The VERY DAY that Ms. Jean gets the royal nod, I knew it was coming - the flood of e-mails about how nowadays you have to be a leftist feminazi refugee journalista to be GG.
Okay, I admit - back to back appointments of two people with very similar backgrounds? Sure, it's going to raise a few eyebrows - AMONG PEOPLE WHO HAVE THE ATTENTION SPAN OF MAYONNAISE.
I mean, for the love of Jebus, people, YES, they are very similar on paper. But you know what? That's the story of our GGs. For fuck's sake, the first 17 of our friggin' Governors-General were Dukes or Marquesses or Lords or whatnot - not until good ol' Vincent Massey in 1952 does one of them actually have a real name (aside - you ever think how the British Aristocracy is totally the Diddy of the Industrial Age? All, "Now I want to be called Lord Smith-Bottoms." "No, now I'm to be called His Lordship, the Duke of Yabbersmythe." "Now I'm to be called His Princely Waistcoastness, Sir Viscount the Elder, Earl of Puddingshire. The Third!").
80 years of British nobles followed by several more decades of well-to-do white guys, and then, gasp! A woman! And it only took 117 years! I don't know if people thought that one every century or so would be good enough, but there was a certain amount of backlash when the second woman, first non-white GG was announced, even though, God knows, it was about freakin' time. [God: "Tell me about it..."]
Racism aside (wouldn't that be nice?) the gender issue alone bugs the living shit out of me. "Oh no, two women back to back! That must mean that they're planning to overthrow Canadian society as we know it! Soon there will be women participating in every segment of society and behaving like equal citizens under a democratic government AIEEEEE!!!"
So seriously? Shut up your face. Oh no, two women back to back, that makes...er...three women. Out of 27. So, at this rate, if every single appointee to come was female, we'd reach gender balance in...oh, 110 years. Oy, the revolution moves slowly! But one day our great-great-great-grandchildren will thank us for raising a big stink about a ceremonial appointment, instead of, say, combatting pollution so that they wouldn't be stuck living in rocky caves subsisting on a meager diet of bugs and dirt and longing for the day when the poisoned Earth heals herself and receives her horrifically mutated children back with loving arms.
Aw...kinda gives you a warm feeling inside, just thinking about it.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
A Tale of Two Concerts
This last week was musical one - I attended double the number of concerts in four days than I did in all of last year . . . that is to say, two. Don't get me wrong: I love music; real unabashed love, comparable to the love I feel for the cheese section in French supermarkets (as opposed to dirty, shameful love, like my love for reality television). For whatever reasons, (one of which rhymes with smothertruckin' wicketmaster pervice tees), I just hardly ever made it out to see live shows.
Cue last Wednesday - the first of the two concerts was a culmination of a musical oddyssey which began back in 2002 when some wonderfully demented soul unnaturally merged my pure love of music and my perverted love of reality TV and called it American Idol. A young brunette from Texas rocked her audition and then tripped and slid under the judges table and my never-ending girl crush on Kelly Clarkson began. So when I heard she was coming, and A-Mac was all, let's go!, I was all, yeaaaaah! and when the big night came I was so excited that the only thing that could dampen my enthusiasm was the absolutely ass-clownish incompetency of the Corel Centre management, which is a post all in itself but to give you the lowlights, involved us trying to spend our money to purchase services and being thwarted at every turn by their policy of, apparently, taking a succesful venue and running it into the ground through idiocy.
Idiocy of the "Let's close the kitchen right before the 30 minute intermission begins" kind. Idiocy of the "Let's scan people's tickets religiously during the opening act, including when the exit and enter the on-premises restaurant, but when Kelly’s about to start an earnest “Gee, I can’t seem to find my ticket” will suffice”.
Of course, this was almost totally redeemed by the awesomeness of a 50-something usher who openly mocked the Backstreet Boys by snarkily recapping their first performance as having an opening, closing and encore song, filling the rest of their hour with “We love you guys, we love you so much, we know you love us”.
And as asinine as that sounds – that’s really all that mattered to their pre-teen fans.
And, that’s, apparently, who Kelly Clarkson’s fans are too. Pre-Teen Girls (And The Fathers Who Love Them (Or At Least Couldn’t Stand One More Minute of “Dad, Can I Go to Kelly Clarkson? Canicanicanicani?”). These girls bought glow sticks and glow lanyards and glow-faux-backstage passes and wielded them with pride. They wore $40 concert tees and shouted “We love you Kelly!” in their loudest pre-pubescent voices, and knew all the words to her songs and sat patiently during her heartfelt performance of Annie Lennox’s “Why” which caused their parents to, for one brief fleeting moment, actually identify with the music while their daughters mostly waved their glow sticks and chatted with each other and wondered when she would get on to “Breakaway” already. They danced and sang and cursed the adolescent relationship they might one day have that would undoubtedly end in their being mistreated, but all the stronger for it (see “Low”), (oh, and “Since U Been Gone”) (oh, and “Behind These Hazel Eyes”) (oh, Kelly, you work that niche, girl!).
