Puffer Fish Clothing...

This was originally a post for the blogoff.  However, I decided I disliked it as an entry, and so pushed it back for later in the week.  However, it still has some merit, and it is (after all) a true story.  So, here it is, in all of its glory.  Without further ado, allow me to present...

Dave vs. The Drunken Indian Native

When outsiders are exposed to Victoria, it is usually in the form of well-planned tourism videos. But it also has something of a seedy underbelly that surprises first-time visitors.  As my friend Kittens remarked during one of her trips - "Holy crap... I've never seen a person doing crack until tonight!". 

(He was a nice crackhead, by the way.  He waved at us and everything, and his shirt was from Old Navy, so at least he kept on top of things, fashion-wise.  And I'm pretty sure he was smoking designer crack.  So it's not all bad.)

See, my hometown is a combination of lovely tourists and happy times juxtaposed with drug dealers and crime.  It's like Miami, only with no latinos and social medicare.  And strange things can happen in such a place.  Events happen here that, on a most basic level, happen everywhere - but Victoria always lends a special character to the oddness.  I figure I'll just present a snapshot of the Victoria experience, and let you - the reader - make your own decision. 

Enter the drunken indian.  Oh, wait, I'm sorry.  Drunken Native.  I didn't mean to offend.

This lovely little fellow was doing his best to remain standing with his friends, maintaining all his concentration to keep on both feet and only barely succeeding.  He was lurching around, doing awkward pirouettes in place while his considerably more sober friends discussed the band of the month.  His whole crew were well-dressed in R&B "Puffer-Fish" clothes - over-sized attire designed to make someone look larger than they actually are.  I was with my friend Squee when I walked by, only to be approached by the drunken indian... er, native. 

"Hey!  Hey, you!"  He said, lurching towards us, expensive ghetto clothes flapping like a sail in the sea breeze.

He quickly started demanding we give him smokes.  Of course, neither of us smoked, so he switched to "well, wanna buy some weed?" which, really, is how people seem to say "hello" in Victoria.  Seriously - when the vice president of the United States visited Canada last week and met our lovely Premier, the first thing Mr. Campbell (aka "Douchie McGee") said to him was the customary "hey, wanna buy some weed?". 

Mr. Biden, fluent in all cultures, responded with the traditional "Nah, 'scool, I grow my own."

Anyways, drunken indian native.  He was still craving tobacco, and we didn't want to buy weed off him, so this was his cue to fight us.  And, natch, he focused on me, because I was the smaller of the two.  And I, being the smartass that I am, made fun of him.  Which mostly went over his head, and even his over-sized ball cap. 

"Fug you!  I gots, I gots backup!  I'll kick... I'll kick... your ass!  I gots backup!" he repeated, like a mantra. 

His friends, of course, kept saying "Dude, you don't have backup.  If you pick a fight with these guys, they'll kick your ass, and we won't do a thing."  And they kept apologizing to Squee and I, all the while laughing at their drunk-ass friend.  Because that's what boys do, ladies and gents.  Laugh when their friends make idiots of themselves.

Eventually, I was pushed me a little too hard, and I pushed back - just enough to get the drunk out of my face, because I didnt' want to hurt the guy (he was harmless, just a little riled up from the firewater).  Of course, that little push was enough to knock him square on his butt.  Infuriated, he got to his feet, fists in the air, ready to fight... and then looked for his "Backup".

Who were walking down the street without him.

"Uh... sorry".  He said to us, gave us a figurative tip of the hat, and then went off after them.  "Guys, wait up!"

Later on, he met up with us again, vaguely remembered who we were, and sheepishly apologized.  He gave a friend of mine free weed, and we wound up buying the drunken indian native smokes.  And then we complained about tourists, the government, and (of course) hockey. 

How is it a Victoria moment?  A posse of white, native, and asian teens who were pretending they were black got drunk and picked a fight with random people on the street.  Marijuana was offered as a trade for tobacco because it is cheaper here, and people walked by without raising an eyebrow.  And then the thing was resolved relatively peacefully, and in the end both parties settled their differences in true Canadian fashion.  Upper middle class kids strutted around in a poor part of town with absolutely no fear.  And, um... something about maple syrup and orca whales.  

The Blogoff - "My Hometown"

The blogoff continues! As you're hopefully aware, there's a war going on between yours truly and a vile imposter. Each saturday, we'll be making a post on a preset topic, and waiting for votes from you, the loyal (and handsome and supremely intelligent, might I add) readers. So, after reading my post and tolerating the filth that is fakenewts, place a vote on whose entry you like more. Without further ado...

