I love sitting in a coffee shop and playing around on my laptop. But you see some interesting people if you're here long enough.
I've been visiting the Serious Coffee on Broad for a couple of weeks now, and almost everytime I'm here, there's the same guy sitting in the dedicated wireless room. He's.... well, he's something else.
Greased back hair that looks like it's been bleached blonde, a white polo shirt, and general "nerd jeans" (you know what I'm talking about). He wears a microphone headset and always clicks madly, and I assume he's playing World of Warcraft or something. He's here for hours (I presume - I've never seen him show up or leave) and only orders one drink for the duration... and it's a pink smoothie. .
Random quotes I've heard just while writing this entry:
"Wait, what day is it? Did school start today? Shit."
"Yeah, he's not playing anymore, he's got a girlfriend now."
"BRB guys, need to pee."
Also, he has one of those scooter things that look like a skateboard with a handle. He's at least twenty two.
Moral of the story?
I think I need to stop going online in public places and troll the internet in the privacy of my own home like a normal person. Lest I turn into some sort of carnival freak
Showing posts with label victoria. Show all posts
Showing posts with label victoria. Show all posts
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.
More Bad People Stories:
Last year, around this time, I was working at Future Shop, selling headphones to the moderately wealthy. Life was fairly good, because I wasn't too bad at selling headphones to the moderately wealthy. In fact, I was pretty sure I was going to be kept on once the season ended, because I was making a couple hundred dollars of commission every day I worked there.
This translates into "a shitload of headphones", for those at home keeping score. And my technique was pretty simple, too - I'd just talk to the customer about music, find a band we both liked (easy peasy), and then loan the customer my awesome headphones and play him a song on my ipod. It worked like a charm... and my return rates were lower than most any other salesman in my department.
But then, at the end of the season, my hours were cut short and I was told I would not be permanently hired. Basically, they kicked me out the door.
I wasn't too bummed by this, because, well, it wasn't the best job in the world or anything. And also, they kicked me out the door just before people traditionally return christmas purchases, meaning I got to keep much more of my commission from boxing day sales than those that were kept on.
But I was perplexed, as a few of the people that were kept on made considerably less than me, including one guy who only made one or two sales during boxing day. This guy was allergic to making sales, and actually at one point started telling a random customer about Milton Berle's over-large penis because he got nervous during his sales pitch.
I wish I were making this up.
This begs the question. Why the hell did they keep that guy, and can me?
I found out a while later. Apparently, I was anti-semitic, and made several anti-semitic comments to a jewish co-worker. And, as far as these things go, this is entirely true. And my jewish co-worker was canned because he made anti-native comments to one of his co-workers.
That native co-worker? That would be me. I'm part native, and he knew it. And I knew he was jewish. See, one day, we were sitting in the break room, having our lunch and shooting the shit. We started swapping insults, that got progressively worse. We shared the same sense of humour, and we just let it go away. I told him that his nose was so goddamn huge because air was free. He told me that he locked his bicycle up so that it would force a chug such as myself to do an honest day's work rather than steal shit. I told him that if things had gone right, he'd be living in a ghetto in warsaw with a number tattooed across his forehead. He told me that if things had gone right, my blankets would still have small pox.
And so on, and so forth.
Yeah, harsh words, but if you were there, those words translated more into "hey, look at all this racist shit people say about our ethnic groups. Isn't that bullshit? Let's poke fun at that!"
Of course, whitey got involved, and decided that since we weren't insulted, she was going to have to step in and get insulted for us. She got so insulted, in fact, that she went to the managers and complained. After all, how dare two of us make inappropriate comments in a break room at a quiet level, out of ear shot of customers? How dare we make jokes?
So, I got canned, as did he.
Naturally, I went on welfare payments and stole her bike. I traded it to my new jew friend for some firewater and smoked salmon. He sold the bike at his cousin's brother's deli for far too much and spent the money on a nice brisket.
Apparently, neither of us learned anything from the incident. Which is as it should be.
This translates into "a shitload of headphones", for those at home keeping score. And my technique was pretty simple, too - I'd just talk to the customer about music, find a band we both liked (easy peasy), and then loan the customer my awesome headphones and play him a song on my ipod. It worked like a charm... and my return rates were lower than most any other salesman in my department.
But then, at the end of the season, my hours were cut short and I was told I would not be permanently hired. Basically, they kicked me out the door.
I wasn't too bummed by this, because, well, it wasn't the best job in the world or anything. And also, they kicked me out the door just before people traditionally return christmas purchases, meaning I got to keep much more of my commission from boxing day sales than those that were kept on.
But I was perplexed, as a few of the people that were kept on made considerably less than me, including one guy who only made one or two sales during boxing day. This guy was allergic to making sales, and actually at one point started telling a random customer about Milton Berle's over-large penis because he got nervous during his sales pitch.
I wish I were making this up.
This begs the question. Why the hell did they keep that guy, and can me?
I found out a while later. Apparently, I was anti-semitic, and made several anti-semitic comments to a jewish co-worker. And, as far as these things go, this is entirely true. And my jewish co-worker was canned because he made anti-native comments to one of his co-workers.
That native co-worker? That would be me. I'm part native, and he knew it. And I knew he was jewish. See, one day, we were sitting in the break room, having our lunch and shooting the shit. We started swapping insults, that got progressively worse. We shared the same sense of humour, and we just let it go away. I told him that his nose was so goddamn huge because air was free. He told me that he locked his bicycle up so that it would force a chug such as myself to do an honest day's work rather than steal shit. I told him that if things had gone right, he'd be living in a ghetto in warsaw with a number tattooed across his forehead. He told me that if things had gone right, my blankets would still have small pox.
And so on, and so forth.
Yeah, harsh words, but if you were there, those words translated more into "hey, look at all this racist shit people say about our ethnic groups. Isn't that bullshit? Let's poke fun at that!"
Of course, whitey got involved, and decided that since we weren't insulted, she was going to have to step in and get insulted for us. She got so insulted, in fact, that she went to the managers and complained. After all, how dare two of us make inappropriate comments in a break room at a quiet level, out of ear shot of customers? How dare we make jokes?
So, I got canned, as did he.
Naturally, I went on welfare payments and stole her bike. I traded it to my new jew friend for some firewater and smoked salmon. He sold the bike at his cousin's brother's deli for far too much and spent the money on a nice brisket.
Apparently, neither of us learned anything from the incident. Which is as it should be.
Talk to me, Goose!
Lately, I've been in "training" mode. My goal is to walk the West Coast Trail next summer. For most people, this is a fairly ordinary goal, but because my Wilford Brimley style Diabeetus gets in the way, I've found I need to do a bit of preparation.
This preparation is taking the form of walking the Galloping Goose in a day, while carrying weight, and constantly testing my blood sugar to see how I can best handle myself on the real trail. It's been a lot of fun - get on the Goose in Victoria at around ten am, and then walk all the way down to Sooke.
