July has historically been a month that escapes my memory. Perhaps it's the heat, or my alcohol intake at barbecues, but i can never seem to remember what happened in July, or even that the month has passed. I still start every page in my notebook with "J", before I realize that it is August. I think the real reason is that I tend to do very little in July, or as little as possible.

This July was an exception. I remember almost everything that happened, and there was much: taking a brief vacation to do nothing but having to find a new home in 3 weeks, thus spoiling my plans to do nothing for a week; frantically searching for short term accommodation that will accept pets; frantically searching for long term accommodation that we can afford; spending every night on mls.ca looking for homes and finding nothing but filthy slums for $400,000; securing a temporary home with 1 week before our move-out date (thank you Graeme); travelling to Atlantic City to discover first hand why it is called "Poor Man's Vegas"; finally grinding down the sellers of one property to accept our offer; night after night of packing our belongings; finding a mover that didn't laugh at me over the phone when i asked if they had availability on July 30; moving our belongings into storage; moving the rest of our belongings into our temporary Kits home (thank you David); winning the Mercedes at work (thank you Troy); celebrating our 4th anniversary (thank you Anya!).

Whew. Now I understand why people tell me that I need a vacation.

Spread Thin

Despite my ease at adopting a routine and settling quickly, I do enjoy making an adventure out of some of the stressful changes one has to endure. Life is either an adventure or it is nothing.

Things I will miss about living in Yaletown:
 
Commuting two blocks to get to work
Coming home for lunch
Never using my car except to drive to hockey
Yelling up at Bruce's loft when i need a drink
 
 
 
Things I will not miss:
 
The noise of SUVs circling, looking for a parking spot that doesn't exist
The stench of fish wafting up from Rodney's dumpster to my balcony
The way everyone checks out their reflection in store windows
Waiting 3 minutes for the light at Davie to change
The scene in front of Urban Fare
The Cactus Club
The mix of cigarettes, vomit and urine that greets me when I step onto the street on a Sunday morning
The incredible lack of green space and shaded areas
Boystown
 
So yes, Anya and I (and the little one inside Anya) are moving to an as yet undetermined spot on the East side.  Somewhere in the vast expanses of East Van is a patch of land for us.
 
 
 
 

Only a Fool Would Say That

An unusually stressful and gruelling day reminds me of a certain Steely Dan song:

You do his nine to five
and drag yourself home half alive
and there on the screen
a man with a dream

Mea Culpa

According to the unwritten rules of hockey, it is unsportsmanlike conduct and is generally in poor taste to stuff the puck in the net at the end of a game which your team has no chance of losing. This applies especially in cases where the opposing players are merely standing on the ice, watching the time expire.

Violation of this rule subjects the offending player to taunts, threats, insults and intimidation.

Unfortunately, there is no way to get a copy of the unwritten rules of hockey.

Cabbage Town

We're just getting settled after spending the weekend in Toronto, having traveled there for Carrie and George's wedding. It was more like a party than a wedding ceremony, as was fitting for the couple. The reception was held at Steam Whistle brewery, where I was reacquainted with many of my former partners in crime from university. We partied like it was 1992, with much of the same company, but better food and drink,

I was worried that I would be too tired to giv'er that night because we had to wake up at 4:15 am to get our flight, and that I would be going home early. However, the night flew by, and before I knew it, it was 1:30 am, the bar was being closed and we were in a cab on the way to the after party.

Saturday we visited with Scott and Eva, and everyone went out to a Cuban restaurant, where we ate, among many other dishes, ground beef on fried bananas. Sounds vile but tastes divine.

