Want To Get Angry?

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=401419&in_page_id=1770

Doogie Howser Was The First Blogger

A weekend with nothing to do. But, hey, that's okay. Iko, an aforementioned ESL student, made me a CD today of Japanese rock songs. On the cover she wrote "JAG IS ROCK". I think that may be the greatest compliment I have ever received.

Work's going well, I'm already half way done. School will be upon me in no time at all. I'm taking my afternoon students (the class I like) on a field trip to Canada Place next week to ask strangers questions. It should be hilarious fun. I know this borders on mocking, but immigrants say some fucking goofy things sometimes and it's a blast to listen to.

Today was a half-day and after I hit he bank and Staples to buy some blank CDs to return Iko's kindness with I stopped by Waterfront station and stared at the ocean. I do that a lot here. I'm not exactly sure why I find it so mesmerizing. I don't even like boats or swimming or anything. In fact, if anything around here should remind me of the planate, unflinching prairies it is a calm sea. I suppose the minor undulations are enough to keep me mentally occupied and assured of its beauty. Laminar Flow is dreamy.

It was another sunny, warm day and I felt wholly relaxed as I got home. I'm eagerly looking forward to a weekend of nothing.

In other news: Stephen Harper did not attend the International AIDS conference in Toronto this year. People are in an uproar. He is fucking lame for not attending, but I honestly think it will have an insignificant impact on his political future. If these apoplectic flak shooters would watch The National (the best show ever) they would know that ol' Sloppy Face Jean Chrétien also was a no-show at the '96 conference here in Vancouver. It didn't appear to have any lasting effect on his career.

Look, I'm not saying it's a waste of time to be outraged. People should know. What I want to offer is if you're wringing your hands in frustration please know there's a precedent set here. Despite the seemingly insurmountable opposition and apathy you face - you'll win. That's the thing with these dickhead Right Wing conservatives…um, as opposed to those left wing conservatives. They always take their archaic stands and argue their idiotic points and they always fucking lose. Harper can get the business boys/hick/Guns And Ammo subscriber vote by apostrophizing about the security of our Northern waterways and not sully himself with all those city queers and their ickiness. But he's aligned in history with those people who thought our kids shouldn't dance with 'Negroes'. The people who thought Rock N Roll would destroy our culture. The people who felt women were too fragile and dim to offer suffrage to. We laugh at those people now and we'll laugh at them again. We all know AIDS is more important than an outpost on Baffin Island. He's a politician, his job is to ensure a majority next election. Nothing more, nothing less. His rube-ish, backwards ideology will yellow and fade like discarded newsprint. It always does. It's a shame that even in 2006 AIDS is seen as a disease of deviants - let's face it, a lot of people still feel that way - and I yearn for the advent of time machines so I can view a Canada where the largest hindrance of HIV/AIDS is missing an hour or two of work to get your prescription for the cure (AIDScure ™ - 29.95 a bottle!) refilled. And people view homosexuals adopting children with the same disinterest we show when confronted with an Asian working at McDonald's.

Rant Ends Here.

I'm going to eat veggie dogs and have a nap. If you're cool you'll buy Amy Millan's solo album because I'm in love with it and want it to be my girlfriend. She's also coming to town on September 20th - does anyone want to go with me? Oh…well. Fuck you.

I'm also digging Ratatat, The Mad Capsule Markets and Midlake. Spread the word. It's safer than spreading AIDS.

Cooking is Tricky

Only one hotplate and no fan in my cabin. Kind of precludes all but the most rudimentary menu items. Today dinner was frozen vegetables softened in the microwave with salsa poured on them (lathered is more accurate since litres more came out of the bottle than I wanted. Yuck). This duet of pleasure was eaten with tortilla bread roti-style.

Lunch has been peanut butter sandwiches or Tim Horton bagels with Herb and Garlic cream cheese. The good news I should lose some weight this year, the bad news is I might die from malnutrition. Just kidding. I'm eating a lot of vegetables and a decent amount of protein (I could use more, but still).

However, I've always admired those with attuned palates. I would love to eat rare, hard to pronounce dishes and impress girls unfortunate enough to accept invitations to my palatial, pink shed with my skillet prowess and seasoning finesse.

If anyone knows of any cookbooks outfitted for those surviving in a MASH tent in a war zone or Rampant Masturbating Bachelors please send those titles my way - I think only such punctilious titles would aid someone with my ability and resources.