Last week I did something like 35 km in around six hours, which is pretty damn good, in my professional opinion. That's like six kilometres an hour, which is... well, okay, it's not incredibly fast, but still.
Anyways, on the Goose, you see some interesting things. Beyond the wonderful views, you just see some weird and crazy stuff. For example:
This preparation is taking the form of walking the Galloping Goose in a day, while carrying weight, and constantly testing my blood sugar to see how I can best handle myself on the real trail. It's been a lot of fun - get on the Goose in Victoria at around ten am, and then walk all the way down to Sooke.
Last week I did something like 35 km in around six hours, which is pretty damn good, in my professional opinion. That's like six kilometres an hour, which is... well, okay, it's not incredibly fast, but still.
Anyways, on the Goose, you see some interesting things. Beyond the wonderful views, you just see some weird and crazy stuff. For example:
- In a crosswalk in Metchosin, someone spray-painted a giant penis on the road. And I mean giant. And then drawn in the names of various people throughout the thing. I'm going to look at this as interpretive art, or perhaps some sort of political statement.
- On a bridge near Matheson lake, there's a bronzed paw print of a beloved dog, overlooking a dried creek bed.
- Also near Matheson lake, there's an empty field, with soccer nets on either side. It's in the middle of thick forest, with no trail to reach it that I can see, and no houses nearby. I think it's where the aliens go to practice for FIFA.
- Near Sooke, I found a pile of rocks near a bench, and saw the edges of a note sticking out from a tree. I thought it was some sort of geocaching spot. Nope. Opening the note, it read "Sitting here makes my pussy wet." it was signed "E.A.". That's right - apparently, people use the Goose as an exchange point for dirty letters. What a world we live in.
- There's a bridge in Langford that is lined with letters to a girl whose body was found dumped in the area last year. It always makes me feel kind of happy and sad all at once - but I wrote about this before.
- At the 26 km mark, someone scrawled in "halfway th" on the marker. This makes me laugh... because the trail is 55 km long. Someone didn't do the math well, and realized it halfway through their scrawling.
Moral of the story? Walk the goose when you have a day off. You'll see weird stuff, and have at least one odd adventure.
Weekly Haiku #66 - Phantom Cyclist
one man. two seat bike.
alone... pedalling for two
empty spokes revolve
Ew. Just.... ew.
I'm walking down the street, near Mayfair mall, listening to the new Dan Mangan album, when I look down and see a picture, obviously cut out of a polaroid.
It's small, but it's a woman's face. Curious, I bend over and look a little closer. This is when I realize it's a picture of a woman's face, engaged in oral sex. The entire bottom half of her face is obscured, and I won't go into too many details on that account. She didn't seem entirely thrilled to be doing what she was doing. Ugh.
Okay, so a few things icked me out about this. One, is that someone actually cut this picture out of a polaroid. I can't understand why, because this would be the focal point of the photo (right?) and if you wanted to destroy the photo, you'd destroy the whole thing, and if you wanted to keep the photo, again, same thing. This isn't like a breakup photo, where you cut out an ex's face.
Or is it?
Second, someone was carrying this photo around with them. For what purpose, I have no clue, but it's not one I want to think of.
Naturally, I took the photo, tore it up into a couple of pieces (hard to do with a polaroid, but I managed using a key) and chucked into a garbage can. Unfortunately, the whole affair put an icky taste in my mouth, if you'll pardon the expression, all things considered.
Sometimes, Victoria surprises even me.
It's small, but it's a woman's face. Curious, I bend over and look a little closer. This is when I realize it's a picture of a woman's face, engaged in oral sex. The entire bottom half of her face is obscured, and I won't go into too many details on that account. She didn't seem entirely thrilled to be doing what she was doing. Ugh.
Okay, so a few things icked me out about this. One, is that someone actually cut this picture out of a polaroid. I can't understand why, because this would be the focal point of the photo (right?) and if you wanted to destroy the photo, you'd destroy the whole thing, and if you wanted to keep the photo, again, same thing. This isn't like a breakup photo, where you cut out an ex's face.
Or is it?
Second, someone was carrying this photo around with them. For what purpose, I have no clue, but it's not one I want to think of.
Naturally, I took the photo, tore it up into a couple of pieces (hard to do with a polaroid, but I managed using a key) and chucked into a garbage can. Unfortunately, the whole affair put an icky taste in my mouth, if you'll pardon the expression, all things considered.
Sometimes, Victoria surprises even me.
"That Guy"
I'll admit it. I can be a bit of a know-it-all sometimes. But only sometimes.
(That sound you're hearing is all my friends laughing at once. My friends are jerks. Also, liars).
Usually, I'm good at suppressing the urge to "correct" someone, and just let it lie. But sometimes, my mouth works faster than my brain. For example, two weeks ago.
I was on a first date, and it was going well. We were walking down the inner harbour chatting, looking at the various pieces of art. Some guy had done these drawings of various musicians, and my eyebrows raised. There was a great piece of Paul McCartney, and another one of Jimmy Page and Robert Plant.
While they were good likenesses, they were filled with background images of stars, and numbers. The Led Zeppelin piece, for example, had the number "1948" just written in the background. And unfortunately, crazy artist started talking (at length) explaining the "meaning" of his art to us. And there is nothing worse than an artist who has to explain what his "work" actually "means".
Come on. It's a ten dollar painting of a rock star. And you're selling T-shirts of it. I don't really need to know why you put a diamond in the background.
But anyways. Turns out "1948" was the year Robert Plant was born. I happen to know Robert Plant's birthday, because it's the same day as mine, so I had to correct him. "Robert Plant was born in 1950".
Turns out you can turn an already crazy artist even crazier by telling him that he got some info wrong in his piece. Also, it turns out that yeah, Robert Plant was born in 1948, and I'm just full of shit.
Also, it turns out that even when I'm on a first date, I'm still capable of being "that guy".
(That sound you're hearing is all my friends laughing at once. My friends are jerks. Also, liars).
Usually, I'm good at suppressing the urge to "correct" someone, and just let it lie. But sometimes, my mouth works faster than my brain. For example, two weeks ago.
I was on a first date, and it was going well. We were walking down the inner harbour chatting, looking at the various pieces of art. Some guy had done these drawings of various musicians, and my eyebrows raised. There was a great piece of Paul McCartney, and another one of Jimmy Page and Robert Plant.
While they were good likenesses, they were filled with background images of stars, and numbers. The Led Zeppelin piece, for example, had the number "1948" just written in the background. And unfortunately, crazy artist started talking (at length) explaining the "meaning" of his art to us. And there is nothing worse than an artist who has to explain what his "work" actually "means".
Come on. It's a ten dollar painting of a rock star. And you're selling T-shirts of it. I don't really need to know why you put a diamond in the background.
But anyways. Turns out "1948" was the year Robert Plant was born. I happen to know Robert Plant's birthday, because it's the same day as mine, so I had to correct him. "Robert Plant was born in 1950".