More from Scott: An Open Letter to William Kristol, Richard Perle, and Bush's other NeoConservative Puppet Masters

Why didn't you tell President Bush to invade Western Australia first? I've been playing Risk: The Game of Global Domination since I was eight years old and never, never have I seen someone win the game by massing their forces in the Middle East at the beginning of the game. Too many borders! Impossible to reinforce! Enemies from all directions! Australia, on the other hand, is easily conquered. Start in Western Australia, make a straight-line march through eastern Australia, then on into New Zealand and New Guinea, and finally up to Siam, sealing the entire continent and guaranteeing an extra two armies per turn for the duration of game. (Ask Secretary Rumsfeld if those would come in handy.) Once in Siam, you can leave the remainder of your provinces virtually unguarded and mass your armies of the Far East to eventually move north into Siberia, Irkutsk and Kamchatka, ultimately overtaking the entire Asian continent (seven extra armies per turn), including, finally, the Middle East. Starting in South America is okay, too, if your brat cousin Ronald refuses to play if he doesn't get to go first, and Africa will do in a pinch if you want to change things up, but you better roll some sixes, mutherfuckers, or you'll be knocked out of the game, which means you're available to do stuff like pick up the dog crap in the backyard, or wax your grandfather's back, "since you're just watching." (Thanks, Mom.) I hear that, after watching President Bush's press conference, Mr. Kristol was "depressed." If he was depressed, think about the rest of us, who weren't part of the shadowy extra-governmental cabal that helped install him in the White House in the first place. The history books will write your epitaphs and they won't be pretty:
"Neoconservatives: A late-twentieth-, early-twenty-first-century American political movement that stressed the supremacy of the American empire, but was too stupid to invade Australia first." Think it over, John Warner

Instant Apologist

Instant Apologist

From McSweeney's; how to make an instant Friedman column

Party Like It's 1992

Carrie and George are getting married on May 7th, and I'll be travelling to Toronto to take part in the celebration. It's going to be more like a party than a wedding, I imagine. i lived with Carrie and George on three separate occasions in three very different places. I first shared a house with them in Lennoxville, where we were going to university. Actually, I wasn't really their roomate; my girlfriend was, but I spent most of my time there. When said girlfriend tossed me out, Carrie and George took me into their basement suite in Whistler, which they shared with a Roger Daltrey impersonator. Two years later, through an unexpected turn of events, we were all reunited again in Victoria BC, of all places, although by this time, the Daltrey impersonator had cut his hair.

rogerdaltry Originally uploaded by andrew s.

Posted by andrew s from Flickr.

After only a few days in San Francisco, my spirit is revived. I was sent there at the last minute to attend a speaking course, called Talk So People Will Listen. The course itself was fantastic, revealing to me that, yes, I do look like a stiff when I speak.

I didn't have much time to do anything but attend this course and meet up with Chris and Lu aftewards. Just feeling the sunny spring air on my skin made me feel like putting roots down there. We had dinner at Trattoria Contadina, and then rode the cable car back to my hotel.

The next night we watched Project Grizzly and laughed like hyenas at a man trying to build the perfect bear defense suit.

While leaving my hotel the next day, I spotted an enormous man emerging from the lobby. Dressed like Royal Tennenbaum, he wore a beret on his bald head, and carried a massive walking stick with an onyx sphere on the top.

You Can't Keep a Good Kid Down

From What Is Enlightenment

"One time, a student teacher from a predomninantly black school in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn presented my dad with the test paper of a particularly tough fifth-grader. In every box on the mindless rote exam, the boy had carefully penned "Fuck you" in large, clear letters. My dad's eyes lit up as he said to the young teacher, "This kid hasn't been beaten down by the system yet! There somthing here you can work with!"

There must be a German word for it, Part 12:
"Sadness inspired from failing restaurants"

From Middlesex

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 23.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.

I am at the office, and the only books I have are work-related. The closest one is The Elements of Style, by William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White. I keep it on my desk for reference.

The fifth sentence on page 23 reads:

"To show what happens when strong writing is deprived of its vigor, George Orwell once took a passage from the Bible and drained it of its blood."

Irvine Welsh develops his characters by thinking about the following three things:
Where they stay, who they lay, and what they play. I suppose that is how he would measure and identify a person's character in the world of junkie scammers, con-men and corrupt cops that he creates so well.