A Weak Return Made Stronger

I write this from the keyboard of my funky new laptop, which is the sexiest thing I own and I'll probably end up marrying it. Saturday night was an evening of unreturned phone calls and party searching on Whyte Avenue, which was less populated than usual, but those that were perambulating the pub-lined street were making up for their lack of size with voracity of bluster. A persnickety bunch.

The night wasn't a complete disappointment, Steve and I met my friend Julie at Boston Pizza (she's a shift supervisor there - which means she's a bossy waitress) after giving us dinner free of charge, we retired to Steve's place, drank wine and halfheartedly played cards and talked about sweating the small stuff until six in the morning. Very relaxing Saturday, a enjoyable way to enjoy Edmonton again.

Sunday, ignoring my body's demand that I get at least six hours sleep sometime this month, I reunited with Jenocide at Folk Fest, gave her a pretty fucking sweet coming back present if I do say so myself and sat in the warm grass and watched Sarah Harmer close the festival. She sounded great, although her intra-song banter was trite and a little dopey. I don't know why, but for some reason I have such high expectations of artists I admire - maybe that speaks more poorly of me than them.

I slept over at Jen's swank new pad and shared my bed with her sister-in-law's cats. If you think I'm going to make a pussy joke, please check yourself and give me some more credit. I can't think of a good one, anyways.

Jen, kindly as ever, drove me to the airport and we had another TV embrace. I can't wait for her to visit in a week or so, no pretense offered or required with her. True friendship is elusive indeed, and when captured, should not be tended with downy nonchalance. These relationships should be cherished and time should be made to do it as it occurs. Ample time for reflection is even more elusive.

An uneventful flight later and I was back in Vancouver. Back home. I had resolved to eat some ice cream tonight, play with my new computer and watch some "Hell's Kitchen". I'm giving myself a - truthfully - unearned five hour vacation tonight, but that's okay. Until I feel content in the field I have chosen, shirking responsibility has retained its romantic quality for another evening.

Tomorrow another day of teaching adults to speak in short, choppy sentences.

It's a day later now, I couldn't post the above paragraphs because of Internet issues. I went for a run tonight and I decided to go the opposite direction of my usual path. I found a new trail that hugs the coast and whose capsheaf is a beautiful, unobstructed jetty directly across the Burrard Inlet from Stanley Park. With each transverse foot I grew happier and happier with the beautiful scenery; the increasingly picturesque vantage points. Every time I heard the sound of footfalls or the murmuring of people I went the other way. When my own wheezing became too distracting I stopped at a beautifully staged park bench and looked at the panoramic view of My City that stretched from the West Van condo towers across the forest green Lions Gate Bridge into dense Stanley Park and through the early evening dim of downtown all the way to the straining Point Grey and UBC campus.

I walked back and got lost and didn't care…God, I wish you could've been there.

E-Town Beatdown

The clouds gray. You know it’s coming. They talk about it almost mythically, preparing any newcomer with the burdening promise of the downpour. You can’t escape. It splatters sidewalks, buildings, baby carriages, young lovers crossing the street. Indiscriminate and seemingly infinite. The perfect weapon –one that can only be blocked or tolerated. Never stopped. It’s the rain and it wants to wash away your will to live.

Here’s the problem. I’m in fucking Edmonton and it’s twenty fucking degrees in Vancouver! What the hell? I come back for one weekend and the signature drawback of the west coast attacks the prairies, with its torrential liquid spears falling, untrammeled, at a rate of 9.8 m/s2 to annoyingly tap my head and shoulders.

I arrived in soggy Alberta last night and had the type of airport embrace romantic comedies have instructed me to have. Jen got back from Africa on Thursday and kindly offered to pick me up at the airport. It was fucking great to see her again: my best friend, my hero.

We drove straight from Edmonton International to Folk Fest. It was full of yellow rain slickers and shivering music fans on blue tarps peppering the hillside in front of the main stage like a denim constellation. Despite, or because of, the weather everyone was in communal spirits under the tents of the beer gardens. Jen and I met up with Adam, Steve their friends and lovers and the usual cast of acquaintances, people from out of town and girls I asked out and never heard from again.

It’s been a while since I was at a show, much less an outdoor, multi-day music festival. We joked around, I received the welcome nickname of Jagcouver, I marveled at the gift of a hookah and flavored tobacco Jen picked me up it Dar-Salaam – a wonderful night.