Turns out you can turn an already crazy artist even crazier by telling him that he got some info wrong in his piece. Also, it turns out that yeah, Robert Plant was born in 1948, and I'm just full of shit.
Also, it turns out that even when I'm on a first date, I'm still capable of being "that guy".
Proctor, revisited
Ugh.
That link talks about the life ahead of the two young men convicted of raping and murdering Kimberly Proctor. It's a pretty brutal description of life inside of Canadian Prisons, and the suffering ahead of these two men. There is a demand for blood in the city, and no one (not even the usually liberal Monday magazine, apparently) sees a problem with what lies ahead for them.
I talked a bit about the case last month, and let me just repeat, I fully endorse these men going into prison. What they did to Kimberley was awful, and inhuman.
However, I also believe that taking joy in another person's suffering, even a person as awful as Cameron Moffatt, just dehumanizes ourselves. Personally, I would rather these men are kept away from the public, but allowed to live meaningful, productive lives.
As I said before, we should be better than those who committed an act of brutal violence. Sinking to their low, base level does us absolutely no good at all.
That link talks about the life ahead of the two young men convicted of raping and murdering Kimberly Proctor. It's a pretty brutal description of life inside of Canadian Prisons, and the suffering ahead of these two men. There is a demand for blood in the city, and no one (not even the usually liberal Monday magazine, apparently) sees a problem with what lies ahead for them.
I talked a bit about the case last month, and let me just repeat, I fully endorse these men going into prison. What they did to Kimberley was awful, and inhuman.
However, I also believe that taking joy in another person's suffering, even a person as awful as Cameron Moffatt, just dehumanizes ourselves. Personally, I would rather these men are kept away from the public, but allowed to live meaningful, productive lives.
As I said before, we should be better than those who committed an act of brutal violence. Sinking to their low, base level does us absolutely no good at all.
A Dilemna:
I live next to a mall. This mall loves to stage events to draw in patrons, which has given the mall a special place in my heart. Recently, they've taken to showing the Stanley Cup hockey games in a central area.
They have two flat screen TVs, back to back, and bleachers on either side. Patrons can just grab a seat and watch a Canucks games - it really does seem to draw people in. Often, you'll see shoppers walk by, get slowed down by the game, and then absently grab a seat... leaving in the intermissions to head to the food court.
I watched a game there last night, and really enjoyed the experience. There's something fun about watching a game with complete strangers and not having alcohol be a factor. I fully endorse the event, except for one problem that caused me no small amount of anxiety.
See, if you look past your TV, you can see the people on the opposite set of bleachers, staring at the other TV. This is all well and good. However, there are a few intertwined facts that the event planners probably didn't think about when they conceived the idea. Namely:
They have two flat screen TVs, back to back, and bleachers on either side. Patrons can just grab a seat and watch a Canucks games - it really does seem to draw people in. Often, you'll see shoppers walk by, get slowed down by the game, and then absently grab a seat... leaving in the intermissions to head to the food court.
I watched a game there last night, and really enjoyed the experience. There's something fun about watching a game with complete strangers and not having alcohol be a factor. I fully endorse the event, except for one problem that caused me no small amount of anxiety.
See, if you look past your TV, you can see the people on the opposite set of bleachers, staring at the other TV. This is all well and good. However, there are a few intertwined facts that the event planners probably didn't think about when they conceived the idea. Namely:
- A large number of the spectators are "typical" mall patrons - women from the age of 14 to 30.
- It's summer time.
- During the summer, many women like to wear skirts or dresses.
- Women these days often aren't as used to the rules of skirts or dresses as the women of previous generations.
Long story short, a lot of women were accidentally flashing me. And I can presume that the women on my end of the bleachers were accidentally flashing the people on the other end of the bleachers.
Here's the question that bugged me, and which I still have no answer to. What do you do?
Do you go over to the woman in question and gently inform her that everyone can see her cooter? Do you tell the people at the concierge desk that they need to rethink the arrangement? Do you feel dirty and guilty for even noticing in the first place? (I did). Or do you shut up and pretend you don't notice?
Domestic Violence:
I believe I've mentioned the french couple I share a wall with. Or, more specifically, the batshit crazy french woman who screams at her boyfriend every couple of, um, hours.
Well, they were at it again tonight. I was watching Futurama, with the volume fairly well turned up, and I could hear them clearly over Fry and Leela being all emo-y. Of course, being able to hear her shriek wasn't that interesting, because she's french and I have no idea what the fuck she's screaming. But I'm used to this, so I turned up the volume.
Then plates and glasses started breaking and her shrieking was louder. As in, my TV's volume was almost loud enough that I could get a noise complaint, and I could still hear her - clearly - over it. Accompanied with the sounds of breaking glasses and her slamming her fists against the wall (I know it was her because I could follow her voice and it always was beside the banging on the wall). She was banging hard enough that if I still had photos up, it'd likely knock them down.
But I've been through this before, and just said to myself "you're moving in a few weeks, fuck it. Don't rock the boat."
And then there was the sound of actual physical violence. I'm pretty sure she was beating the hell out of him, simply because of the way he was sounding (he wasn't making angry noises, it was more like grunts, accompanied with her psycho-bitch screaming). But it was the sound of flesh hitting flesh - loud thunks and the occasional slapping noise, but mostly just punches.
I kind of was stunned. I muted my show, and sat there wondering. What do I do? Do I call the cops? Do I even know for sure if there's a fight going on? What do you do in a situation like this?
To finish it all off, one of them left in a huff and drove away, peeling out of the driveway. I think I may have heard cops in the hallway, but I'm not sure. As I'm typing this, my landlord is talking to people on the floor and someone is cleaning up glass. And I'm still confused as hell, wondering exactly why I should be concerned over two people who have done nothing except cause me trouble... and yet still feeling concerned.
Well, they were at it again tonight. I was watching Futurama, with the volume fairly well turned up, and I could hear them clearly over Fry and Leela being all emo-y. Of course, being able to hear her shriek wasn't that interesting, because she's french and I have no idea what the fuck she's screaming. But I'm used to this, so I turned up the volume.
Then plates and glasses started breaking and her shrieking was louder. As in, my TV's volume was almost loud enough that I could get a noise complaint, and I could still hear her - clearly - over it. Accompanied with the sounds of breaking glasses and her slamming her fists against the wall (I know it was her because I could follow her voice and it always was beside the banging on the wall). She was banging hard enough that if I still had photos up, it'd likely knock them down.
But I've been through this before, and just said to myself "you're moving in a few weeks, fuck it. Don't rock the boat."
And then there was the sound of actual physical violence. I'm pretty sure she was beating the hell out of him, simply because of the way he was sounding (he wasn't making angry noises, it was more like grunts, accompanied with her psycho-bitch screaming). But it was the sound of flesh hitting flesh - loud thunks and the occasional slapping noise, but mostly just punches.
I kind of was stunned. I muted my show, and sat there wondering. What do I do? Do I call the cops? Do I even know for sure if there's a fight going on? What do you do in a situation like this?
