veterans of the last century of warfare. The day we remember sacrifices made in the name of freedom and safety, and say "thanks".
Here's a challenge to everyone out there. Today, find five veterans, and simply tell them "Thank you". Buy them coffee if you can, shake their hands, whatever works. It doesn't have to be world war two vets in full battle regalia at the parades, either. If you see a guy in fatigues at a grocery store, say something.
Hell, let's extend it, so it's not just a military thing. Say "thanks" to people that deserve it, but rarely hear it. People that make sacrifices that are often unsung. Say "thanks" to a cop, paramedic, firefighter, nurse, soldier, whatever.
That's your challenge for the day. If you're up to it.
Here's a challenge to everyone out there. Today, find five veterans, and simply tell them "Thank you". Buy them coffee if you can, shake their hands, whatever works. It doesn't have to be world war two vets in full battle regalia at the parades, either. If you see a guy in fatigues at a grocery store, say something.
Hell, let's extend it, so it's not just a military thing. Say "thanks" to people that deserve it, but rarely hear it. People that make sacrifices that are often unsung. Say "thanks" to a cop, paramedic, firefighter, nurse, soldier, whatever.
That's your challenge for the day. If you're up to it.
Weekly Haiku #69 - Ponder this
there's only eight notes
to fill a thousand albums
million words... few thoughts.
Me being an asshole, the science of ghosts, and a firefly quote:
I'm an asshole. I'm also an atheist, and a skeptic.
These three things, when combined, are a very, very bad combination.
Case in point. I'm listening to a woman describe how she is studying to become an investigator for the paranormal. Her goal is to help people exorcize and remove the ghosts that plague homes. Because, apparently, ghosts are more common on the coast (who knew?).
I sighed, and after listening to her go on and on about the "science" of ghosts, offered a solution.
"I know a surefire way to get rid of any ghosts in your house," I said, taking a sip of coffee.
"Oh? How?"
"Weatherproof your fucking house."
She did not find this amusing. But I laughed. To quote a bearded fellow from a certain episode of Firefly: "I cannot abide stupid people."
These three things, when combined, are a very, very bad combination.
Case in point. I'm listening to a woman describe how she is studying to become an investigator for the paranormal. Her goal is to help people exorcize and remove the ghosts that plague homes. Because, apparently, ghosts are more common on the coast (who knew?).
I sighed, and after listening to her go on and on about the "science" of ghosts, offered a solution.
"I know a surefire way to get rid of any ghosts in your house," I said, taking a sip of coffee.
"Oh? How?"
"Weatherproof your fucking house."
She did not find this amusing. But I laughed. To quote a bearded fellow from a certain episode of Firefly: "I cannot abide stupid people."
I'm young
I shaved the beard.
This was probably a mistake.
Even when I had the beard, people thought I was a lot younger than I really am. They would guess I was twenty three, or twenty four, when in reality, I'm much closer to thirty (I'm twenty-eight).
Then I shaved the beard, a few days before halloween.
In the last week, I've suffered through the following:
This was probably a mistake.
Even when I had the beard, people thought I was a lot younger than I really am. They would guess I was twenty three, or twenty four, when in reality, I'm much closer to thirty (I'm twenty-eight).
Then I shaved the beard, a few days before halloween.
In the last week, I've suffered through the following:
- During a first aid course, a guy told me about his recent nineteenth birthday. He concluded a rather stereotypical story with an interested "Are you nineteen yet? What are you going to do for your birthday?". Sigh.
- I was called in to work a shift at a different store location than my "home" store. At the end of the shift, a girl I had been talking to throughout the night (who told me she was eighteen) asked me if she could buy me coffee, and then batted morse code with her eyelashes at me. I told her I'd prefer to stay unarrested, thankyouverymuch.
- An older lady told me yesterday that I was "too young to know how long a foot is". I don't really know what she meant by that. Because unless something's changed, a foot has been twelve inches for several centuries, has it not?
A Moody Post
Things have been rather rough the last year, but I'm not so self-centred that I fail to see when shit happens to other people.