After they kicked us out of the alcohol friendly area, we went near the big stage danced to the Neville Brothers and bobbed our heads to a subdued, but heartfelt, set from Hawksley Workman (he didn’t play “don’t be crushed” which was disappointing, but what can you do?)

We retired to Adam’s place where pot, funny Internet videos and more music awaited. It felt like I had been away longer than three weeks with the cool sheets and foreign smells connate with being a visitor. For better or worse, I am quick to acclimatize.

I’ve finished one week of my month-long English teaching contract. I can’t say I’m enjoying myself. Pat and Themba informed that the boss who left the day I started was the most gregarious employer ever and ran a buoyant, well-organized office. Perhaps he took more away with him than just friendly demeanor and some resources. My teaching assignment is completely different than what they told me it was going to be and what I was prepared for. It’s very grammar heavy instruction, which is boring as watching shrimp fuck and also something I’m pretty ignorant of.

Oh well. Minor lamentation. The clouds are parting, time to go pick up my pimp new laptop and throw down in which is now my ex-stomping grounds. Hope is emo.

THE FREENESS WEEKEND PART THREE: Bar Trek

SUNDAY

Iko, a Japanese ESL student, couldn’t make it on Saturday night but thank whatever non-existence deity you superstitiously worship that she joined us on Sunday because that girl’s amazing. REAAARRRRRY amazing! She has that rocker, trendy style usually only attempted by Gwen Stafani back up dancers, but more than that she makes you laugh, is genuinely down for anything and is impossible not to love. Cutest thing ever.

We met her and some of her cronies at the Cactus Club in Yaletown. If you can’t guess from the name ‘Yaletown’, it’s yuppie central in Vancouver. She was drinking a highball called Nothing But Pink and showed us the Japanese hand maneuver representing coitus (it’s like the thing you do when you ‘steal someone’s nose’) and entertained our questions on the Yakuza.

The night was mostly frustrating – we walked down to Shine (about 30 minutes, maybe more) only to find out it was Lesbian night and was 15 bucks to get in. Themba knew of a place, Lucy Mae Brown, which was known for its Sundays but was not sure of its location. We got faulty directions from a woman on the street (I remember you Suzie, you bitch!) The drunken Irishman taking swigs from a wine bottle on the sidewalk was less help. We trudged back all the way near Yaletown again to eventually stumble upon the club. We only savored the good music and friendly vibes for about a half hour before last call, but I will remember the place for future outings. If only I had friends who would stay in the city…

I saw a pro skater there, who’s name escaped me, but he was fully sponsored and drove a Lexus and was 18, so good for him. There was a right soused strumpet on the dance floor who I swear to god, with one of her Elaine-like gyrations showed the whole bar a nipple. It was a good night, but truncated and we all were a bit tired and tired of drinking as well.

That was my weekend, more or less. The boys are over the Pacific now and I wish them many happy returns. Biff is canoodling with a Californian émigré in a complimentary hotel room, and me I’m getting ready for work. I do it smiling, however and there’s a fondness imbedded in my recent memories that will last far longer than any employment term. For if there’s one thing planes, the anonymity of inns, and someone’s misfortune of dropping a 20 and 10 on a tavern floor can provide it is the warm reminder of the boundless nature of life and the odd twists, permutations and calculations that make us feel truly free and deservedly privileged in those brief moments between myriad concrete obligations.

THE FREENESS WEEKEND PART TWO: Japanese Girls Are Automatic

SATURDAY

Napping in the late afternoon in my palatial cabin, I was welcomingly awoken by a phone call from one Biff Johansson, who informed me his drive from Edmonton was almost complete and he would be at my house soon. It was fucking great to see the man who puts the “EiC” in “nice” again. Philip Seymour Hoffman once commented that there is no greater buzz than meeting and being around someone who is nice because they want to be. I think Biff personifies that inveiglement.

We drove over to Kitsilano and collected Jhen and Skip who brought us to the beach, now crowded with those awaiting the fireworks (there’s an annual international fireworks competition/display in Vancouver this time of year). We ate hamburgers, delicious veggie ones for Biff and I. We assed out the new slang tern of ‘assed out’ and then picked up beer for some pre-gaming at Pat/Themba’s house-sat home. In a another case of ‘what a small fucking world’ Skip knew the owner of the place they were watching, not only that, but he works with him and will be living in his basement suite next year! Craaazy!