To finish it all off, one of them left in a huff and drove away, peeling out of the driveway. I think I may have heard cops in the hallway, but I'm not sure. As I'm typing this, my landlord is talking to people on the floor and someone is cleaning up glass. And I'm still confused as hell, wondering exactly why I should be concerned over two people who have done nothing except cause me trouble... and yet still feeling concerned.
The Day I Volunteered To Do Nothing:
Happy Apple invited me to a fundraiser event last sunday. Her work had long been committed to the cause, and so had roped Happy Apple in as a volunteer, and she asked me if I wanted to tag along. Not one to turn down some time in the sun and a chance to hang out with awesome people, I naturally agreed. Plus, that little unemployed gremlin that lurks in the back of my head figured I could put it on my resume under "volunteer activities", which is currently filled with, you know, lies.
It was a fundraising walk, with the proceeds going towards helping "end global poverty", which seems admirable enough. Happy Apple and I got there fairly early, and found ourselves in loose-fitting teal shirts and hanging around her co-workers, saying "hey, how can we help?"
We said this for about half an hour, before I finally just decided to take action and start helping. I did this by moving plates... until I was told that they wanted the plates in the original spot, so I had to move them back. Then Happy Apple's boss showed up and said "I don't need you guys until later. Go on the walk, have fun!"
And so we did. We were some of the few volunteers who actually went on the walk, and it was refreshing. When we got back to Beacon Hill park, ready to volunteer our services, we found Happy Apple's boss.
"How can we help?"
"Well, grab some food, and see me when you get back. You should eat first!"
So she let us in front of the line of hungry walkers, and we got pizza and curried rice and ate away. After we finished, we lurked around Happy Apple's boss, waiting for instructions . There was already a lineup of other volunteers, looking for work.
Finally Apple looked at me. "I don't think she needs us."
"I agree. Wanna ditch this place and go to the petting zoo* ?"
"Sure."
It was the best volunteer experience ever. Because I got to feel good about volunteering my services for a good cause. I got a free t-shirt. I got something impressive to put on my resume. I got free food. And I did absolutely nothing to deserve it. And then I got to pet happy baby goats.
I should volunteer more often.
(*Not a euphemism. We actually went to a petting zoo. Get your minds out of the gutter)
It was a fundraising walk, with the proceeds going towards helping "end global poverty", which seems admirable enough. Happy Apple and I got there fairly early, and found ourselves in loose-fitting teal shirts and hanging around her co-workers, saying "hey, how can we help?"
We said this for about half an hour, before I finally just decided to take action and start helping. I did this by moving plates... until I was told that they wanted the plates in the original spot, so I had to move them back. Then Happy Apple's boss showed up and said "I don't need you guys until later. Go on the walk, have fun!"
And so we did. We were some of the few volunteers who actually went on the walk, and it was refreshing. When we got back to Beacon Hill park, ready to volunteer our services, we found Happy Apple's boss.
"How can we help?"
"Well, grab some food, and see me when you get back. You should eat first!"
So she let us in front of the line of hungry walkers, and we got pizza and curried rice and ate away. After we finished, we lurked around Happy Apple's boss, waiting for instructions . There was already a lineup of other volunteers, looking for work.
Finally Apple looked at me. "I don't think she needs us."
"I agree. Wanna ditch this place and go to the petting zoo* ?"
"Sure."
It was the best volunteer experience ever. Because I got to feel good about volunteering my services for a good cause. I got a free t-shirt. I got something impressive to put on my resume. I got free food. And I did absolutely nothing to deserve it. And then I got to pet happy baby goats.
I should volunteer more often.
(*Not a euphemism. We actually went to a petting zoo. Get your minds out of the gutter)
Aidan Knight
I'm gonna sound like a hipster here, but I saw Aidan Knight's very first live performance, and I've sort of been half-following him as he's moved on up among the ranks of British Columbia's folk scene.
It sounds hipsteresque, but it's entirely true, so shut up. I saw him at Rifflandia around two years ago, and I enjoyed his nervous quipping more than his acoustic riffs. I've mentioned it before - when it's just a guy and an acoustic guitar, I tend to glaze over.
Recently, I finally got around to buying some of his music via itunes, particularly the song "Jasper", and my mind was blown away. Think folk-like music, with driving rhythm lines accompanied by electric guitars that have a hint of old country twang, and you'll have the beginning idea of what Aidan Knight sounds like.
Also, he's from Victoria, which makes him doubly cool.
Not to mention that his album is a "pay what you want" scale, and it very much becomes worth checking out. I highly recommend giving him a listen.
It sounds hipsteresque, but it's entirely true, so shut up. I saw him at Rifflandia around two years ago, and I enjoyed his nervous quipping more than his acoustic riffs. I've mentioned it before - when it's just a guy and an acoustic guitar, I tend to glaze over.
Recently, I finally got around to buying some of his music via itunes, particularly the song "Jasper", and my mind was blown away. Think folk-like music, with driving rhythm lines accompanied by electric guitars that have a hint of old country twang, and you'll have the beginning idea of what Aidan Knight sounds like.
Also, he's from Victoria, which makes him doubly cool.
Not to mention that his album is a "pay what you want" scale, and it very much becomes worth checking out. I highly recommend giving him a listen.
on Death, Mourning, and Capital Punishment:
I've been walking the Galloping Goose trail a lot, often making the two and a half hour hike from Victoria down to Langford. I mostly just do it for the exercise, and the fact that there's something really calming about listening to the Mountain Goats on your ipod while walking down a lightly wooded trail.
On the trail, there's a wooden foot bridge over a large creekbed and waterfall, with the water pounding down so heavily that you will hear it even over your ipod cranked to the max. It's a very beautiful scene, marred only by a rusting shopping cart in the waters and an old graffitti-covered pipeline that crosses over the falling water.
It is also where, about a year ago, the body of a young teenager was dumped by two murdering rapist little fuckers.
I'm not going to go into the details of that awful crime, because really, it's over and done with, and this isn't really a crime blog. And I'm thankful for that.
But every time I cross that bridge, I see the memorial to that poor girl grow. I was on that bridge the day her murderers were sentenced, and there was a row of fresh flowers lining it. And since then, I've watched the memorial change.
There's always fresh flowers. There's a couple of teddy bears. Signed cards, soggy from the condensation in the air. Someone left a stack of arcade tokens scattered around, because he or she knew that the girl loved the arcade. And people even left change - loonies and quarters - and I take it as an amazing facet of human nature that no one has yet to take the money just lying there, out of respect for a dead human being they most likely have never met.
Whenever I begin to think about the terrible things humans do, I just have to think about that money lying there, untouched, on a secluded trail far from the eyes of others, for me to remember that humans are capable of great acts of understanding and empathy. And that, even when someone we've never met dies, we can still find ourselves mourning their loss.
There's something beautiful in that.