I like to look at someone's book and music collection when i first walk into their homes. If i don't see any books but a huge TV, i am likely to make some kind of judgement, no matter how hard i try to avoid it.

What I am reading at the momentL

The English
The Party Blonde
Bombardiers
Middlesex

Part of Middlesex takes place during the 1967 Detroit riots, which effectively drove white people from downtown, initiating an urban rot and decay from which the city has not recovered. You can see the results of the decay on this site.

It's often said that the olfactory senses have the stongest ties to your memory. That is how Adolf Eichmann was captured; by someone recognizing his strong odor. The smell of camphor lip balm remind me of spring skiing and early sunburns, a rite of spring, right up there with a Canadiens-Bruins first round playoff matchup, the Canadiens triumphantly pulling away in the seventh game to take the series, despite being heavily outplayed and outgunned.

Back to spring skiing. Sarah and Nic are on their annual pilgrimage to whistler, and passed through town on their way up the highway. Despite being up for who knows how many hours flying from Johannesburg to London to Vancouver, Nic was able to stay out until 2am on Saturday. We had dinner at Glowbal and then danced till late to the funky house breaks of Ben Watt at Voda.

While waiting for the opening dj to finish his set, Ben sat on a crate in the back with his chin resting on his hand. He looked so bored. But as soon as he took to the decks he came alive, inhaling urgently on the cigarette that dangled from his lips, the heater glowing with each pull.

We hit Whistler Mountain on Monday morning, and it turned into a brilliant spring day. The snow was a bit slushy, but the skies were clear and the air was warm. I realized that Carmex does not have any sun protection factor, and my lips hurt when I ate some wasabe later than night.

Vancouver moment #29

While walking home from Choices, my dog leash in one hand and my rice chocolate chip cookies in the other, I was startled by a screech coming from behind me. I turned back, expecting a kid on a freestyle bike to come racing down the sidewalk. Instead it was a tall thin woman on rollerblades, dragging her heel to navigate around my dog. She carried an iced cappuccino in a plastic cup in her left hand. When she got to Homer street, she turned right and headed down the middle of the road, against the direction of the street. There were film trucks on both sides of the street. She picked up speed and made slalom turns down the middle of the street, right into the headlights of an oncoming car, before her silhouette disappeared between a make-up truck and an RV.

Bavardage du Weekend

Previously on Schoolboy77: references to the urgency of booking revenue at the end of each fiscal quarter in furtherance of beating stock analysts' expectations.

Please note, these will not be seen again. Don't mistake my stillness for apathy, or my tranquility for inaction. I do what I can. I don't try to change what I can't.


This past weekend I marched, along with 25,000 others in Vancouver to express my opposition to the occupation of Iraq and to militarism in general. As usual, there were people handing out colored flyers for political parties and events from every degree of the spectrum; Ralph Nader, Free Palestine, Communist Party of Canada, the NDP and BC Healthcare Workers. Among the most thought-provoking were the Chemtrail Project and the Work Less Party. I am all for working less. In fact, i used this idea to justify collecting unemployment insurance in Whistler. Although I was perfectly capable of working, I opted to collect UI in order to create a job opening for someone else who did not qualify for UI.

Robert Fraser has asked me to update this blog.

If you have not seen this film yet, get to it!

Just what Canada needs; another rich person who wants to lead the new right-wing party. I don't think the rednecks in Grand Forks or Moose Jaw or the Pas will turn out to support a wealthy woman from Toronto. Nice publicity if you can buy it.

Last night Anya and I watched Y Tu Mama Tambien, which I had been meaning to watch for a long time. I recognized the actor who played Julio, as he was also in Amores Perros. Lately I have become fond of saying "Amores Perros" to lovesick co-workers. According to the DVD box, it means "love's a bitch". The film, however, is about 3 interrelated stories centering on love, loss, and dogs.

I am coming down with something. I need more time in the day to do nothing, which I am going to do right now.