I expected her to rock the house, and she did - no surprise, as she has already proven herself as a live performer with a killer voice – but what she really needed was to take a page out of the Backstreet Boys’ book (How to Success in Pop Music for Ugly Dummies With No Talent) (sorry, boys, but the 11th grade love-affair is over - button up those shirts already) and engage in a little bold-faced currying of favour – even a “Hello Ottawa!” would have sufficed, but it was not to be. Girl can sing the hell out of arguably-catchy-yet-hardly-original pop, but for the love Pete, Kelly, learn how to banter. It’s not hard – you love us, we love you. “Hello Ottawa! I was driving down route 417…” “Hey, that’s right by my house!”
But she’s young, and she’ll get there, and I look forward to seeing her again as long as she abandons the totally unappealing washed-out blond look (pay attention Avril Lavigne/Lindsay Lohan/Brad Pitt) and returns to her former glorious hair colour.
If on Wednesday the dutiful dads and moms of Ottawa trucked out to the Corel Centre with their tweens, then Saturday was their chance to call up the sitter, dust off their concert shirts, double-fist the $6 cups of beer and mold their hand permanently into the devil horn’s/rock-on sign while one of this rockingest bands ever performed.
Oh yeah – we’re talking Def Leppard, baby.
Now as part of my complete immersion in classic rock growing up, I was pretty familiar with Def Leppard – their back to back 10-million plus selling albums, the drummer with one arm, the union jack shirts – but I certainly underestimated their ability to make grown men and women go completely apeshit with one riff. I saw grown women who probably wear baggy shirts and shorts at the beach shake of their awesome curves with pride in vintage AC/DC tops. I witnessed grown men who wouldn’t normally do more than shake hands engage in full body bear hugs repeatedly. I watched hardware engineers, accountants, managers, teachers, and god only knows who else engage some of the most passionate air guitar performances I have ever seen.
As for the band - well, they may have been old, they may have engaged in stereotypical classic rock grandstanding, and at least two of them were apparently, and unfortunately, allergic to their shirts – but goddamn, they knew how to rock. And by they end, when10,000 middle-aged suburbanites were screaming out the words to “Pour Some Sugar On Me”, you knew that every that everyone was back in their glory days before kids and mortgages, and that that feeling would last all the way until the next morning, when their $150 hangovers kicked in.
But boy, would it ever be worth it.
Cue last Wednesday - the first of the two concerts was a culmination of a musical oddyssey which began back in 2002 when some wonderfully demented soul unnaturally merged my pure love of music and my perverted love of reality TV and called it American Idol. A young brunette from Texas rocked her audition and then tripped and slid under the judges table and my never-ending girl crush on Kelly Clarkson began. So when I heard she was coming, and A-Mac was all, let's go!, I was all, yeaaaaah! and when the big night came I was so excited that the only thing that could dampen my enthusiasm was the absolutely ass-clownish incompetency of the Corel Centre management, which is a post all in itself but to give you the lowlights, involved us trying to spend our money to purchase services and being thwarted at every turn by their policy of, apparently, taking a succesful venue and running it into the ground through idiocy.
Idiocy of the "Let's close the kitchen right before the 30 minute intermission begins" kind. Idiocy of the "Let's scan people's tickets religiously during the opening act, including when the exit and enter the on-premises restaurant, but when Kelly’s about to start an earnest “Gee, I can’t seem to find my ticket” will suffice”.
Of course, this was almost totally redeemed by the awesomeness of a 50-something usher who openly mocked the Backstreet Boys by snarkily recapping their first performance as having an opening, closing and encore song, filling the rest of their hour with “We love you guys, we love you so much, we know you love us”.
And as asinine as that sounds – that’s really all that mattered to their pre-teen fans.
And, that’s, apparently, who Kelly Clarkson’s fans are too. Pre-Teen Girls (And The Fathers Who Love Them (Or At Least Couldn’t Stand One More Minute of “Dad, Can I Go to Kelly Clarkson? Canicanicanicani?”). These girls bought glow sticks and glow lanyards and glow-faux-backstage passes and wielded them with pride. They wore $40 concert tees and shouted “We love you Kelly!” in their loudest pre-pubescent voices, and knew all the words to her songs and sat patiently during her heartfelt performance of Annie Lennox’s “Why” which caused their parents to, for one brief fleeting moment, actually identify with the music while their daughters mostly waved their glow sticks and chatted with each other and wondered when she would get on to “Breakaway” already. They danced and sang and cursed the adolescent relationship they might one day have that would undoubtedly end in their being mistreated, but all the stronger for it (see “Low”), (oh, and “Since U Been Gone”) (oh, and “Behind These Hazel Eyes”) (oh, Kelly, you work that niche, girl!).
I expected her to rock the house, and she did - no surprise, as she has already proven herself as a live performer with a killer voice – but what she really needed was to take a page out of the Backstreet Boys’ book (How to Success in Pop Music for Ugly Dummies With No Talent) (sorry, boys, but the 11th grade love-affair is over - button up those shirts already) and engage in a little bold-faced currying of favour – even a “Hello Ottawa!” would have sufficed, but it was not to be. Girl can sing the hell out of arguably-catchy-yet-hardly-original pop, but for the love Pete, Kelly, learn how to banter. It’s not hard – you love us, we love you. “Hello Ottawa! I was driving down route 417…” “Hey, that’s right by my house!”
But she’s young, and she’ll get there, and I look forward to seeing her again as long as she abandons the totally unappealing washed-out blond look (pay attention Avril Lavigne/Lindsay Lohan/Brad Pitt) and returns to her former glorious hair colour.