I think about this wonderful capacity for love and caring in the human heart. And then I compare it to what people said on the day those murdering boys got sentenced. Everyone cried out for a return to capital punishment. Some wanted those boys to "suffer like she did". And that brought me down.
Because we as a people are not those boys. We are not murderers. We are not rapists. And I've always considered that, the idea of "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" is an antiquated one that simply brings the masses down to the levels of the human excrement we're trying to flush away. Or, to use an old saying, an eye for an eye just leads to more blindness.
Lock them up, absolutely, but don't do it out of some misplaced sense to play god. Do it to protect the masses from people who have shown themselves to be dangerous. We must always remember that we are better than those scumbags.
We must always remember that we're the people who leave arcade tokens and teddy bears on the bridge - not dead bodies.
On the trail, there's a wooden foot bridge over a large creekbed and waterfall, with the water pounding down so heavily that you will hear it even over your ipod cranked to the max. It's a very beautiful scene, marred only by a rusting shopping cart in the waters and an old graffitti-covered pipeline that crosses over the falling water.
It is also where, about a year ago, the body of a young teenager was dumped by two murdering rapist little fuckers.
I'm not going to go into the details of that awful crime, because really, it's over and done with, and this isn't really a crime blog. And I'm thankful for that.
But every time I cross that bridge, I see the memorial to that poor girl grow. I was on that bridge the day her murderers were sentenced, and there was a row of fresh flowers lining it. And since then, I've watched the memorial change.
There's always fresh flowers. There's a couple of teddy bears. Signed cards, soggy from the condensation in the air. Someone left a stack of arcade tokens scattered around, because he or she knew that the girl loved the arcade. And people even left change - loonies and quarters - and I take it as an amazing facet of human nature that no one has yet to take the money just lying there, out of respect for a dead human being they most likely have never met.
Whenever I begin to think about the terrible things humans do, I just have to think about that money lying there, untouched, on a secluded trail far from the eyes of others, for me to remember that humans are capable of great acts of understanding and empathy. And that, even when someone we've never met dies, we can still find ourselves mourning their loss.
There's something beautiful in that.
I think about this wonderful capacity for love and caring in the human heart. And then I compare it to what people said on the day those murdering boys got sentenced. Everyone cried out for a return to capital punishment. Some wanted those boys to "suffer like she did". And that brought me down.
Because we as a people are not those boys. We are not murderers. We are not rapists. And I've always considered that, the idea of "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" is an antiquated one that simply brings the masses down to the levels of the human excrement we're trying to flush away. Or, to use an old saying, an eye for an eye just leads to more blindness.
Lock them up, absolutely, but don't do it out of some misplaced sense to play god. Do it to protect the masses from people who have shown themselves to be dangerous. We must always remember that we are better than those scumbags.
We must always remember that we're the people who leave arcade tokens and teddy bears on the bridge - not dead bodies.
True Story:
I do enjoy spending time with Happy Apple. She's a great friend, she cracks me up, and we do seem to get into some crazy adventures. In fact, she has a knack for crazy adventures which I don't quite understand. I've seen her pick around fifteen four leaf clovers in less than twenty minutes. I've had crazy hipsters come up to us and start talking about Diana Ross while we backed away slowly, not making eye contact. And I've had semi homeless men showing us their DVD collections on the bus.
And this has all happened in the last month or so.
But there was a real interesting one last week.
We were hanging out with her roommate, who was trying to buy a birthday present for a gay friend of his. Naturally, we went to a sex shop on Douglas Street. Happy Apple and I kind of just browsed nonchalantly while her roommate excitedly went from shelf to shelf, talking about dildoes. Which was funny to listen to, because he was talking about sex toys in the exact same way some men talk about cars, or sports, or, say, guitars.
I didn't know it, but there's a lot that goes into making dildoes, and there's a lot that seperates them. I kind of just figured you made it about eight inches long, painted it black, and called it a day. But nope. There's a lot more to it than that, apparently.
Happy Apple and I just looked at post cards and made oral sex jokes. Because that's how we roll. We're very much WASPs, and that means being slightly uncomfortable around anal beads. So we make jokes.
Anyways, we were chatting with the owner, and had finished making our purchases (I bought a few postcards with the Beatles on them - nothing kinky!), when the door opened and this guy stepped in carrying around twenty bags. He had a shaven head and cratered skin, and looked for all intents and purposes like an extra from Trainspotting. He was kind of twitchy, and he walked over to the BDSM stuff and started breathing heavily while looking at whips and face masks. Real heavily.
The three of us were about to leave. "Please stay around for a few minutes" the woman asked us really quietly, fear in her eyes.
Happy Apple and her roommate left anyway. I had to chase them down, and after only about two seconds, we realized they hadn't heard her. But we all agreed it was the right thing to do to go back there and keep this woman company while Cracky McGee got all asthmatic over leather panties. It was like one of the last scenes from The Magnificent Seven, where they decide to go back into the town and blow shit up. Only, um, there were three of us instead of seven. And we weren't going back to a gunfight that would kill us all. And we weren't cowboys.
Okay, it was nothing like the Magnificent Seven. Shut up.
When we steped back in, he was wandering over the store, breathing heavily and getting more and more agitated. Happy Apple and I started rummaging through a sex book written by Mel from Flight of the Conchords (!?), while I found myself wondering what the hell I'd do if he started tweaking out or something. I think my plan was something like "throw that butt plug at his face and run" or something to that effect.
He continued to wander, tweaked out on godknowswhat. And then, after realizing we were not leaving, he scowled at us, grabbed his bajillion bags, and left. The owner came over and thanked us profusely, saying how magnificent theseven three of us were for sticking around.
Then we spent a few minutes talking about how Victoria is getting steadily weirder. I have to say, a sex shop that has a penny-candy style set up filled with flavoured and coloured condoms is an odd place to have a "the world is getting crazier" conversation. It's be like listening to punk rock at a tea party - there is no real reason why it shouldn't happen, but one could imagine it's not a frequent occurence.
I think, pretty soon, the city is going to be filled entirely with homeless people and drug addicts. I'm not sure, realistically, how this could happen, but it seems to be on the horizon. It'll be like Mad Max... only without the anti-semites.
Happy Apple shrugged the entire event off, and only an hour later she had almost completely forgotten about it until I reminded her just how strange it had all been. I think she's developed a tolerance for strangeness. Which makes me wonder:
What does that say about me?
And this has all happened in the last month or so.
But there was a real interesting one last week.
We were hanging out with her roommate, who was trying to buy a birthday present for a gay friend of his. Naturally, we went to a sex shop on Douglas Street. Happy Apple and I kind of just browsed nonchalantly while her roommate excitedly went from shelf to shelf, talking about dildoes. Which was funny to listen to, because he was talking about sex toys in the exact same way some men talk about cars, or sports, or, say, guitars.
I didn't know it, but there's a lot that goes into making dildoes, and there's a lot that seperates them. I kind of just figured you made it about eight inches long, painted it black, and called it a day. But nope. There's a lot more to it than that, apparently.