We jaunted over to Shine, a hip-hop club in Gastown. We got on the list and paid no cover, which would be a germane harbinger of the evening. Upon entering some friend of The Darkness Brothers (Pat and Themba) bought us a few drinks, some goofy, tree-tall patron bought me another one for no apparent reason and then, this was great, I found 30 dollars on the floor! So I returned the favor and bought a round and then to top it off, one of the bartenders bought me a drink because she liked the t-shirt I was wearing! What? There’s a New Freetown! Population: Me!

Not only that, but the DJs – Matt the Alien and Vinyl Ritchie killed it, yo! I knew this was a night to remember when one of the first songs I heard upon entering was “Children’s Story” by the ruler Slick Rick! Fucking hard. Another standout track was a remix of Grandmaster Flash’s “The Message” to the music of “Break on Through” by the Doors. Not only was it inspired and mellifluous, but also I didn’t have to hear that pretentious fucking loser Jim Morrison bleat through another trite, shallowly poetic dirge.

After the cab dropped us off, Themba and I sat by the beach and had one of those drunken talks about life, the future, unrealized ambitions and art that come by so rarely. Make all the gay jokes you want (god knows I would) but it was a pretty splendid backdrop for some catching up days before we take another year long sabbatical from each other.

THE FREENESS WEEKEND PART ONE: Hypothesis Confirmed

FRIDAY

The August long weekend was the last one before work started and also the last weekend before Nig 400 and St. Pat flew back to the land of sticky rice and untrimmed pubic hair. Friday was graduation day at the ESL school for this current crop of students. I stopped in to get better acquainted with faculty and pupils. All my future colleagues seem affably pleasant (especially the cat we call ‘Basil’, but we’ll return to him later).

Some students and now ex-teachers Themba and Pat headed to the Red Room for drinking and dancing. Which has to be one of the fucking most whack clubs I’ve been to. But, there were 20 of us and beer was cheap so it was also the most fun. It was Latin night so all the Mexican/Spanish/South American ESL students loved it. Mad respect for not trying to emulate this Western culture and throwing down like they do back home (the Asians have a nasty habit of wanting to be Americans). I had a great time, just drinking and dancing and swearing and falling over laughing at Basil. My man creepily, and without any hint of self-consciousness, crossed the line, danced too close and generally hit on any female students present.

Stephen Tite Pants, the bringer of adventure, showed up later in his pimp station wagon and took us to house party. Stephen’s effin’ hilarious. Say what you want about the happy affordability confidence allows, but the man doesn’t give a fuck and I feel richer for it. He rolls up in the crowded bungalow; heads straight for the stranger’s fridge, grabs a beer and starts chatting up some people right away. If you haven’t headed over to his My Space page yet, please do so – I dig his music and he deserves some props.

When we first arrived, I felt giddy. I felt like I was where I belonged. There was amazing art on the wall done (if I overheard correctly) by one of the tenants, lots of people in thick glasses and rad sneakers and scarves. It was, superficially, my indie Arcadia. So, yeah, I see this girl. Pretty as a bug’s ear. Ribbon in her hair. Cancer Bats t-shirt. All right. I dig Cancer Bats and I dig girls. The hunt for cunt is on. I just thought of that…and I am incredibly ashamed.

Themba offers: “Why don’t you talk to her, son?”

I retort: “I dunno. She’s talking to some dude.” God bless that kid. With a “c’mon, son” Themba, the best wingman in the business, heads over to her. Keep in mind, Themba breathes hip-hop and could give a fuck about some spastic Canadian rocker band.

THEMBA: [passing by GIRL] What? Cancer Bats? Yeah, right on!

GIRL: [skeptically] Yeah. Cancer Bats. You like them?

THEMBA: Shit yeah, of course. Who doesn’t?

GIRL: [growing more suspicious] How’d you know about them?

ME: [catching my cue] Alexisonfire. They played a show in Edmonton, where I’m from, and one of the guys was doing a local radio show and talked about them and played a few of their songs.

GIRL: [shoulders dropping and eyebrows raising at the realization we know what were talking about and this might be a more adroitly planned offensive than she assumed] Oh yeah? Cool.

THEMBA: Yeah, what up now?

Got to love that guy. So we talk, this lass and I. She went to the same high school as one of the guys from Alexisonfire, she’s an art student at Emily Carr, she likes Vancouver better than Southern Ontario, but the rain gets to her sometimes. Sadly, after a few minutes, as to the best calibration my social barometer achieves, I discover she’s kind of dumb. And, moreover, not remotely interested. Then I find out her name’s Jess and I get the fuck out of there faster than you can say ‘Ambisol’.