In October, a co-worker of mine had probably the worst month of his life. He was diagnosed with Diabetes, he was mugged, and saw (along with everyone else) his hours get cut back. And yet I watched as he'd shrug, and keep on moving forward.
Something I can identify with, absolutely.
But I find myself thinking - is anyone enjoying this goddamn year? Does anyone else find themselves looking forward to 2012, end of the world or not?
In October, a co-worker of mine had probably the worst month of his life. He was diagnosed with Diabetes, he was mugged, and saw (along with everyone else) his hours get cut back. And yet I watched as he'd shrug, and keep on moving forward.
Something I can identify with, absolutely.
But I find myself thinking - is anyone enjoying this goddamn year? Does anyone else find themselves looking forward to 2012, end of the world or not?
The Housecoat:
I moved into this bachelor pad about three months ago. Since it apparently takes me more than three months to unpack all my stuff, there are still boxes in my apartment. The funny thing is, I'm moving again, so it seems like some of my stuff is already packed.
This would be a good thing. Except, I'm an idiot.
I've unpacked much of what was already packed, simply so I can have the vicarious thrill of packing it again. This is what a dog must feel like when he eats his own barf.
(Yeah, I just compared unpacking stuff and then instantly repacking it to a dog eating his own vomit. If any of you are wondering why I'm single after reading a sentence like that... please post your phone number and a recent photograph in the comments section, because I would like to meet you.)
Anyways, while unpacking all my old shit, I discovered an old friend. And like the good friend that he is, he was protecting my old nintendo from damage. Yes, wrapped around my ancient NES was that rarest of rares - the comfy, worn-in housecoat.
For those that don't know, the housecoat is sort of like an accessory for lazy shut-ins. It is a vital piece of wardrobe for bachelors and the socially inept, a costume necessity in much the same way that superheroes require capes, chefs require absurd hats, the french require striped shirts, and mullet people require wrestling t-shirts.
Wearing a housecoat, shut-ins such as myself are well suited for picking up the mail wearing nothing else but shorts and wool socks. They are fit for cleaning up minor spills while cooking without having to get a cloth. And, if they're at all like me, they never have to worry about finding their capo or a spare pick while they play guitar, because not only is the housecoat super comfy - it also has pockets, yo.
Alas, the coat had a darkside, too - as anyone who has seen The Big Lebowski knows, frequent wearing of the housecoat inevitably leads to someone pissing all over your rug, both metaphorically and literally speaking. And so I put it away, for bigger and better things.
Not that it lasted. Because here I am again, wearing that old wardrobe necessity, feeling like some sort of flannel superhero. And, like any house-coat hero, I've completely put off packing in favour of sitting in front of the computer.
This would be a good thing. Except, I'm an idiot.
I've unpacked much of what was already packed, simply so I can have the vicarious thrill of packing it again. This is what a dog must feel like when he eats his own barf.
(Yeah, I just compared unpacking stuff and then instantly repacking it to a dog eating his own vomit. If any of you are wondering why I'm single after reading a sentence like that... please post your phone number and a recent photograph in the comments section, because I would like to meet you.)
Anyways, while unpacking all my old shit, I discovered an old friend. And like the good friend that he is, he was protecting my old nintendo from damage. Yes, wrapped around my ancient NES was that rarest of rares - the comfy, worn-in housecoat.
For those that don't know, the housecoat is sort of like an accessory for lazy shut-ins. It is a vital piece of wardrobe for bachelors and the socially inept, a costume necessity in much the same way that superheroes require capes, chefs require absurd hats, the french require striped shirts, and mullet people require wrestling t-shirts.
Wearing a housecoat, shut-ins such as myself are well suited for picking up the mail wearing nothing else but shorts and wool socks. They are fit for cleaning up minor spills while cooking without having to get a cloth. And, if they're at all like me, they never have to worry about finding their capo or a spare pick while they play guitar, because not only is the housecoat super comfy - it also has pockets, yo.
Alas, the coat had a darkside, too - as anyone who has seen The Big Lebowski knows, frequent wearing of the housecoat inevitably leads to someone pissing all over your rug, both metaphorically and literally speaking. And so I put it away, for bigger and better things.