Happy Apple and I just looked at post cards and made oral sex jokes. Because that's how we roll. We're very much WASPs, and that means being slightly uncomfortable around anal beads. So we make jokes.
Anyways, we were chatting with the owner, and had finished making our purchases (I bought a few postcards with the Beatles on them - nothing kinky!), when the door opened and this guy stepped in carrying around twenty bags. He had a shaven head and cratered skin, and looked for all intents and purposes like an extra from Trainspotting. He was kind of twitchy, and he walked over to the BDSM stuff and started breathing heavily while looking at whips and face masks. Real heavily.
The three of us were about to leave. "Please stay around for a few minutes" the woman asked us really quietly, fear in her eyes.
Happy Apple and her roommate left anyway. I had to chase them down, and after only about two seconds, we realized they hadn't heard her. But we all agreed it was the right thing to do to go back there and keep this woman company while Cracky McGee got all asthmatic over leather panties. It was like one of the last scenes from The Magnificent Seven, where they decide to go back into the town and blow shit up. Only, um, there were three of us instead of seven. And we weren't going back to a gunfight that would kill us all. And we weren't cowboys.
Okay, it was nothing like the Magnificent Seven. Shut up.
When we steped back in, he was wandering over the store, breathing heavily and getting more and more agitated. Happy Apple and I started rummaging through a sex book written by Mel from Flight of the Conchords (!?), while I found myself wondering what the hell I'd do if he started tweaking out or something. I think my plan was something like "throw that butt plug at his face and run" or something to that effect.
He continued to wander, tweaked out on godknowswhat. And then, after realizing we were not leaving, he scowled at us, grabbed his bajillion bags, and left. The owner came over and thanked us profusely, saying how magnificent the
Then we spent a few minutes talking about how Victoria is getting steadily weirder. I have to say, a sex shop that has a penny-candy style set up filled with flavoured and coloured condoms is an odd place to have a "the world is getting crazier" conversation. It's be like listening to punk rock at a tea party - there is no real reason why it shouldn't happen, but one could imagine it's not a frequent occurence.
I think, pretty soon, the city is going to be filled entirely with homeless people and drug addicts. I'm not sure, realistically, how this could happen, but it seems to be on the horizon. It'll be like Mad Max... only without the anti-semites.
Happy Apple shrugged the entire event off, and only an hour later she had almost completely forgotten about it until I reminded her just how strange it had all been. I think she's developed a tolerance for strangeness. Which makes me wonder:
What does that say about me?
Noodle Land
Warmth is returning to Victoria, ever so slowly. Winter is fading away, and people are once again beginning to flock to the bustling downtown core, wearing tank tops and flip flops even though the weather is what Victorians like to call "spring jacket weather".
Tourists call it "still really fucking cold".
But a certain subset of women like to be the first to bust out the summer clothes. I have no idea why this is, but I imagine it's a neurological response to seasonal changes. Sort of like how ducks know to fly south for the winter.
I was walking downtown, admiring all the twenty-something women in low-cut tops and short skirts as they shivered, all sexy-like, when I felt that old hunger come upon me once again. I saw those shaking legs, those blueish fingers, and the urge descended. I couldn't fight it. It was irresistable, and I felt myself drawn in to a seasonal urge of my own, succumbing to its siren call...
I needed me some noodle box.
I power-walked to the fisgard location, drawing out my stamped noodle card while I waited in the line. It occurred to me that the last time I had eaten there was in 2010, probably around mid-November. I had been noodle-free for almost five months... the entire length of winter, and then some.
I was a bear who had just come out of his hibernation. And like a bear, I needed to eat to make up for months spent in slumber. Like a bear, I had to eat my body weight in spicy black bean noodles.
I left with my trendy little take-out box, happily walking past the throngs of tight white shirts, diamond-hard nipples, and hypothermic hussies while the april rains began to fall once more.
I didn't care. I was back in noodle-land, and it felt good.
Tourists call it "still really fucking cold".
But a certain subset of women like to be the first to bust out the summer clothes. I have no idea why this is, but I imagine it's a neurological response to seasonal changes. Sort of like how ducks know to fly south for the winter.
I was walking downtown, admiring all the twenty-something women in low-cut tops and short skirts as they shivered, all sexy-like, when I felt that old hunger come upon me once again. I saw those shaking legs, those blueish fingers, and the urge descended. I couldn't fight it. It was irresistable, and I felt myself drawn in to a seasonal urge of my own, succumbing to its siren call...
I needed me some noodle box.
I power-walked to the fisgard location, drawing out my stamped noodle card while I waited in the line. It occurred to me that the last time I had eaten there was in 2010, probably around mid-November. I had been noodle-free for almost five months... the entire length of winter, and then some.
I was a bear who had just come out of his hibernation. And like a bear, I needed to eat to make up for months spent in slumber. Like a bear, I had to eat my body weight in spicy black bean noodles.
I left with my trendy little take-out box, happily walking past the throngs of tight white shirts, diamond-hard nipples, and hypothermic hussies while the april rains began to fall once more.
I didn't care. I was back in noodle-land, and it felt good.
The New Ditch Records
Ditch Records, my faovurite record store in the whole entire world, has changed locations. It has gone from a store of about 150 square feet to one that is easily over a thousand square feet. When I first set foot in the place, I died and went to nerd heaven... one of the first finds was a vinyl copy of Unida's Coping with the Urban Coyote, an album I have literally wanted to own for almost ten years, but have never been able to find (often even through ebay and Amazon, where copies can cost upwards of $150).
The next hour in the store was kind of a blur. I may have cried a little.
To celebrate, they're having a big record release day party for April 16th. Some of the albums they're putting big discounts include early Pink Floyd bootlegs, a limited Dodos EP pressing, the new Matt and Kim release, the new Fleet Foxes release, and about a bajillion more records I want. I have a feeling I'll be one of the guys waiting in line come saturday morning.
Anyone wanna keep me company?
The next hour in the store was kind of a blur. I may have cried a little.
To celebrate, they're having a big record release day party for April 16th. Some of the albums they're putting big discounts include early Pink Floyd bootlegs, a limited Dodos EP pressing, the new Matt and Kim release, the new Fleet Foxes release, and about a bajillion more records I want. I have a feeling I'll be one of the guys waiting in line come saturday morning.
Anyone wanna keep me company?
Woot!
You know what's awesome? Winning free tickets to live shows. I just got put on the guest list for the Dodos' show next week in Victoria (April 1st, at Sugar, in case you're curious). Guess I won a draw (they give away free tickets to every show they do if you're on their facebook fans page.... and I won for Victoria).
I already have two free tickets, so if anyone's in Victoria that wants to go, let me know, and the tickets are yours. I bought them for twenty bucks each, but I'll sell them for a drink per ticket, or best offer. Because I'm all about sharing the wealth.