Ambrose Bierce wrote that "a novel is a short story padded". I am beginning to think he was referring to my latest project, which seems to have no point and no end in sight. I am barely into the first year of a 7-year history and already I am busting at 119 pages.

I was approached on the street by a volunteer from Amnesty International. She asked me if I had some time. I rudely walked on and muttered "No". No time? I thought about that. I had no time, but I came home, had a 30 minute nap, and then watched 10 minutes of the Simpsons before walking Shrub.

The New York Times is really starting to annoy me, and not just for the Sunday Style section. During their Week in Review, they published an article titled Discount Nation: Is Wal-Mart Good for America?. The writer quotes several proponents of Wal-Mart's efficiency, which makes us wonder what we ever did without Wal-Mart. The author does not quote a single opponent of Wal-Mart, and not because they are difficult to find. The best they can do to appear balanced is to quote a professor from Howard University, who isn't sure whether it is bad or not.


As if that were not enough to anger me on Sunday morning, The New York Times Magazine puts some co-ed on its cover with the title The Dean Swarm, in an effort to make Dean look like another McGovern; a hopelessly idealistic candidate who appeals only to lovesick college kids.

Every week I consider cancelling my subscription.

I am probably late in the game here, but if this helps one person, then I'll have done my part.

Vancouver Moment #29

West End, July 2003

There was a group of them at the west end of English Bay, on the last stretch of grass before the path goes up the hill and you enter Stanley Park. They were all well into their 40s, and the dozen or so of them sat cross legged on the grassy slope, facing the guitarist. Each of them had some form of percussion instrument; finger cymbals, bongos, congas, even some tiny home made disco balls with perhaps rice in them, that a few of them were shaking to the beat.

The guitarist got into his groove. He too was in his late 40s, and he looked like you standard issue BC civil servant; greying beard, cheap sunglasses, new-age clothes left over from the 80s. He began to sing just as we were walking by.

Used to work
Used to drive my car

We had passed by him by the time he got to the next verse, but the words stuck with me, because they so aptly described the singer and his audience. Yes, he used to work in some office job, commuting from the suburbs into the city, or even worse, from one suburb to another suburb. And he drove. He drove everywhere to get to anything.

Now, safely ensconced in the West End, he didn't need to drive, and he could probably get away with not working for someone else by doing tarot card readings or making quilts. In this way he connected immediately with his audience, who either "used to work", or dream of the day they can check out to the Gulf Islands.

I wanted to stay and listen to more, but Anya, having grown up here and known these types all her life just wanted to move on. Now everytime I see your standard BC issue aging hippie, I have to sing used to work.


Happy Birthday Chris

It is my friend Chris's 33rd birthday today. When I called him to wish him happy birthday, he was at home from work with a cold, and playing his guitar. It reminded me of the time that he stayed home sick from high school so he could fix the pickups on his electric guitar. His parents were away, so his older brother Dave wrote a sick note to the principal which he signed:
Yours in Christ,
David

10 Years Ago Today

Whistler, December 1, 1993

In order to pay my December rent, I had to sell my 1974 Volvo to my older brother. He had no license, but that didn't faze him, as he had $400 and a dream of getting to the mountain on time. I insured the car under my name, but passed the keys to him.

He slipped me four $100 bills outside the North Shore Credit Union in Whistler Village, three of which I passed immediately to my roommate who collected the rent, and also worked as a teller at the Credit Union. It was snowing heavily, so the mood in town was light and jovial. Now I needed to break the $100 bill so I could get change to take the bus home.

How to Cross the Street, Montreal Style

Having grown up in the North America’s most European city, I had to endure North America’s most European drivers. Montreal boasts the most aggressive, dangerous and pedestrian-hating drivers in Canada. However, this hard upbringing allowed me to develop my tried and true method for navigating Vancouver’s streets.