If on Wednesday the dutiful dads and moms of Ottawa trucked out to the Corel Centre with their tweens, then Saturday was their chance to call up the sitter, dust off their concert shirts, double-fist the $6 cups of beer and mold their hand permanently into the devil horn’s/rock-on sign while one of this rockingest bands ever performed.
Oh yeah – we’re talking Def Leppard, baby.
Now as part of my complete immersion in classic rock growing up, I was pretty familiar with Def Leppard – their back to back 10-million plus selling albums, the drummer with one arm, the union jack shirts – but I certainly underestimated their ability to make grown men and women go completely apeshit with one riff. I saw grown women who probably wear baggy shirts and shorts at the beach shake of their awesome curves with pride in vintage AC/DC tops. I witnessed grown men who wouldn’t normally do more than shake hands engage in full body bear hugs repeatedly. I watched hardware engineers, accountants, managers, teachers, and god only knows who else engage some of the most passionate air guitar performances I have ever seen.
As for the band - well, they may have been old, they may have engaged in stereotypical classic rock grandstanding, and at least two of them were apparently, and unfortunately, allergic to their shirts – but goddamn, they knew how to rock. And by they end, when10,000 middle-aged suburbanites were screaming out the words to “Pour Some Sugar On Me”, you knew that every that everyone was back in their glory days before kids and mortgages, and that that feeling would last all the way until the next morning, when their $150 hangovers kicked in.
But boy, would it ever be worth it.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Why You Do Me So Wrong, Oliver Stone?
I like bad movies.
I don't mean exclusively - I also like good movies too. But I've always had this strange reluctance to invest time in certain movies, no matter how critically acclaimed or publicly-loved, when something with a zombie or a rocket launcher is an option. Or a zombie with a rocket launcher...yeeeeeeah. It happens at home in front of the TV, or in the video store, or at the theatre. And it's almost always "This is supposed to be really good" vs. "This is supposed to have ninjas". It's usually not even close.
But every once in a while I sit my ass down to a Citizen Kane, or a Sideways, or a Midnight Cowboy, or some other film which has things like "engrossing plot" or "character development" and whatnot, and truly enjoy myself, and think "I should really rent good movies more often". And yet somehow I wind up actually paying real money to see crap like "Bloodthirst: Legend of the Chupacabras", which turns out to have been shot by some guy in his backyard with less production value than my 11th Grade video on Sir Isaac Newton's Three Laws of Physics, starring Arnold Schwarzenegger (aside – OMG, the Word dictionary actually contains the correct spelling of Schwarzenegger).
So what’s the point? Well, I’m trying to justify as to how, in a store field with literally thousands of choices, DD and I wound up taking home the three hour suckfest that is Alexander.
Look, I’ll put it right out in the open. I loved Gladiator. I even enjoyed Troy, although I watched it in a theatre full of drunken Germans which I highly recommend. I'm a master at supsension of disbelief, enough so to watch Big Trouble in Little China - repeatedly. And I enjoy big productions enough to cut them some slack on nitpicky little things like glaring historical inaccuracies - (cough)King Arthur(cough). If there’s lots of fighting, maybe some hot consensual sex, with plenty of suspense and a bit of humour, well, I’m entertained. I’m here for the epic battles, and if you want to throw in some pretentious and ego-stroking scenes here and there, just make sure Brad Pitt has a nice tan.
But, damn you, Oliver Stone – you expect too much!
I can handle Colin Farrell’s Irish brogue on a Macedonian conqueror, thrown in with a mishmash of British, American and the Angelina Jolie Random Foreigner #7 (Boris and Natasha Model) accents. I can handle the ancient, desert-dwelling peoples dressed in whites so bright it’s like a commercial for Tide With Bleach. I can handle the now-popular “Guys Who Wear Dark Eye-Liner Are Evil (and Effeminate)" motif, popularized in the Lord of the Rings movies. I can even handle the fact that you directed Jolie and Farrell in a scene where he’s supposed to be 18 and she’s supposed to be his mother, yet it’s painfully obvious that they are THE SAME AGE and Farrell really just wants to make out with her.
But what I can’t forgive is the writing. Oh, the terrible, terrible writing, that turned this man you obviously idolize into a moody, whining, self-aggrandizing prick. Remember the last season of Buffy, where she was all distant and removed and basically talked in dramatic speeches, which got really boring and irritating and anti-climactic after a while, and then eventually the writers clued in and made fun of how Buffy just gave dramatic speeches all the time, when, like, it was their fault anyway? Well, halfway through the film I started expecting – hoping, praying – that Cleitus would turn to Cassander in the middle of one Alexander’s big moments of blah blah glory, blah blah conquer your fear and you conquer death, blah blah we are what we do I’m rubber you’re glue, and do the “This is so painful I’m stabbing myself in the eye” motion, and then Cassander would follow up by pantomiming slitting his wrists, and then someone would like, fart, really really really loudly, and everyone would start snickering and gagging and run out of the room and then over some wine they’d bitch about how Alexander always has that bright light streaming through his golden mullet like, we get it, Oliver, he’s divine.
It was honestly painful – painful! – to watch Farrell as Alexander. Now, he’s not the greatest actor of our time, but he’s hardly the worst, and judging by his performance I can only imagine that his only direction from Mr. Stone was: “Okay, bug out your eyes. Raise your fists in the air. Buggier eyes! Now make your mouth twitch. Yell. Yell louder! Louder! Okay, you’re fighting back tears…fighting those tears…and now you’re crying. Make a constipated face. Scream. Cry more. More constipated! Okay, great.”