So we slink our separate ways and are quickly annexed by all the mingling and all people's random importance. This exchange gave me some insight, however. I think I’m a little quick to judge. I can equate style with intelligence or, worse, kindness. And that should stop. This isn’t some maudlin apology for my shallowness in talking to the woman I thought was the coolest looking, because everyone does that – I just think I could use a smidgen more neutrality in my interpersonal dealings and more prying of a, at times, only ajar mind.

EPILOGUE: a boisterous cheer to The Mongoose, who shirked all petty, bourgeoisie notions of fiduciary responsibility and gave us a squeaking bed frame to laugh over at three in the morning and an opportunity to dust off Mary Kay Letourneau jokes. You’re a gentlemen and a scholar.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

It dawned on me slowly (as most things do) that this is my first time living completely by myself. No family, no roommates. Perhaps an unremarkable achievement of someone who is nearing 26, however, like a third world dictator, I feel even the most commonplace of my accomplishments warrants some type of celebration.

How did I choose to commemorate this soldered step into adulthood? This acceptance of personal responsibility and wordless promise of civilized supplication? I ate an entire pizza, drank some Crown Royal and fell asleep watching Seinfeld in my boxer shorts. I am a fucking duke.

I think it taught me a lot about myself. Specifically:

· I should never, ever do that again
· There are many valid and apparent reasons I am single
· My taste buds can detect the piquancy of failure. It tastes like rye whisky, Mexican hot sauce and processed cheese.

[INSERT SEGUE HERE]

Today, downtown, I saw a protest in front of the armed forces building demanding the immediate withdrawal of Canadian troops from Afghanistan. I don’t want them there either (I did at one time) but for them to pack up and leave tomorrow doesn’t seem like a manoeuvre ensuring stability and long-lasting peace in the region. I am not an expert, of course, and any insight anyone has to offer would be appreciated.

Mel Gibson For Pope!

I am nursing my legs. Today I ran up and down a path in the woods near my place for my first exercise in two weeks or so. There is a promise of pain tomorrow. BUT…that does mean I am now, officially, a resident of Vancouver. I moved in on Monday and am unpacked, mostly. One more weekend trip to Edmonton to snag my computer machine and the rest of my books/movies and I’m fully imbedded.

Damn, is it ever small. Which is okay for me – doubly so because the walls are pink, there’s a giant mirror on one side and the couch that came with the place is leopard print. I’ll be spending my year on the set of some mid-budget porn epic. I’m well on my way of adding the finishing touches of random, awkwardly placed semen stains. And I 've also purchased the Glade Plug-In "Scent of Tennage Girl Dreams Being Dashed" for the coup de grace.

Did some exploring of the area. Finally made it down to the rocky beach, sat on the bleached driftwood that litters the coast during low tide and looked at downtown. I can’t wait to take you down there. Pleasantly idyllic.

Last night I met up with Lydia – check out her art under the ‘FU’ link. She’s a friend of a friend from Taiwan than I’ve been chatting for a while over MSN and it was great to finally meet in person and have a real chat. She’s very talented and offers good dinner conversation. she’s also sweet as cherries for letting me stay in her spare room after I missed my last bus over the bridge. We walked around downtown, which I’m getting SLIGHTLY better at navigating. The part that I’m interested in exploring is relatively small so it’s not big deal really. Lydia showed me a strip of bars and pubs and quality greasy food eateries that will be invaluable when I’m stumbling out of a club hungry. For food, I mean. Hopefully I will be replete in love.

Some random Vancouver observances: I saw someone getting arrested and then start to scream and struggle as two cops wrestled him to the ground. All under a placarded sign which read “Welcome to Vancouver”.

I spent some time before I arrived at this Internet café watching them shoot an episode of “Smallville.” I suppose, in time, I will get used to the white cube vans of bundles of cable that denote on-location shooting. For today, however, I was transfixed. I still think, despite the 40 year old curmudgeons with sweaty, wrinkled brows holding metallic tubes and pushing tumid fans looking at their surroundings with disdain, that it’s all terribly romantic and stirring. I suppose that’s a good sign.

You should read this, it’s fantastic:
http://www.pattonoswalt.com/ht/best_of_spew2005.html#020805

[Aside]I wonder if these posts are remotely interesting to anyone? I’ll try and be funny next time. I blame time constraints placed on me via being at an Internet café. Fuck you, I’m not here to impress you. Get off my back.