Not that it lasted. Because here I am again, wearing that old wardrobe necessity, feeling like some sort of flannel superhero. And, like any house-coat hero, I've completely put off packing in favour of sitting in front of the computer.
Ugh.
I'm moving out of Victoria, at least for the time being. My last day here will be November 31st, looks like.
The reason? Basically, I'm only able to tread water at this point. I work far too many hours, and spend far too much on insulin and rent, to make any sort of headway. Every month, I make around negative one hundred dollars, in the grand scheme of things. If Charles Dickens were around these days, he'd write a book about me.
It'd be one of those books that only people who really loved Charles Dickens would know about, the hipster literati, if you will, but still. There'd be a book about me.
Anyways, If I want to make any sort of headway, something has to change, and that means getting my butt out of here. Staying in a crappy situation simply because you enjoy your surroundings and don't want change is bone-ass stupid. Sometimes, you have to take the unpleasant route in the short term for success in the longterm. Or, as my mother put it last week, "You're not getting any younger".
Thanks, mom. You know how to cheer a fella up.
So, the goal has shifted from "make next month's rent on time" to "finish up your goddamn degree and start making some money". And how best to do that? Move down to the nice rainy hills of Sooke while I work towards getting thaat degree. Actually, it'll be three degrees, by the time I'm done. In any case, it's probably the smartest move I've made in at least two and a half years. If not more.
But damn, I'm going to miss Victoria. I was walking down in James Bay the other day, as the sun was dipping past the hills, and wistfully sighed every time I walked past one building or another. A book store I've yet to visit. A cafe I've yet to sample. A restaurant I've missed out on the pleasure of dining at. An alleyway I've yet to pee in.
And so on, and so forth. There's a lot to Victoria, you see.
I've lived in Victoria for more than five years, and I haven't been sparse on trying new things. I've eaten at dozens (if not a hundred) different restaurants, had coffee or tea at just as many cafes, and gone book hunting all over town. I've been to more bars than I can count, and still have just as many more to visit still.
Compare this to Sooke, where, were I to go to a new restaurant every week, I would be making laps in less than two months. There are two bars. There is almost nothing in the way of live music. In fact, the only real "music" there is in Victoria is the guy who blares Metallica out of the stereo of his pickup truck while he drunkenly swerves to the bassline. Or the Eminem coming out of the stereo of the car Mr. Metallica is trying to arrest.
To add insult to injury, the place basically shuts down past 10 pm, which doesn't bode well for a career insomniac. I know from experience that the only thing you'll meet on a 3 am walk is an angry bear. You can't get a good cup of coffee at 3 am unless you make it yourself.
I grew up in Sooke, and was absolutely thrilled to leave the place. Not that it isn't beautiful - it's a gorgeous little town. But even though I grew up there, it was never really home. But now, I'm going back.
And yet, I'm looking forward to it. Because I'll finally be able to get back into school, and work towards the day when I can actually afford to live in Victoria. And visit all those cafes that remain unvisited, and dine at all those restaurants that remain undined. Someone else can deal with the alleyways.
The reason? Basically, I'm only able to tread water at this point. I work far too many hours, and spend far too much on insulin and rent, to make any sort of headway. Every month, I make around negative one hundred dollars, in the grand scheme of things. If Charles Dickens were around these days, he'd write a book about me.
It'd be one of those books that only people who really loved Charles Dickens would know about, the hipster literati, if you will, but still. There'd be a book about me.
Anyways, If I want to make any sort of headway, something has to change, and that means getting my butt out of here. Staying in a crappy situation simply because you enjoy your surroundings and don't want change is bone-ass stupid. Sometimes, you have to take the unpleasant route in the short term for success in the longterm. Or, as my mother put it last week, "You're not getting any younger".
Thanks, mom. You know how to cheer a fella up.