I’m not kidding – dude threw a tantrum in almost EVERY SINGLE SCENE, because almost every single scene involved someone insulting his mom or his dad, and Oliver Stone had already set up that complex situation by showing us that he hated his dad and loved his mom, and then having the narrator tell us that he hated his mom and loved his dad, and if I was as mixed up as that I’d probably throw hissyfits all the time, too.
Which brings me to the point of the narration. This is one of my finicky spots – I don’t generally like narrators, because they’re often used as a lazy way to provide exposition and reinforce key messages when the writers run out of ideas of how to subtly show us these things, and have to resort to banging us over the head with a mallet inscribed with “ALEXANDER WAS A GREAT AND MISUNDERSTAND MAN WHO WAS NOT AS BAD AS EVERYONE SAID, HE WAS JUST AHEAD OF HIS TIME” in the form of Anthony Hopkins as Ptolemy 40 years later, or as I like to call him, the Oliver Stone Propaganda Spout 3000 (Now With White-House Level Truth-Altering Capabilities!).
However – while I cringingly expect a narrator to provide historical context and character motivation - I was absolutely speechless when this one glossed over what should have been major and compelling parts of the plot in two sentences, as in (spoiler) how we watch a scene where Alexander’s father remarries, drunkenly banishes his old wife and son to exile, and all but gives power to his new family.
Cue the narrator – “Two years later, his father was murdered. Alexander became the king, conquered [a bunch of places I don’t remember, because he basically read a list instead of showing us], became pharaoh of Egypt, and now let’s cut to a scene where he’s in the middle of a desert chasing a king that hasn’t been introduced yet who maybe had something to do with his father’s murder but is anyway much more important than showing you his father’s murder or how he came back from exile, or what happened to his mother, or his first years as a general, because we ran out of money to film any of those things.” Or maybe I’m guessing about that last part.
Alright. I guess I’ve wasted enough of my life on this movie. But I could go on. Oh yes, I could. And if I did, I would start with Alexander’s war helmet, which is supposed to look all noble and intimidating, but really makes him look like Marvin the Martian grew feathery antennae. But I’m not going to, since I’ve learned my lesson, and I can only hope that you learned yours, Ollie.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to pre-order tickets for The Transporter 2.
I don't mean exclusively - I also like good movies too. But I've always had this strange reluctance to invest time in certain movies, no matter how critically acclaimed or publicly-loved, when something with a zombie or a rocket launcher is an option. Or a zombie with a rocket launcher...yeeeeeeah. It happens at home in front of the TV, or in the video store, or at the theatre. And it's almost always "This is supposed to be really good" vs. "This is supposed to have ninjas". It's usually not even close.
But every once in a while I sit my ass down to a Citizen Kane, or a Sideways, or a Midnight Cowboy, or some other film which has things like "engrossing plot" or "character development" and whatnot, and truly enjoy myself, and think "I should really rent good movies more often". And yet somehow I wind up actually paying real money to see crap like "Bloodthirst: Legend of the Chupacabras", which turns out to have been shot by some guy in his backyard with less production value than my 11th Grade video on Sir Isaac Newton's Three Laws of Physics, starring Arnold Schwarzenegger (aside – OMG, the Word dictionary actually contains the correct spelling of Schwarzenegger).
So what’s the point? Well, I’m trying to justify as to how, in a store field with literally thousands of choices, DD and I wound up taking home the three hour suckfest that is Alexander.
Look, I’ll put it right out in the open. I loved Gladiator. I even enjoyed Troy, although I watched it in a theatre full of drunken Germans which I highly recommend. I'm a master at supsension of disbelief, enough so to watch Big Trouble in Little China - repeatedly. And I enjoy big productions enough to cut them some slack on nitpicky little things like glaring historical inaccuracies - (cough)King Arthur(cough). If there’s lots of fighting, maybe some hot consensual sex, with plenty of suspense and a bit of humour, well, I’m entertained. I’m here for the epic battles, and if you want to throw in some pretentious and ego-stroking scenes here and there, just make sure Brad Pitt has a nice tan.
But, damn you, Oliver Stone – you expect too much!
I can handle Colin Farrell’s Irish brogue on a Macedonian conqueror, thrown in with a mishmash of British, American and the Angelina Jolie Random Foreigner #7 (Boris and Natasha Model) accents. I can handle the ancient, desert-dwelling peoples dressed in whites so bright it’s like a commercial for Tide With Bleach. I can handle the now-popular “Guys Who Wear Dark Eye-Liner Are Evil (and Effeminate)" motif, popularized in the Lord of the Rings movies. I can even handle the fact that you directed Jolie and Farrell in a scene where he’s supposed to be 18 and she’s supposed to be his mother, yet it’s painfully obvious that they are THE SAME AGE and Farrell really just wants to make out with her.