Ah, Victoria.  A tourist destination if ever there was one - a city that doubles in population during the winter, has more restaurants per capita than any other city in North America, and often oozes wealth and ostentation.  One only needs to look at the Empress Hotel for a second to realize that Victoria is a place that speaks to money. 

Naturally, growing up in a place so filled with tourists can often lead to resentment - because for every wealthy visitor, there is one lower-class resident who lives the life of a servant, and one even-lower class man who wishes he lived the life of the servant. 

And then there's the middle-class white kid, who feels resentment towards, well, everyone and everything.  Enter the young CrazyNewt. 

Growing up in this town, I used to feel unexplainable anger towards the rich American tourists, elderly English visitors, bemused European travellers, and camera-happy Asian paparazzi.  About the only visitors I tolerated as a teenager were the sexy Australian surfer chicks, because, well, I was a teenage male.  And really, how can anyone hate sexy australian surfer chicks?  It's physically impossibly, I guarantee you.  Unless you're another sexy Australian surfer chick, involved in some sort of squabble understood only by Sexy Australian Surfer Chicks.  Sort of a highlander, "there can be only one" thing, I imagine. 

Anyways, some friends and I felt it was our moral obligation to berate the piss out of some of the dumber visitors to our fair city.  We reserved our contempt for those morons who were truly deserving - the visitors who got off the plane in July wearing Winter Clothing (because "It's cold in Canada!"), the Americans who sneered at Canadian money and called it "toy money", and the tourists who would block an entire sidewalk so they could spend five minutes arranging their family for a photo of a lamp post or garbage can.  You know, the dregs.

Now, I know you can't really blame tourists for some of their actions.  One could expect Canada to be colder than home, due to the reputation we have throughout the world - but to wear a parka in july just reeks of lunacy.  To be unused to a new currency is perfectly natural - but to make fun of it simply because it is not like your money back home is just rude.  And to take pictures of things that are an interesting variation from what you have at home is perfectly fine (my friend Kittens took pictures of our drainpipes and postboxes while here!) - but to block people from passing to do so is rather selfish. 

And so we would taunt the fools.  Partly to encourage them to never come back.  Partly to defend the good name of our hometown.  And partly to gain some sort of feeling of power against people who hold all the power at home.  Mostly, though, we did it because it was funny.

There were great moments.  My personal favourite:

RANDOM TOURIST:  "Excuse me, what kind of tree is that?"

DAVE (Who was just walking by, minding his own business):  "That?  Oh, it's a Douglas Fir."  (Keeps walking)

ANNOYING TOURIST: (grabs DAVE'S arm):  "And what about that tree?"

DAVE:  "Um.  That's also a douglas fir."

JACKASS TOURIST:  "And that tree?"

DAVE:  (Rolls eyes)  "That's the Grandfather tree.  Ancient native stories say that, many moons ago, this tree housed the soul of a dying indian elder.  And, since that time, his kinsmen approach the tree for words of advice.  And if you ask on a full moon, you will get a wise answer... or so the stories go."

MORON TOURIST:  "Really?"

DAVE:  "No.  That tree's name is Randolph."

FOOL TOURIST:  "You're messing with me.  Seriously, what kind of tree is it?"

DAVE:  "...A Douglas Fir."

True story.

Supermodels vs. Bear

 As a part-time insomniac, I am required by law to occasionally get super sleep-deprived and make poor decisions. This is the reason I own movies like Alexander and The Ringer... in my sleep-addled state, I looked at those films and said "how can they go wrong!?"

However, despite some of the problems that come from sleep-addled declarations, often I stumble across ingenius little ideas that are destined to turn me into a millionaire. Enter the newest idea for a reality TV series...

Supermodels vs. Bear

Here's the idea. Every episode, we put a specially-picked dream team of aspiring supermodels picked up off the streets of Los Angeles. These women, thankful to put their low-grade porn days behind them, wish to win the big prize - some sort of crappy modelling job where they get to wear shiny clothes and get photos taken of them. I don't fully understand how to entice model-folk, but I imagine their attraction to clothes is sort of similar to a magpie's attraction to shiny objects.

How do they win that prize? Well, the team of models have to defeat a trained Grizzly Bear in a no-holds-barred cage match, Mixed-Martial-Arts style. If the women can pummel that bear into submission, then the prettiest (alive) woman at the end gets the modelling contract. Of course, it's not as easy as it sounds. Because, see, we don't feed that Grizzly Bear for a few days before the bout. Also, models killed that bear's mother and wore her skin, so it's kind of got a personal vendetta thing going on towards models.

This is gonna be a great show. The women get to see reality TV, models competing against one another, hair, and clothes. And then men get to see a Bear tearing the shit out of hot girls. Really, it doesn't matter who wins in the end - the way I see it, it's a win-win situation.