So, the goal has shifted from "make next month's rent on time" to "finish up your goddamn degree and start making some money". And how best to do that? Move down to the nice rainy hills of Sooke while I work towards getting thaat degree. Actually, it'll be three degrees, by the time I'm done. In any case, it's probably the smartest move I've made in at least two and a half years. If not more.
But damn, I'm going to miss Victoria. I was walking down in James Bay the other day, as the sun was dipping past the hills, and wistfully sighed every time I walked past one building or another. A book store I've yet to visit. A cafe I've yet to sample. A restaurant I've missed out on the pleasure of dining at. An alleyway I've yet to pee in.
And so on, and so forth. There's a lot to Victoria, you see.
I've lived in Victoria for more than five years, and I haven't been sparse on trying new things. I've eaten at dozens (if not a hundred) different restaurants, had coffee or tea at just as many cafes, and gone book hunting all over town. I've been to more bars than I can count, and still have just as many more to visit still.
Compare this to Sooke, where, were I to go to a new restaurant every week, I would be making laps in less than two months. There are two bars. There is almost nothing in the way of live music. In fact, the only real "music" there is in Victoria is the guy who blares Metallica out of the stereo of his pickup truck while he drunkenly swerves to the bassline. Or the Eminem coming out of the stereo of the car Mr. Metallica is trying to arrest.
To add insult to injury, the place basically shuts down past 10 pm, which doesn't bode well for a career insomniac. I know from experience that the only thing you'll meet on a 3 am walk is an angry bear. You can't get a good cup of coffee at 3 am unless you make it yourself.
I grew up in Sooke, and was absolutely thrilled to leave the place. Not that it isn't beautiful - it's a gorgeous little town. But even though I grew up there, it was never really home. But now, I'm going back.
And yet, I'm looking forward to it. Because I'll finally be able to get back into school, and work towards the day when I can actually afford to live in Victoria. And visit all those cafes that remain unvisited, and dine at all those restaurants that remain undined. Someone else can deal with the alleyways.
November Playlist:
God. Would you believe I haven't done a playlist in months? What the hell is wrong with me? Anyways, here's my playlist for November. It's a bit dark these days, with a heavy dose of blues and what I'd call "Musicality".
- Dan Mangan, "Jeopardy"
- Geinoh Yamashirogumi, "Mutation"
- Imaginary Cities, "Ride this Out"
- Black Mountain, "The Way to Gone"
- The Cave Singers, "Haystacks"
- Radiohead, "Give Up The Ghost"
- The Mountain Goats, "Michael Myers Resplendent"
- Hey Rosetta!, "Bandages"
- Laurena, "Permafrost"
- Arcade Fire, "The Suburbs"
Dan Mangan: "Oh Fortune" (2011, Arts and Crafts Records)
I've been a bit lax in my music reviews lately. Not because I haven't been listening, but mostly because I've been, well, lazy. But I digress.
Dan Mangan's latest offering has a wonderful little notice in the fine print, which reads "If you acquire it for free, and you enjoy it, please to a live show and bring a friend. If you paid for it, you should still come a show - but know that you are exceptionally wonderful".
How nice. While it has little to do with the album itself, it's something I like to see.
This is new territory for Mangan - it's no longer music built around an acoustic guitar. Gone are the country/folk phrasings of Postcards and Daydreaming, or the horns and radio-friendly indie accessibility of Nice, Nice, Very Nice. This is an album with a heavy dose of strings, organs, and atmospheric omnichord bits. Mangan also takes a stab at the electric guitar this time around, most particularly on "Post War Blues", an album that is about as distinctly "un-Mangan" as I can imagine.
It's also not very good. But it's the only song that I really dislike on the album, so maybe that's something. The other big stab at electric guitar works, "Rows of Houses", is actually really good - probably my favourite track on the album, in fact.
The album opens up with an honest to god waltz with "About as helpful as you can be without being any help at all", and then progresses into a moody piece called "how darwinian". The long-standing Mangan fan is probably going to be a bit confused by the first few tracks - it's not until the fourth track, "if I am dead" that we begin to hear that folksy Mangan-type song we all know and love. And we don't hear something that has any sort of cheer until we get to the fifth track, "Daffodil", which has an old-timey feel I definitely like.