But what I can’t forgive is the writing. Oh, the terrible, terrible writing, that turned this man you obviously idolize into a moody, whining, self-aggrandizing prick. Remember the last season of Buffy, where she was all distant and removed and basically talked in dramatic speeches, which got really boring and irritating and anti-climactic after a while, and then eventually the writers clued in and made fun of how Buffy just gave dramatic speeches all the time, when, like, it was their fault anyway? Well, halfway through the film I started expecting – hoping, praying – that Cleitus would turn to Cassander in the middle of one Alexander’s big moments of blah blah glory, blah blah conquer your fear and you conquer death, blah blah we are what we do I’m rubber you’re glue, and do the “This is so painful I’m stabbing myself in the eye” motion, and then Cassander would follow up by pantomiming slitting his wrists, and then someone would like, fart, really really really loudly, and everyone would start snickering and gagging and run out of the room and then over some wine they’d bitch about how Alexander always has that bright light streaming through his golden mullet like, we get it, Oliver, he’s divine.
It was honestly painful – painful! – to watch Farrell as Alexander. Now, he’s not the greatest actor of our time, but he’s hardly the worst, and judging by his performance I can only imagine that his only direction from Mr. Stone was: “Okay, bug out your eyes. Raise your fists in the air. Buggier eyes! Now make your mouth twitch. Yell. Yell louder! Louder! Okay, you’re fighting back tears…fighting those tears…and now you’re crying. Make a constipated face. Scream. Cry more. More constipated! Okay, great.”
I’m not kidding – dude threw a tantrum in almost EVERY SINGLE SCENE, because almost every single scene involved someone insulting his mom or his dad, and Oliver Stone had already set up that complex situation by showing us that he hated his dad and loved his mom, and then having the narrator tell us that he hated his mom and loved his dad, and if I was as mixed up as that I’d probably throw hissyfits all the time, too.
Which brings me to the point of the narration. This is one of my finicky spots – I don’t generally like narrators, because they’re often used as a lazy way to provide exposition and reinforce key messages when the writers run out of ideas of how to subtly show us these things, and have to resort to banging us over the head with a mallet inscribed with “ALEXANDER WAS A GREAT AND MISUNDERSTAND MAN WHO WAS NOT AS BAD AS EVERYONE SAID, HE WAS JUST AHEAD OF HIS TIME” in the form of Anthony Hopkins as Ptolemy 40 years later, or as I like to call him, the Oliver Stone Propaganda Spout 3000 (Now With White-House Level Truth-Altering Capabilities!).
However – while I cringingly expect a narrator to provide historical context and character motivation - I was absolutely speechless when this one glossed over what should have been major and compelling parts of the plot in two sentences, as in (spoiler) how we watch a scene where Alexander’s father remarries, drunkenly banishes his old wife and son to exile, and all but gives power to his new family.
Cue the narrator – “Two years later, his father was murdered. Alexander became the king, conquered [a bunch of places I don’t remember, because he basically read a list instead of showing us], became pharaoh of Egypt, and now let’s cut to a scene where he’s in the middle of a desert chasing a king that hasn’t been introduced yet who maybe had something to do with his father’s murder but is anyway much more important than showing you his father’s murder or how he came back from exile, or what happened to his mother, or his first years as a general, because we ran out of money to film any of those things.” Or maybe I’m guessing about that last part.
Alright. I guess I’ve wasted enough of my life on this movie. But I could go on. Oh yes, I could. And if I did, I would start with Alexander’s war helmet, which is supposed to look all noble and intimidating, but really makes him look like Marvin the Martian grew feathery antennae. But I’m not going to, since I’ve learned my lesson, and I can only hope that you learned yours, Ollie.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to pre-order tickets for The Transporter 2.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
The Culture of Life: We Will Rock You and Your Yet Unconceived Offspring
After the overwhelming success of The Culture of Life's first single "Organic Vegetable Medley #7 (Cucumbers)", I am pleased to release the follow-up tune. It's an ode to the rotating shifts of old guys who stand as close as possible to the abortion clinics downtown and wear sandwich boards with catchy sayings, of which the only one I know is "Why must the child die?" because the rest are in smaller font and I always walk on the other side of the road, lest I infect the poor man with my slut germs or whatever it is us trollops have nowadays.
Anyway, the song is entitled "...But I'm Off to Have Sex!"
Dude with the sign, yeah
Got a question on his mind, yeah
Kinda deep, I guess,
Pondering a social mess,
Wish I could help, I'd give my best
But I'm off to have sex!
If only I knew, yeah,
Just what I could do, yeah,
To keep pregnancy away,
They might invent someday,
A pill, a shot, I should check my RX,
But I'm off to have sex!
Didn't teach us in school, no,
Learning isn't cool, no,
It's for Godless Communists,
Who fill their brain with lists,
Of things called "facts", what's next?
Oh right, I'm off to have sex!
If only I were gay, yeah
I bet that'd make his day, yeah
No accidental kid,
For surgery to rid,
I should apologize for all hetero-sex
But I'm off to have...some of that.
Mmm, yeah, sex, yeah
I'm off to have some, mmm, yeah
(Repeat and fade)
There you go, Random Old Guy on Streetcorner with Sandwich Board. Not only have you inspired what is sure to be a timeless song by The Culture of Life, but you've also influenced the thinking of at least one impressionable young woman, who now wants a sandwich.
Anyway, the song is entitled "...But I'm Off to Have Sex!"
Dude with the sign, yeah
Got a question on his mind, yeah
Kinda deep, I guess,
Pondering a social mess,
Wish I could help, I'd give my best
But I'm off to have sex!