First, a disclaimer. I am all for the smooth flow of traffic, which requires that pedestrians occasionally must cede priority to vehicles. If I cross against the light, or in the middle of a street, or anywhere other than a marked crosswalk, I fully realize that vehicles have the right of way. I recommend this crossing technique for marked crosswalks without a stoplight.

Make eye contact. The first thing you must do is prove to the driver that you, the pedestrian, do in fact exist. Cars are marketed as extensions of ourselves, and many drivers feel their cars are their own private world, with their own music and climate, and whatever happens “out there” is merely a distraction. If you want to cross the street, you must get drivers to acknowledge your existence. Do this by stepping off the curb a few strides, and staring at the driver in the oncoming car. Most of the time you won’t be able to see their eyes, so just stare wherever you think their eyes will be. Stare intently, like you want to make something of it.

After you have stared for perhaps two seconds, start walking out towards center of the street. Do not take your eyes off the driver! This is the moment where the car must cede the right of way to you. The driver will see that it is a crosswalk, and that yes, when it is occupied, they must reluctantly give right of way to you, but they will be looking for hesitation, thinking that you won’t mind if they buzz through and the car behind them stops.

Continue walking out into the street, staring at the driver. By now you should be able to see him. As long as he is looking at you it is unlikely he will run you over, even if it a cab driver. Turn your head towards them as you walk out in front, just to maintain that you are the one in charge here, and remind them it is they who are yielding.

You should be in the middle of the street by the time they slow down. At this point, raise your arm closest to the slowing vehicle and turn your palm towards the driver. Your arm should be bent 90 degrees at the elbow, making a gesture that is combination friendly wave and policeman order to stop. Once you make this gesture, take your eyes off the driver, but keep your hand up, just to remind them that you are the one in control.

There is a lot of paperwork involved in running over a pedestrian. The driver will likely have to submit to a breathalyzer, the car may be searched, and a criminal record check will be done. While clearly it is more of a hassle to be killed or seriously injured by a car (as happened to 3000 people in Vancouver last year), it is enough of life-changing event for a driver to deter them from running you down like a dog. Remember this, and use it to your advantage. They don’t want to kill you, they just want you to let them through before you cross. Don’t give them this.

I have been run off my feet since last Thursday, and haven't had time to catch up with anyone until tonight.

Saturday night Anya and I went out to Delilah's to celebrate her birthday, then down to the Lotus Sound Lounge to see Jon Delerious. Danced all night until 430am, which is a perfectly civllized time to wind up things at a bar or club. Not so, say some citizensof our uptight city.

We watched the Trial of Henry Kissinger on Monday. Having studied as a youth his impact on the world, it was not possible for me to have more contempt for the man than I already did. That was what made reading the book so difficult. It felt strange that I was not even shocked.

Not exactly uplifting material and unlikely to revive your faith in humanity, it is however required viewing, as an example of what can happen when power goes unchecked.

There is a wedding ceremony taking place in the vacant room next to our apartment. Originally planned as a fitness room, its only function now is to serve as our strata council meeting room. The wedding was supposed to take place outside, the father of the bride told me, but it was too cold. It’s November 22. Go figure.

Lots of “woo-hoos” and “okay just one more” and “ready, cheese” coming through the walls.

While it is unusually cold for Vancouver, it is nowhere near as cold as it is in Edmonton, where Rob and Derek are watching the Heritage Classic. The Habs and the Oilers are both wearing their old jerseys tonight, Montreal with its classic lace up neck.

Just before leaving, Derek sent me the worst hockey logos of all time. The bad, the ugly and the just plain bewildering.

And this via Michael Moore. I always suspected the existence of such people, so I am glad it is finally being discussed in the mainstream media.

Merv sighting…..

I first met Merv when I was helping Rob move some of his belongings into Maple Leaf Storage on Mainland Street. Merv’s job was to manage their storage warehouse, which did not seem to take much effort. People moved their belongings in, paid Merv the money, and then came back some later date to move them out. He was an amicable fellow, and spent most of the time sitting on the loading dock smoking cigarettes, with his legs dangling over the concrete loading bay.