Actually, the album really warms up after "Daffodil", with many great folksy songs that return to Mangan's roots while still being experimental enough that he's not just treading old ground. The title track, "Oh Fortune", is a great example of this, with a train-chugging riff that has an old-time rock and roll sound combined with that west coast indie feel we all love.
In all, it's a moodier version of Mangan. He's always had sad lyrics - this time around, the sounds tend to match those lyrics. Really, it's less rock and roll, and more blues. Less whistling, more wailing. And so on, and so forth. Try listening to the album-ending "Jeopardy" and trying to remain cheerful ("Where did I go?/what is this sorrow? where did I go? what am I doing?")
Bottom line? This isn't nearly as happy as his earlier work, but it's still a work that is absolutely creative and worth listening to. Rather than having you tapping your feet to infectious pop ballads, you'll be sipping coffee and thinking about lost loves and those who have left us. It's an album worth checking out, whether you buy it or find it for free. And in either case, do what the fine print says, and check him out live.
And bring a friend.
Dan Mangan's latest offering has a wonderful little notice in the fine print, which reads "If you acquire it for free, and you enjoy it, please to a live show and bring a friend. If you paid for it, you should still come a show - but know that you are exceptionally wonderful".
How nice. While it has little to do with the album itself, it's something I like to see.
This is new territory for Mangan - it's no longer music built around an acoustic guitar. Gone are the country/folk phrasings of Postcards and Daydreaming, or the horns and radio-friendly indie accessibility of Nice, Nice, Very Nice. This is an album with a heavy dose of strings, organs, and atmospheric omnichord bits. Mangan also takes a stab at the electric guitar this time around, most particularly on "Post War Blues", an album that is about as distinctly "un-Mangan" as I can imagine.
It's also not very good. But it's the only song that I really dislike on the album, so maybe that's something. The other big stab at electric guitar works, "Rows of Houses", is actually really good - probably my favourite track on the album, in fact.
The album opens up with an honest to god waltz with "About as helpful as you can be without being any help at all", and then progresses into a moody piece called "how darwinian". The long-standing Mangan fan is probably going to be a bit confused by the first few tracks - it's not until the fourth track, "if I am dead" that we begin to hear that folksy Mangan-type song we all know and love. And we don't hear something that has any sort of cheer until we get to the fifth track, "Daffodil", which has an old-timey feel I definitely like.
Actually, the album really warms up after "Daffodil", with many great folksy songs that return to Mangan's roots while still being experimental enough that he's not just treading old ground. The title track, "Oh Fortune", is a great example of this, with a train-chugging riff that has an old-time rock and roll sound combined with that west coast indie feel we all love.
In all, it's a moodier version of Mangan. He's always had sad lyrics - this time around, the sounds tend to match those lyrics. Really, it's less rock and roll, and more blues. Less whistling, more wailing. And so on, and so forth. Try listening to the album-ending "Jeopardy" and trying to remain cheerful ("Where did I go?/what is this sorrow? where did I go? what am I doing?")
Bottom line? This isn't nearly as happy as his earlier work, but it's still a work that is absolutely creative and worth listening to. Rather than having you tapping your feet to infectious pop ballads, you'll be sipping coffee and thinking about lost loves and those who have left us. It's an album worth checking out, whether you buy it or find it for free. And in either case, do what the fine print says, and check him out live.
And bring a friend.
Insomnia
The last week, I've had incredibly bad insomnia. There have been days where I've had to be at work for 7 am, and found myself staring at the clock at 5 am, having not slept at all, wondering what the hell I was going to do.
When I do sleep, it's in bursts, and filled with weird, incomplete dreams. A few days ago, I dreamt I was lying in my bed, trying to sleep. And when I woke up, I wasn't sure what part was the dream, because I was so damned confused I couldn't make heads or tails of reality itself.
Such is the life of a chronic insomniac, I suppose. Your dreams consist of being awake, and while you're awake, you dream of nothing but a good night's sleep. There's a song title somewhere in that.