If only I knew, yeah,
Just what I could do, yeah,
To keep pregnancy away,
They might invent someday,
A pill, a shot, I should check my RX,
But I'm off to have sex!
Didn't teach us in school, no,
Learning isn't cool, no,
It's for Godless Communists,
Who fill their brain with lists,
Of things called "facts", what's next?
Oh right, I'm off to have sex!
If only I were gay, yeah
I bet that'd make his day, yeah
No accidental kid,
For surgery to rid,
I should apologize for all hetero-sex
But I'm off to have...some of that.
Mmm, yeah, sex, yeah
I'm off to have some, mmm, yeah
(Repeat and fade)
There you go, Random Old Guy on Streetcorner with Sandwich Board. Not only have you inspired what is sure to be a timeless song by The Culture of Life, but you've also influenced the thinking of at least one impressionable young woman, who now wants a sandwich.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
The Sum of All Things
I'm baaaa-ack! Sorry about the two week hiatus...hope nobody threw themselves out a window or such in their overwhelming despair.
Last time I was yakking about my impending WCT trip, which was...memorable, to say the least. It started out as one might expect - with vomit. Because it was early and I was dehydrated and it's a long and curvy road from Victoria to Port Renfrew and dammit, maybe I just felt like throwing up on Langford. Oops, pardon me, that's the "West Shore" now. Man, I go away for a few years, and everyone develops illusion of grandeur. Next I'll come home and Victoria will have renamed itself Rosehip Villa Estates, Esq., or some yuppie shit like that.
Anyway - got up to the Gordon River trailhead and waited for the bus to Pachena. I don't remember what happened on the bus (I was asleep, thankfully) although I do remember that a father and son from Calgary were there, and the son had had a morning similar to mine, which made me want to give him an encouraging hug, except it probably make him throw up on me. And then I would throw up on him. And then we'd both be walking home.
So we get to the trailhead, we sign in, we get our permits and sit for the 90-minute orientation wherein a park employee tells you all the different ways you're going to die. Falling off a cliff! Crushed in a surge channel! Drowned in a river crossing! Swept out to sea! Wolf, cougar and/or bear attack! Tsunamiiiiiii!!!!
And then we left. 3pm, with about 6 hours of hiking to get to the first campsite. Now, those of you familiar with the trail might be thinking, "But you're starting at the easiest end! It's just a long, dry, flat 12km stretch to Michigan Beach!" BUT YOU WOULD BE WRONG.
See, there was so much rain (did I mention the WCT is situated in a coastal rainforest?) that about 3km of the nice long dry flat stretch was impassable. So they built ladders. A MILLION OF THEM. Okay, more like a dozen. But we didn't find this out until right before we left, thereby blowing our whole "We'll do the tough end with all the ladders last, when our packs are lighter!" strategy. But we made it up the first three ladders - all 80-odd rungs of them. And then it was level for a bit, and then what goes up must come down - 60ft. Anyway, Papa Smurf went first, and about 2/3 of the way down we hear a yelp and look over the edge to see him hanging by his foot. WHOA.
But he manages to get his pack off and get down the rest of the ladder, and is all, "I'm fine, I'm fine!" So we keep going, BECAUSE WE ARE IDIOTS.
We make our way through about 9km of mudholes (and this is the part where I unabashedly plug The Expedition Shoppe in Ottawa where I bought a $300 pair of boots for half-price and let me just say that they were the most expensive shoes I've ever bought and it hurt at the time but they were worth EVERY SINGLE FREAKING PENNY because I went shin deep in mud and my socks were still dry when we got to the campsite, BOO-YAH) at a fairly slow rate, but we eventually get to the beach. We set up camp, ate dinner, cleaned up, and slept the sleep of the damned.
And the next morning, DD and I are up and fiddling about with breakfast and such, when I notice a figure hobbling its way towards our site with a pronounced limp. Hobble hobble hobble, until I finally notice that it is none other than - my father. Yes, Papa Smurf is not, in fact, fine. Papa Smurf cannot, in fact, go any faster than a slow hobble. So he and DD rig up what is possibly the awesomest crutch ever out of two old downhill poles (also worth their weight in gold), duct tape, twine, driftwood and a fleece blanket. And DD and I take what we can from his pack, and we go to make our way to the Pachena Lighthouse, about 2km back from where we are.
About halfway there, DD heads off to let the lighthouse know we're coming, drops off the world's heaviest pack which he has been carrying, and heads back to meet us. Shortly after, the lighthouse-keeper appears on the trail and examines Papa Smurf's grotesquely swollen ankle. He accompanies us back to the lighthouse, stopping only when the helicopter carrying buckets of cement (much-needed construction on the lighthouse site) passes overhead - safety first!
So we're there, and it's beautiful and sunny, and we wait while the keep contacts the wardens to send the boat for my dad, so that us two can get back on with the 10km of hiking we have left. Then, bad news - the rangers don't think they can get the boat to us that day. We're offered a spot on the lawn to camp. DD and I are mulling over heading back tonight and camping at Pachena, or waiting until tomorrow, when the keep hits on another solution - the helicopter might be able to take an extra passenger. He goes to check with the pilot, and Dan and I rearrange the backpacks - hell, if Dad's getting flown out then HE can take the world's heaviest pack.
And just as we're doing that, the keep comes back, shouting "Everyone who doesn't want to walk back, come get a ride!"