I already have two free tickets, so if anyone's in Victoria that wants to go, let me know, and the tickets are yours. I bought them for twenty bucks each, but I'll sell them for a drink per ticket, or best offer. Because I'm all about sharing the wealth.
This is not a funny story. It's really just sad. But it needs to be said.
Quick note: there is no joke in the title. This really is a sad story that needs to be said, and it's kind of unfortunate that I have to tell it in a blog that is usually about funny stuff and music. This is a downer post, about the social ills of the city I love. It's about homeless people, drug addicts, and all that entails. If you're the type of person who comes here looking for a cheerful, happy story with all sorts of funny insights, you can safely skip this post.
It's a story I'm relating less than an hour after it happened (I got home at 1:15, and finished this post at 2:00 am), and it may be a little raw. But it's Victoria - and not the sunny side that tourists are used to seeing.
I love Victoria, I really do. But it definitely has its fair share of problems.
It started about an hour ago. It was a little past twelve, and I knew I wasn't going to sleep anytime soon - my insomnia was acting up again. But I didn't want to go to bed at 4 am like I've been doing when insomnia strikes, so I decided to get pre-emptive. I was going to go for a bit of a midnight stroll.
It wouldn't be too bad - the snow was gone, and the weather was good, and hey, it's a monday night, so it should all be good, right?
Well, I forgot to take into account that Victoria's been under a blanket of snow for the past week. And then, it rained for two nights straight - this was the first night of decent weather in a week. Meaning - drug addicts and alcoholics would be hitting the street in force.
There was some nice foreshadowing when I watched a security guard chase two addicts out from the eaves of an old health food store on the Vic West side of the Johnson street bridge. He waved his flashlight at them angrily as they jumped into the bushes. It was almost kind of funny - I've seen things like this in Victoria all the time, and I didn't think much about it. But the night got progressively worse.
I was looping back from the Johnson street bridge, and making my way down government street when I had a fun encounter with Victoria's finest - also known as "the drunk on a curb". A well meaning couple were trying to look after a passed out native* guy lying asleep on the sidewalk, flat on his back. And, of course, a disheveled guy in a trucker's cap was also there, screaming loudly and drunkenly at his friend to "get the fuck up" and screaming at, well, everyone else, too.
I turned the native guy on his side so he wouldn't choke or anything, while the husband thanked me and let me take the lead. He was a nice enough guy, the husband, but I could tell he was way out of his element. Meanwhile, his wife stayed a good fifteen feet away (good call) and was on the phone, calling 911 or something.
I told the drunk friend to stop swearing while I rolled the native guy, which of course woke him up instantly. With the husband's help, we got him sitting upright, and then the guy just leapt to his feet and started wobbling - I had to grab him so he wouldn't fall over and hit his head, while he muttered a bunch of crap about respect and circumstances and other bullshit touchy-feely crap that street addicts spout. Neither the husband or I were paying much attention - he actually looked at me and said "Victoria's getting worse, isn't it?" while the native went on and on. For a moment, I liked him.
And then he left with his wife a moment later, while I was propping up the native, leaving me alone with two drunks - one of them a loud, screaming drunk. That couple suddenly fell a few points in my good books.
An angry drunk afraid of cops. Who then proceeded to ask me for two dollars for cab fare so he could get his friend home (cab fare starts at about three bucks). And his friend, the drunken native, kept spewing gibberish about how the white man doesn't respect him.
You don't say? It's not cuz you're native, pal.
I was there when the paramedics showed up, and I gave them the basic situation as they stepped out into the night. Of course, in the thirty seconds it took for me to talk to the paramedic, the angry drunk had run in one direction, and the drunk who had only a minute earlier been unable to stand had found the reserves to hobble halfway down the block. The Paramedic and I laughed about it, I gave them some more basic info, and I left them to their night and went about my way.
I had to walk by the drunken native on my way home, though. And he proceeded to follow me, wave me down, and try to buy cocaine off me. I told him I didn't have any money I could give him, which he had no problem believing... but he had a hard time believing I didn't have any cocaine I could give him. Or know anyone who might have cocaine to give him. He then muttered one of two things. Either he said: "I'm not trying to be a dick here, I'm trying to be a man!" OR he said "I'm not saying you're a dick, but you should try to be a man!".
Neither of which made any real sense, given the context. I basically just shrugged, said "Whatever" in my best "you're an idiot" tone, and went about my way. Sorry, buddy, but when you pass out on the sidewalk and beg others for drug money, you lose any right to say what does and doesn't make a man.
The night wasn't done, though. In the fifteen minutes it took for me to leave that guy on the curb and get to my front door, I was assailed by all manner of Victoria's finest. I had two different people, in two seperate occasions, try to buy drugs off me. I had a hooker asking to "borrow" smokes off me, and who was convinced I was lying when I said I didn't smoke. And I had to walk by a tweaked-out meth addict who was picking imaginary cigarrette stubs off the pavement while scratching the scabs all over her face while her legs kicked out at random intervals.
Every other car on the street was either a cop or an ambulance.
Like I said, I love Victoria. But Christ, it has its problems.
* Okay, a disclaimer. I refer to him as "native guy" mostly so I can differentiate between the two drunks. Yes, there are a lot of drunken natives in Victoria. But I'm not really trying to make some sort of racist remark, here. I've got a large percentage of native in me, myself. The ills affecting the native population BC is pretty horrible, and I get that there's a lot of hardships these people are forced to deal with. But I'm not one of those liberals who will give a drunk or a drug addict a free pass just because they're native - that's the worst kind of racism, in my book.
It's a story I'm relating less than an hour after it happened (I got home at 1:15, and finished this post at 2:00 am), and it may be a little raw. But it's Victoria - and not the sunny side that tourists are used to seeing.
I love Victoria, I really do. But it definitely has its fair share of problems.
It started about an hour ago. It was a little past twelve, and I knew I wasn't going to sleep anytime soon - my insomnia was acting up again. But I didn't want to go to bed at 4 am like I've been doing when insomnia strikes, so I decided to get pre-emptive. I was going to go for a bit of a midnight stroll.
It wouldn't be too bad - the snow was gone, and the weather was good, and hey, it's a monday night, so it should all be good, right?
Well, I forgot to take into account that Victoria's been under a blanket of snow for the past week. And then, it rained for two nights straight - this was the first night of decent weather in a week. Meaning - drug addicts and alcoholics would be hitting the street in force.
There was some nice foreshadowing when I watched a security guard chase two addicts out from the eaves of an old health food store on the Vic West side of the Johnson street bridge. He waved his flashlight at them angrily as they jumped into the bushes. It was almost kind of funny - I've seen things like this in Victoria all the time, and I didn't think much about it. But the night got progressively worse.
I was looping back from the Johnson street bridge, and making my way down government street when I had a fun encounter with Victoria's finest - also known as "the drunk on a curb". A well meaning couple were trying to look after a passed out native* guy lying asleep on the sidewalk, flat on his back. And, of course, a disheveled guy in a trucker's cap was also there, screaming loudly and drunkenly at his friend to "get the fuck up" and screaming at, well, everyone else, too.