He spoke with a real hoser accent of someone who had lived their whole life in British Columbia and had probably never left. Recalling a Simpson episode which showed people Lionel Hutz living in a storage locker, I asked him if people ever tried to live in the lockers.
“All da time. Soon as I find out, I tell him you got 45 minutes to get out or I’ll call da boys in blue.”

I asked him why there was a public storage facility sitting on such valuable land. He said the owner just wanted to hold on until he could get more money for it. They had been offered $45 million for it but were holding out for more.

A year later our office moved right across the street from Maple Leaf Storage, so I could see Merv, on sunny days, sitting on the loading dock smoking.

In October, the warehouse was torn down. Would I ever see Merv again? I did this morning. He was sitting outside of Starbucks in Yaletown, smoking, telling a homeless man with a shopping cart that he had won $50,000 in the lottery just 2 weeks ago.

I am getting so sick of the New York Times that I am considering cancelling my subscription. It's great for keeping in touch with what opinions are being formed by the opinion-forming classes, but as far as actual real news is concerned, it misses the story.

Fortunately for the fans of the montreal canadiens here on the west coast, Saturday night’s Soiree du Hockey always shows les Tricouleurs, thanks to the required bilingual broadcast of our state run broadcasting agency. This means you never have to worry that you'll be stuck watching the Toronto Maple Leafs, because you can always watch the Habs in French.

Even though the game was on in both English and French, I decided to watch it in French, just to keep my skills sharp. The struggling Canadiens were playing the mighty Senators, and the Radio-Canada annonceurs had outlined the three keys for a Canadiens victory:

Discipline
Payer le prix devant le filet
60 minutes de hockey

Very basic goals, even without the second one, translated literally as “pay the price in front of the net.”

my hands are so cold from the appartment being 15 degrees. It's not like i don't have heating, or enough money to turn the heat up as high as i want, but the place has been so damn cold lately. i have been in this place for 3 hours now, tapping away on this keyboard, and i think i have been slowly freezing my extremities.

I have not written anything in here because things have gotten so damn depressing since august. Not in my life really, but in the state of the world. But enough about that.

Due to my oversize monitor and our smaller apartment, I have to store my desktop computer in our storage locker. There’s just no room for it up here. Oh, and for a while I had no computer as it was packed up or in storage. Shortly after I moved in I went on vacation. And so I was away from the computer for a long time.

The only thing worthwhile on my 4 year old computer is the mp3 collection, which was getting quite large until this summer. So I have no access to them, and I haven’t bought a cd in years. Tonight I bought my first CD in what must be a year:

Pete Rock, Petestrumental. This is what I have always been looking for in hip hop. All instrumental with funky but subtle bass lines. I guess ‘subtle’ hip hop would be the best way to describe.

I also picked up Air Farina. However when I got home and unwrapped it, the CD case was empty. I wonder how often that happens, that mistakes just happen out there on the manufacturing lines of Asia.

They will make you anything over there. Mark tells me that you can show them any shape of anything and tell them you want it made out of frozen cat food the next morning and they will do it.

Feeling good right now about everything.

I think the tide is finally turning.

Brain Fog

My brain is covered in a fog right now, which protects me from doing anything too strenuous, but I have to run a team meeting in 1 hour and i honestly have no idea what I am going to talk about for an hour.

So That's Why They Call it Silicon Alley

I am in the midst of moving from the West End to Yaletown, right next to this place. It will lkely be a difficult adjustment going from a neighborhood full of gay men to a neighborhood that seems to flourish with surgically enhanced women.

While getting my hair cut there last week, I was astounded by the number of women who walked by the salon with the most ridiculously large implants. I mean, who do they think they are kidding? Who are they trying to impress? Who pays for these? Where do these women come from?