And the next thing I knew, I was getting belted into a Fisheries and Oceans 4-seater helicopter.
I'd been on one once before - when I was two. It was so AWESOME. Kinda scary, though, 'cause choppers are a pretty bumpy ride, and also my seatbelt was really loose ("That's as tight as it goes, huh? Don't worry, Glen's a good pilot," said the lighthouse-keeper) and also? The pilot HAD NO DOOR. As in, my door was closed, and DD's, and Papa Smurf's, but the pilot's had been completely removed for maneuverability reasons. So we're taking off and I'm all, oh, he hasn't closed his door yet. Oh, we're lifting off, um, shouldn't he have his door closed? Wait a minute, shouldn't he HAVE A DOOR?
But all is well, and we get to Bamfield quickly - 6 hours to get in, 5 minutes to get out. And we stayed at this fun little fishing resort called the Seabeam where middle-aged men fed us fresh-cooked oysters and prawns and we shared our falafel, which was surprisingly well-received. And then we took the bus back to Gordor River, and then we drove down to Victoria, and then we aired out all the gear that we had packed three days earlier.
I imagine there's a lesson in there somewhere, but I'm a little jet-lagged to figure it out. Unless it has to do with how hurting yourself brings awesome consequences...maybe I'll test that one again sometime.
Last time I was yakking about my impending WCT trip, which was...memorable, to say the least. It started out as one might expect - with vomit. Because it was early and I was dehydrated and it's a long and curvy road from Victoria to Port Renfrew and dammit, maybe I just felt like throwing up on Langford. Oops, pardon me, that's the "West Shore" now. Man, I go away for a few years, and everyone develops illusion of grandeur. Next I'll come home and Victoria will have renamed itself Rosehip Villa Estates, Esq., or some yuppie shit like that.
Anyway - got up to the Gordon River trailhead and waited for the bus to Pachena. I don't remember what happened on the bus (I was asleep, thankfully) although I do remember that a father and son from Calgary were there, and the son had had a morning similar to mine, which made me want to give him an encouraging hug, except it probably make him throw up on me. And then I would throw up on him. And then we'd both be walking home.
So we get to the trailhead, we sign in, we get our permits and sit for the 90-minute orientation wherein a park employee tells you all the different ways you're going to die. Falling off a cliff! Crushed in a surge channel! Drowned in a river crossing! Swept out to sea! Wolf, cougar and/or bear attack! Tsunamiiiiiii!!!!
And then we left. 3pm, with about 6 hours of hiking to get to the first campsite. Now, those of you familiar with the trail might be thinking, "But you're starting at the easiest end! It's just a long, dry, flat 12km stretch to Michigan Beach!" BUT YOU WOULD BE WRONG.
See, there was so much rain (did I mention the WCT is situated in a coastal rainforest?) that about 3km of the nice long dry flat stretch was impassable. So they built ladders. A MILLION OF THEM. Okay, more like a dozen. But we didn't find this out until right before we left, thereby blowing our whole "We'll do the tough end with all the ladders last, when our packs are lighter!" strategy. But we made it up the first three ladders - all 80-odd rungs of them. And then it was level for a bit, and then what goes up must come down - 60ft. Anyway, Papa Smurf went first, and about 2/3 of the way down we hear a yelp and look over the edge to see him hanging by his foot. WHOA.
But he manages to get his pack off and get down the rest of the ladder, and is all, "I'm fine, I'm fine!" So we keep going, BECAUSE WE ARE IDIOTS.
We make our way through about 9km of mudholes (and this is the part where I unabashedly plug The Expedition Shoppe in Ottawa where I bought a $300 pair of boots for half-price and let me just say that they were the most expensive shoes I've ever bought and it hurt at the time but they were worth EVERY SINGLE FREAKING PENNY because I went shin deep in mud and my socks were still dry when we got to the campsite, BOO-YAH) at a fairly slow rate, but we eventually get to the beach. We set up camp, ate dinner, cleaned up, and slept the sleep of the damned.
And the next morning, DD and I are up and fiddling about with breakfast and such, when I notice a figure hobbling its way towards our site with a pronounced limp. Hobble hobble hobble, until I finally notice that it is none other than - my father. Yes, Papa Smurf is not, in fact, fine. Papa Smurf cannot, in fact, go any faster than a slow hobble. So he and DD rig up what is possibly the awesomest crutch ever out of two old downhill poles (also worth their weight in gold), duct tape, twine, driftwood and a fleece blanket. And DD and I take what we can from his pack, and we go to make our way to the Pachena Lighthouse, about 2km back from where we are.
About halfway there, DD heads off to let the lighthouse know we're coming, drops off the world's heaviest pack which he has been carrying, and heads back to meet us. Shortly after, the lighthouse-keeper appears on the trail and examines Papa Smurf's grotesquely swollen ankle. He accompanies us back to the lighthouse, stopping only when the helicopter carrying buckets of cement (much-needed construction on the lighthouse site) passes overhead - safety first!
So we're there, and it's beautiful and sunny, and we wait while the keep contacts the wardens to send the boat for my dad, so that us two can get back on with the 10km of hiking we have left. Then, bad news - the rangers don't think they can get the boat to us that day. We're offered a spot on the lawn to camp. DD and I are mulling over heading back tonight and camping at Pachena, or waiting until tomorrow, when the keep hits on another solution - the helicopter might be able to take an extra passenger. He goes to check with the pilot, and Dan and I rearrange the backpacks - hell, if Dad's getting flown out then HE can take the world's heaviest pack.