Flash forward to last night. I was groggy, and ready to lie down. I had tuesday off, and was planning on spending it being productive as well as starting to clean up the apartment (ha!). I went to bed for a "quick nap" at around 9 pm, and set my alarm for 1 am, for some reason, so that I could get a little bit of "pre-cleaning" done.
I woke up at 1 am, as planned. And then decided that this was stupid, because it was the first time I'd had more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep, and I needed the sleep more than the "pre-cleaning". This was probably the smartest, most coherent thing I've done all week. Which is sad in its own way. So I went back to bed.
And slept for the rest of the night. It was heavenly. If that is at all what being dead is like, I don't know what everyone's complaining about. I could go for some more of it.
It all ended at 7 am, however. Because my cell phone alarm went off. I hit it, and went back to sleep.
It went off again at 8 am. So I hit the button, and threw it across the room. Only for it to go off again at 9 am, waking me up yet again. Finally, I rolled out of bed, turned off that alarm, and realized that somewhere during the night, I had actually set half a dozen independant alarms, each set to go off at a different hour.
I have no recollection of doing this. We're talking some serious Fight Club, Tyler Durden stuff here. And if you haven't seen Fight Club, ignore that reference, it means nothing. And please, go see Fight Club, you fool!
That isn't even the most impressive insomniac thing I've done this month, however. A few weeks ago, I had to be at work for a 3 am shift, and had only had an hour of sleep before waking up at around 2 to walk to work. Somewhere on the gorge, I actually fell asleep while walking.
And woke up a block down the street, wondering where the hell I was, and why was I fullly dressed and walking? And why was I covered in hobo blood?
Okay, I made that last bit up. But the rest of it is absolutely true.
I have to be up at 5 am tomorrow to get to work on time. And I am wide awake right now. I have a feeling tomorrow will be an interesting day.
When I do sleep, it's in bursts, and filled with weird, incomplete dreams. A few days ago, I dreamt I was lying in my bed, trying to sleep. And when I woke up, I wasn't sure what part was the dream, because I was so damned confused I couldn't make heads or tails of reality itself.
Such is the life of a chronic insomniac, I suppose. Your dreams consist of being awake, and while you're awake, you dream of nothing but a good night's sleep. There's a song title somewhere in that.
Flash forward to last night. I was groggy, and ready to lie down. I had tuesday off, and was planning on spending it being productive as well as starting to clean up the apartment (ha!). I went to bed for a "quick nap" at around 9 pm, and set my alarm for 1 am, for some reason, so that I could get a little bit of "pre-cleaning" done.
I woke up at 1 am, as planned. And then decided that this was stupid, because it was the first time I'd had more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep, and I needed the sleep more than the "pre-cleaning". This was probably the smartest, most coherent thing I've done all week. Which is sad in its own way. So I went back to bed.
And slept for the rest of the night. It was heavenly. If that is at all what being dead is like, I don't know what everyone's complaining about. I could go for some more of it.
It all ended at 7 am, however. Because my cell phone alarm went off. I hit it, and went back to sleep.
It went off again at 8 am. So I hit the button, and threw it across the room. Only for it to go off again at 9 am, waking me up yet again. Finally, I rolled out of bed, turned off that alarm, and realized that somewhere during the night, I had actually set half a dozen independant alarms, each set to go off at a different hour.
I have no recollection of doing this. We're talking some serious Fight Club, Tyler Durden stuff here. And if you haven't seen Fight Club, ignore that reference, it means nothing. And please, go see Fight Club, you fool!
That isn't even the most impressive insomniac thing I've done this month, however. A few weeks ago, I had to be at work for a 3 am shift, and had only had an hour of sleep before waking up at around 2 to walk to work. Somewhere on the gorge, I actually fell asleep while walking.
And woke up a block down the street, wondering where the hell I was, and why was I fullly dressed and walking? And why was I covered in hobo blood?
Okay, I made that last bit up. But the rest of it is absolutely true.
I have to be up at 5 am tomorrow to get to work on time. And I am wide awake right now. I have a feeling tomorrow will be an interesting day.
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