A 20-year old girl sat in the station next to me. She could was about 5'6 and could not have weighed more than 110 lbs, but her chest was a D-cup that defied gravity. They were practically pointing at the ceiling. I asked the hair stylist about these women, if she knew any of them, and perhaps if she knew what they did with their lives besides yoga and pilates. Apparently they work in retail and live 3 to a one-bedroom in one of the "live it, love it, rent it" appartment complexes. The breasts are merely an investment, either for a husband or the stage.

However, I can't slag these people too much, as they are my future tenants.

From Hanging Day: Can you tell the difference?

There are a few books I have that I am always re-reading; occasionally picking it up and reading my favorite passages. One friend has remarked on this odd habit, and considers it useless.

Reading something that inspires you is so much more rewarding than reading fresh lines that mean nothing to you.

It is not a coincidence that the books I reread the most are all by mordecai richler. I was exposed to him in Grade 11 with The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz. Being a Montrealer I was immediately hooked on his acidic wit and his uncanny ability to perfectly summarize montreal, or any other subject, in a short paragraph.

Richler left Montreal for London in 1953, and figured he would never return to that drab provincial backwater called Canada. Yet after moving to London, he says he was never able to let go of Canada, and his identity as a Canadian. Despite spending six months a year in London, he continued to write about Canadian issues, weighing in for opinion when it really was needed.

My favorite Richler passage is from Solomon Gursky Was Here, in which he provides a pinpoint description of the Eastern Townships.

Moses immediately struck out for the 91. He drove through New Hampshire and Vermont, to Quebec’s Eastern Townships, crossing the border at Highwater. Wet slippery leaves lay scattered everywhere on the Quebec side, the bare trees already black and brittles. BIENVENUE. Even if the border had been unmarked, Moses would have known that he was back in the townships. Penury advertised. Suddenly the road was rippled and cracked, and he had to swerve to avoid potholes. Rusting pickup trucks, bashed and abandoned, cannibalized years ago, lay in the tall grass and goldenrod, here and there. Sinking barns rotted in the fields. Small mills, which had once manufactured bobbins - employing eight of the locals – chewing their fingers, were shuttered. In lieu of elegant little signs directing you to the ivy covered Inn on Crotched Mountain, or the Horse and Hound, originally built as a farmhouse in 1860, there were roadside CANTINES, with tarpaper roofs, proclaimed by a stake in the ground OPEN/OUVERT, and offering Hygrade hot dogs and limp greasy pommes frites made of frozen potatoes. There were no impeccably appointed watering holes, where the aging bartender, once Clean for Gene, would offer you a copy of Mother Jones with your drink. However, you could pull in at “Mad Dog” Vachon’s and knock back a Molson’s, maybe stumble on a tree-week-old copy of Allo Police. Or the Venus di Milo, where scantily clad pulpy waitresses from Chicoutimi or Sept Iles stripped and then sank to a bare stage to simulate masturbation, protected against splinters by a filthy flannel sheet.


Despite his criticism of Canada, Richler loved it. He admitted late in life that in spite of all his frustration with Canada, he could never completely leave it.

This seems to be the problem with two conservative writers from Canada who have left but cannot stop criticizing it. Mark Steyn and David Frum never waste an opportunity to diss the land they left. They remind me of guys who can’t stop talking about the ex-girlfriend they hate, but they can’t seem to let it go. They both left because there was no audience for their conservative views in Canada, likely due to the fact that no one wants to read a column that tells the reader how poor, unproductive and doomed they are. Steyn has branched out to host his own website of ranting in defense of Bush and his neocon cabal. Frum continues in the same vein, though closer to the witches den than Steyn, as part of the National Review.

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While trodding to work one morning last Monday, I noticed a woman getting out of a pimped-out Dodge pickup truck. She had long hair, and an attractive physique made visible by her tight nylon tearaways and cropped t-shirt. I immediately wondered why she was getting out of a parked truck at 6:30am on a Monday morning in the West End. It wasn't until I saw her boyfriend or companion get out of the truck that I realized she was either a stripper or a working girl.