And just as we're doing that, the keep comes back, shouting "Everyone who doesn't want to walk back, come get a ride!"
And the next thing I knew, I was getting belted into a Fisheries and Oceans 4-seater helicopter.
I'd been on one once before - when I was two. It was so AWESOME. Kinda scary, though, 'cause choppers are a pretty bumpy ride, and also my seatbelt was really loose ("That's as tight as it goes, huh? Don't worry, Glen's a good pilot," said the lighthouse-keeper) and also? The pilot HAD NO DOOR. As in, my door was closed, and DD's, and Papa Smurf's, but the pilot's had been completely removed for maneuverability reasons. So we're taking off and I'm all, oh, he hasn't closed his door yet. Oh, we're lifting off, um, shouldn't he have his door closed? Wait a minute, shouldn't he HAVE A DOOR?
But all is well, and we get to Bamfield quickly - 6 hours to get in, 5 minutes to get out. And we stayed at this fun little fishing resort called the Seabeam where middle-aged men fed us fresh-cooked oysters and prawns and we shared our falafel, which was surprisingly well-received. And then we took the bus back to Gordor River, and then we drove down to Victoria, and then we aired out all the gear that we had packed three days earlier.
I imagine there's a lesson in there somewhere, but I'm a little jet-lagged to figure it out. Unless it has to do with how hurting yourself brings awesome consequences...maybe I'll test that one again sometime.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Wuss Coast Trail
So, as of today, I think that I've spent more days preparing for this hike than I'm going to spend actually doing the hike. C'est la vie. Or, c'est la vie d'une personne anal-retentif. It might shock some of yous out there to know that despite my absent-minded, disorganized appearance, I'm actually a list-making, -checking, and -doublechecking FREAK. A super-freak, you might even say. The kind you don't take home to mother (I'm Rick James, BITCH!).
Anyway, if you broke it all down Mastercard-style, it would look like this:
Reservation fee: $25
Trail Use Permit: $90
Ferry fees: $28
Fancy organic dehydrated food made by hippies: $50
Regular, non-hippy food: $100
Seven different trips to MEC (pronounced "meck" in Ontario and "M-E-C" in BC) - easily the GDP of a small breakaway Soviet republic
Amount spent at 20-odd other stores located around the three different MEC locations visited, which we went to but wound up going back to MEC anyway, because of a)better selection; b)better prices; and c)we are powerless before the almighty MEC and its irresistible appeal to stylish outdoorsy people, or people who want to be stylish and outdoorsy: $47.12
Completing the WCT without being eaten by a wild creature, or getting into a deathmatch with Hans and Olga over the last remaining campsite (during which we will surely be bested by their incomperable efficiency) or being abandoned in a flood plain by travelling companions who are tired of participating in the eternal debate of "Last Woman Standing: Buffy the Vampire Slayer vs. Xena: WarriorPrincess", and how that depends on Xena's weapons and which season of Buffy you're talking, 'cause like, season one Buffy would get her ass KICKED: priceless. Unlikely, but priceless.
I'll prolly be on the trail next Tuesday, so if I don't post on time, don't break out the sack cloths and ashes quite yet - give me until Wednesday at least.
Anyway, if you broke it all down Mastercard-style, it would look like this:
Reservation fee: $25
Trail Use Permit: $90
Ferry fees: $28
Fancy organic dehydrated food made by hippies: $50
Regular, non-hippy food: $100
Seven different trips to MEC (pronounced "meck" in Ontario and "M-E-C" in BC) - easily the GDP of a small breakaway Soviet republic
Amount spent at 20-odd other stores located around the three different MEC locations visited, which we went to but wound up going back to MEC anyway, because of a)better selection; b)better prices; and c)we are powerless before the almighty MEC and its irresistible appeal to stylish outdoorsy people, or people who want to be stylish and outdoorsy: $47.12
Completing the WCT without being eaten by a wild creature, or getting into a deathmatch with Hans and Olga over the last remaining campsite (during which we will surely be bested by their incomperable efficiency) or being abandoned in a flood plain by travelling companions who are tired of participating in the eternal debate of "Last Woman Standing: Buffy the Vampire Slayer vs. Xena: WarriorPrincess", and how that depends on Xena's weapons and which season of Buffy you're talking, 'cause like, season one Buffy would get her ass KICKED: priceless. Unlikely, but priceless.
I'll prolly be on the trail next Tuesday, so if I don't post on time, don't break out the sack cloths and ashes quite yet - give me until Wednesday at least.
Monday, July 04, 2005
West Side, Bee-yotches!
Hey all,
I am in BC now. Specifically, Westbridge. If you have a spare few minutes, try looking it up on a map. Ooooweee that's good times. My internet access is slim to none, so I can't really prepare another spectacularicious entry, so, instead, why don't we all pretend that I wrote this?
Later skaters,
Travellin' Floyd
I am in BC now. Specifically, Westbridge. If you have a spare few minutes, try looking it up on a map. Ooooweee that's good times. My internet access is slim to none, so I can't really prepare another spectacularicious entry, so, instead, why don't we all pretend that I wrote this?
Later skaters,
Travellin' Floyd
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