The Vancouver Trip - In Brief

A few days ago, I decided - mostly on a whim - to head down to Vancouver.  After all, it's just a ferry ride away - and I seriously doubt there will ever be an Olympic games in Vancouver again.  At least, not in my lifetime.

I dragged myself out of bed at around 5:30 am, and eventually hopped on a 7 am bus, my backpack filled with the essential travelling supplies - pringles, energy bars, water bottle, a book (Nick Hornby's awesomely hilarious About a Boy), an iPod loaded with albums and movies, and my travel journal.  See, I carry the journal so when I spot attractive women, I can take it out and pretend I'm thoughtful as I record the privatest of my musings.

I wish I was making that up.  I mean, it kind of makes me sound sad, eh?  But hey, it works sometimes.  And I promise, I don't use this as a ploy to meet women so I can cut them up and store them in my freezer.  I grew out of that phase years ago. 

The ferry terminal was more packed than I've ever seen it, with the floor so crowded you couldn't even lean against a wall - hipsters be damned!  There was this huge line-up forming, of people who are apparently not used to travelling on the ferry.  If you want to get on the ferry early and claim all the good spots (read as: a table to eat at or a seat near a window), you need to be able to fight your way through the door, and a line isn't gonna do jack.  So, I made my way through the crowd and camped out a good position by the door.  I was one of the first ten people on the ferry - as usual.  I think it's either a knack of mine, or a complete disregard for other people when it comes to travel.  Either way, I got to eat first.

After a lovely morning trip that involved yours truly in the cafeteria eating a "smart choice" egg mcmuffin-clone and making smiley faces at the people still waiting in line to get a meal, I started wandering about and eventually grabbed a seat.  I sat and read for a bit, all thoughtful- and pensive-like.  And, lo and behold, I discovered I was sitting next to a girl about as equally thoughtful and pensive as myself (what a coincidence!) 

She was listening to her iPod and reading a book.  I did the same, and we kind of shared a smile.  And then, to show her just how thoughtful and pensive I was, I started writing in my book... she seemed interested.

Of course, I had no idea where to go from there.  See, I hadn't thought this plan out... I mean, what was I going to do?  Invite her to wander Vancouver with me?  Exchange numbers?  Open my mouth and prove that, really, I'm not all that thoughtful and pensive?  Of course not!  I shut up, and went back to reading.  Win some and lose some, right?

Also, I didn't want to do anything because my freezer's currently full.

Vancouver was crammed.  Every second street was shut down, and every now and then a cheer would ripple through the crowd as some canadian athlete or another did well at some crazy event (I hear we got silver in long-distance nipple-sliding).  I wandered about the city bewildered, letting random adventures befall me. 

There was a Russian dressed up like Santa Claus singing on a street corner.  People zip-lining down Howe street (pictured).  The olympic torch on the waterfront, and a brilliant lady making such stunning observations as "Oh my GAWD!  That torch is on FIRE!" (you can see my facial expression from this statement in a picture above).  And - best part of the trip - one of the streets was shut down so some kids and adults could play road hockey.

And those adults weren't playing down - they were playing a full game of hockey, as were the kids.  And that kid in net was good, man.  A crowd of two hundred watched, and it was just amazing to watch.  A true Canadian moment, that.  Only, it wasn't bi-lingual, it lacked beer, and not a single "hoser" was mentioned.   I think a beaver died to make one of the players' hats, though.  Does that count?

I found myself in Rosie's pub, off Robson, where some American tourists bought me drinks because they thought I was a fellow yank (I had a sharks cap on, see).  When they found out I was Canadian, that actually made me cooler, for some reason.  I guess "Canadian who likes an American team that consists mostly of Canadians" is a good thing among U.S. Hockey fans.  But, hey, who am I to complain?  They bought me a free drink, which in Canada means instant friendship.  It's why we're stuck with Quebec, in fact - they bought the first round when we were celebrating burning the white house to the ground, and since then, we've been stuck with the french bastards.   

Eventually, I fought through the crowds, got on the sky train, and took the ferry home.  And then sat down next to a thoughtful lady, read my book, and acted all pensive and thoughftul once more.  She noticed me, and gave a nervous smile.  I started talking to her, and got little in return beyond super silent whispers and that thing some girls do when they're incredibly shy and withdraw into themselves.  It was like talking to a kitten.  An asian kitten.  Who reads Anne Rice. 

So I shrugged, sat down next to her, and read while the ferry hummed along.  She smiled at me, I smiled at her, and all was well in the world.  I count the day as a win. 