I turned the native guy on his side so he wouldn't choke or anything, while the husband thanked me and let me take the lead. He was a nice enough guy, the husband, but I could tell he was way out of his element. Meanwhile, his wife stayed a good fifteen feet away (good call) and was on the phone, calling 911 or something.
I told the drunk friend to stop swearing while I rolled the native guy, which of course woke him up instantly. With the husband's help, we got him sitting upright, and then the guy just leapt to his feet and started wobbling - I had to grab him so he wouldn't fall over and hit his head, while he muttered a bunch of crap about respect and circumstances and other bullshit touchy-feely crap that street addicts spout. Neither the husband or I were paying much attention - he actually looked at me and said "Victoria's getting worse, isn't it?" while the native went on and on. For a moment, I liked him.
And then he left with his wife a moment later, while I was propping up the native, leaving me alone with two drunks - one of them a loud, screaming drunk. That couple suddenly fell a few points in my good books.
An angry drunk afraid of cops. Who then proceeded to ask me for two dollars for cab fare so he could get his friend home (cab fare starts at about three bucks). And his friend, the drunken native, kept spewing gibberish about how the white man doesn't respect him.
You don't say? It's not cuz you're native, pal.
I was there when the paramedics showed up, and I gave them the basic situation as they stepped out into the night. Of course, in the thirty seconds it took for me to talk to the paramedic, the angry drunk had run in one direction, and the drunk who had only a minute earlier been unable to stand had found the reserves to hobble halfway down the block. The Paramedic and I laughed about it, I gave them some more basic info, and I left them to their night and went about my way.
I had to walk by the drunken native on my way home, though. And he proceeded to follow me, wave me down, and try to buy cocaine off me. I told him I didn't have any money I could give him, which he had no problem believing... but he had a hard time believing I didn't have any cocaine I could give him. Or know anyone who might have cocaine to give him. He then muttered one of two things. Either he said: "I'm not trying to be a dick here, I'm trying to be a man!" OR he said "I'm not saying you're a dick, but you should try to be a man!".
Neither of which made any real sense, given the context. I basically just shrugged, said "Whatever" in my best "you're an idiot" tone, and went about my way. Sorry, buddy, but when you pass out on the sidewalk and beg others for drug money, you lose any right to say what does and doesn't make a man.
The night wasn't done, though. In the fifteen minutes it took for me to leave that guy on the curb and get to my front door, I was assailed by all manner of Victoria's finest. I had two different people, in two seperate occasions, try to buy drugs off me. I had a hooker asking to "borrow" smokes off me, and who was convinced I was lying when I said I didn't smoke. And I had to walk by a tweaked-out meth addict who was picking imaginary cigarrette stubs off the pavement while scratching the scabs all over her face while her legs kicked out at random intervals.
Every other car on the street was either a cop or an ambulance.
Like I said, I love Victoria. But Christ, it has its problems.
* Okay, a disclaimer. I refer to him as "native guy" mostly so I can differentiate between the two drunks. Yes, there are a lot of drunken natives in Victoria. But I'm not really trying to make some sort of racist remark, here. I've got a large percentage of native in me, myself. The ills affecting the native population BC is pretty horrible, and I get that there's a lot of hardships these people are forced to deal with. But I'm not one of those liberals who will give a drunk or a drug addict a free pass just because they're native - that's the worst kind of racism, in my book.
Snow Day
Victoria is once again in the icy grip of winter. Almost a foot of the stuff fell overnight, leaving the city in a blind panic. It's on the front page of all the papers, and the first thing to leave everyone's lips. Facebook is aflutter with crazed comments about snowmen, traffic jams, and icy weather.
As Victorians, we really aren't used to snow - while we logically understand that yes, water can freeze in the sky and when it's cold enough, fall to the ground as frozen rain, we just don't believe in the core of our being that it can, in fact, happen here. Sure, it can snow everywhere else in Canada. But in Victoria? It's impossible.
And then it does snow, and everyone goes batshit mental. Victorian natives inevitably act in one of the following two ways:
The first group, who I dub "The Victoria Spazzes", go into a panic the second water that is even in the act of freezing first touches soil. These are the people who go into the grocery stores and stock up on toilet paper, canned soup, bread, and lemons (so they don't get scurvy, you see). They call in sick for work, close the blinds, and huddle in their basements praying for the vile vile snow to go away. While these people are annoying (if only because they make it harder to buy toilet paper), they really aren't the worst faction of Victorians - at least they're out of the way.
The second group are what I called "The Precipitation Deniers". They see the snow, and decide to go about their day to day lives, acting as if it doesn't exist at all. These people believe, simply, that if they refuse to acknowledge the presence of snow, it will promptly disappear. While this may sound like a great and optimistic philosophy to live by, it's really not that great when these people are, say, driving. On icy roads. And don't feel as if they should, you know, slow down. These are the same people who wear mini skirts and sandals in sub zero temperatures and have the gall to complain about being cold.
Sadly, in Victoria, there's no such thing as a happy medium. If you're from here, you're pretty much bound to one of the two camps described above.
And if you're not from here, and somewhere else in Canada that regularly has to deal with weather like this? You look on, not sure if what you're seeing is true - as if part of you wonders if you're being punk'd by, say, God.
As Victorians, we really aren't used to snow - while we logically understand that yes, water can freeze in the sky and when it's cold enough, fall to the ground as frozen rain, we just don't believe in the core of our being that it can, in fact, happen here. Sure, it can snow everywhere else in Canada. But in Victoria? It's impossible.
And then it does snow, and everyone goes batshit mental. Victorian natives inevitably act in one of the following two ways:
The first group, who I dub "The Victoria Spazzes", go into a panic the second water that is even in the act of freezing first touches soil. These are the people who go into the grocery stores and stock up on toilet paper, canned soup, bread, and lemons (so they don't get scurvy, you see). They call in sick for work, close the blinds, and huddle in their basements praying for the vile vile snow to go away. While these people are annoying (if only because they make it harder to buy toilet paper), they really aren't the worst faction of Victorians - at least they're out of the way.
The second group are what I called "The Precipitation Deniers". They see the snow, and decide to go about their day to day lives, acting as if it doesn't exist at all. These people believe, simply, that if they refuse to acknowledge the presence of snow, it will promptly disappear. While this may sound like a great and optimistic philosophy to live by, it's really not that great when these people are, say, driving. On icy roads. And don't feel as if they should, you know, slow down. These are the same people who wear mini skirts and sandals in sub zero temperatures and have the gall to complain about being cold.
Sadly, in Victoria, there's no such thing as a happy medium. If you're from here, you're pretty much bound to one of the two camps described above.
And if you're not from here, and somewhere else in Canada that regularly has to deal with weather like this? You look on, not sure if what you're seeing is true - as if part of you wonders if you're being punk'd by, say, God.
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