Weekly Haiku #15 - A Day At Work

processing taxes

-bathed in the monitor's glow-

carrying my ones

(I actually wrote this haiku at work... when I jokingly told a

supervisor that making haiku in my head was the only thing keeping me sane...)

Day As Night #9: Autobiography

I was giggling near the end of this one.  Kristen Ball's facial expressions are priceless. 

As usual, click if you wanna read, and props to those who guess the original movie. 

Music Mondays - The Closing Song

I'm one of those people that prefer albums over singles - while a lot of bands can release one or two decent songs, I find there are a shortage of bands that can release albums that are decent overall.  To me, albums are much better than a collection of singles... I love albums like Dark Side of the Moon or OK Computer.  Albums which are put together beautifully, and united in theme and sound. 

And I love love love albums that end well.  Because a good closing song can really tie an album together.  Which should be fairly obvious - it'll be the last song you hear before you put in a new CD, flip the record, or whatever. And it should leave you going "damn.  That album was awesome".

My friend Kittens was talking about great last songs on albums a few days ago, and not even a few sentences in we both realized it was going to have to be my music monday post.  Because it was such an obvious topic.  Why wouldn't I write about closing tracks?

So, here are a few of my favourites.  Tracks that end an album, and help tie the entire compilation together.  Would love to hear other opinions, too... because this list is only scratching the surface.

1.  The Beatles: "Good Night"

from The Beatles (or "The White Album")

My first pick for a Beatles closer was actually "The End", off Abbey Road.  However, because some silly music tech decided to instead end Abbey Road with "Her Majesty" (not a bad song, mind you - it just should have come on earlier in the album), I can't go with that song.  So, it'll have to be "Good Night" - this really pretty string arrangement that sounds almost like a lullaby.

Of course, it's hard to tie together an album as diverse and crazy as The White Album, which was just a hodge-podge of songs individuals had been working on (a couple of the songs were peformed with only half the band - "Why don't we do it in the road" was just McCartney and Starr, while I remember reading that "Julia" was just Lennon).  But for some reason, I hear "Good Night" and it just seems like the perfect way to end the album - as something following the bizarre "revolution 9", this song sometimes makes me think it was a mesasge to the perceived audience:  "okay, guys... album's almost over, so stop doing your drugs, okay?". 

I mean, could you imagine if the album had ended with "Revolution 9"?  God knows what the Manson Family would have wound up doing...

2. Pink Floyd: "Pigs on the Wing"
from Animals

Pink Floyd knows how to end albums - from the monolithic "The Trial" (as heard on The Wall, though technically not a closing track), to the lovely rock chant on "Brain Damage/Eclipse" (Dark Side of the Moon), to the absolutely gorgeous second half of "Shine on You Crazy Diamond" (from Wish You Were Here, a perennial fan favourite).  Hell, even their "drug song", the bizarre "Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast" certainly has a charm to it.
 
So, why am I picking this song among the entire Pink Floyd catalogue?  After all, it's barely a minute long, is just a few vocal lines and an acoustic guitar, and isn't even that complex.  Well, here's the reason:  it's not just the closing song... it's also the opening song.  See, it plays at the beginning of the album as a question, and then is repeated to close the album, phrased almost as an answer.  It ties the entire album together in this almost profound way. 
 
Plus, I think there's a certain poetry in the lines "And every fool knows, a dog needs a home/a shelter/from pigs on the wing".  Considering how part one of the song questions whether there is love in a relationship, and the second part has an answer, I've always sort of seen this as one of the more positive endings to a Pink Floyd album.  And I can be a sucker for sappy romance stuff.  But don't tell anyone, or it'll ruin my street cred.
 

3.  Duffy: "Distant Dreamer"

from Rockferry

 
Well, shit.
 
I mean, I think I just kind of made myself look like such a fool for putting this song (this musician!) on the list, but it needs to be said.  And, while I can understand some of the Duffy-hate out there (that "Mercy" song can get pretty effin' annoying when you hear it in a mall), I actually really like this girl.  I mean, we have a white girl from Wales who sings black motown and soul from the states.  And, um, she sings it well.
 
Really, "Distant Dreamer" is probably a bit poppier than it should be, and maybe a bit longer, too, but I still really like it.  It's upbeat, it's soulful, and it's optimistic - and first albums should always end on either a note of hopeful optimism or confused cynicism.  This whole "I hate the world and I know what I'm talking about" tone that some debut albums use kind of pisses me off.  It's like rappers singing (is it really "singing"?) about how much money they have on their debut single... what's the point?
 
So, yeah.  Duffy.  She's a cool lady.  Plus, she was attacked by Johnny Rotten, which is pretty cool.