He had the signature Vancouver pimp/bouncer/drug dealer look: shaved head, goatee, steroid-induced massive upper body constrained in a black tank top. His gigantic arms were covered in tattoos.

Since it was Monday, they must have been partying all night, and were now heading back to their friend's apartment for a little come down. Or perhaps they were going to shoot a porn video in the apartment. Their friend was holding open the lobby door, a big smile on her slack, boozy face.

It occurred to me how far removed I am from these people, and also how close I was to them at one brief point my life. Not that I was hanging out with strippers and their bouncer/dealer boyfriends, but I was definitely a few degrees less removed than I am now.

Of course they didn't notice white-collar guy walking up the street. I still can't believe how big his arms were.

During a day of time-wasting surfing, this made me laugh.

Only 240 years late! Bush is really on top of current issues. Next he will be condemning robber barons getting rich in tulip futures.

When someone gets fired or laid off at our company, my coworkers and I refer to it as "getting the bullet", as in "did you hear that so and so got the bullet?". It originated with a district manager, who was asked by one of his direct reports to describe exactly what he was good at it. The manager hitched up his elastic-waist jeans and replied, "I am good at closin' business and giving people the bullet."

Over time this expression evolved from "getting the bullet" to "getting the mullet", in the way that words and phrases are morphed by young men with nothing better to do than flip around letters and sounds in between bong hits.

Rob suggested that when someone "gets the mullet", they should be forced to come back to the head office and wear a fake mullet wig. While he takes a more hard-lined approach than I, it would be funny to watch these fallen sales gods return to the head office for the walk of shame in a bad haircut.

I had a mullet once, for about 2 hours. This was before I had ever heard of the term mullet, when I simply called that style "hockey hair". I was attending the wedding of my girlfriend's brother in their home town of Orillia, Ontario, where they told me I spoke pretty good english for someone from Quebec.

My girlfriend was afraid I would get myself a bad haircut from the stoners that cut my hair in Whistler, so she had an appointment booked for me in Orillia. I told her before the appointment that they would probably be naturally inclined to give me hockey hair. My instructions to the stylist were clear: the back must be short, indeed it must be as short or shorter than the sides. She nodded and began cutting.

When she was done, it appeared that she had just avoided giving me a mullet. I ran my fingers through the wet hair to test the length in the back. While it was not a great haircut, it would have to do. I was, after all, in Orillia. I paid for the haircut and left. It was hot outside, and by the time we had returned to her house, the hair had dried, and my thick mane had sprouted into a mullet.

Scott sent me this article about how Bush & Co. are using sophistry and rhetoric to instill Americans with a sense of fear, uncertainty and doubt. Even today, on Independence Day (Happy Independence Day to all my American friends) he speaks not of the founding fathers' struggle and triumph against an imperial power, but of impending doom. To listen to him you would think the barbarians were marching up Pennsylvania Avenue. All he ever talks about is an impending terrorist attack, preventable only by his ability and willingness to strike out at any regime he wants. Just trust me.

"The enemies of America plot against us... We will act, whenever it is necessary, to protect the lives and the liberty of the American people."

Just what does this mean? Of course your enemies plot against you, but it doesn't mean they are sitting in bunkers planning to attack the Super Bowl. This kind of vague statement is Bush's trademark, and allows him the luxury of telling the truth while not committing to do anything but wage war. The US is so superior militarily, no other country or group can threaten the "liberty of the American people".

While I imagine this photo will be censored in the US, the BBC chose not to edit Bush's pit stains.


I was in the fitness room at work today when some developer almost set me off. CNN was on the TV we have in the room, muted so that the CC streamer runs along the bottom. There was some military official going on about the potential for an attack on Independence Day celebrations in Washington DC.

This needed to go. The fewer people that watch CNN the better. I changed the channel just as the developer was getting on the elliptical trainer.
"Oh, can you turn it this way a bit so I can see?” Sure, I switched the angle for him.
"What channel are you changing it to?”

"Anything but CNN" I said.

"Could you be more vague?" he answers without looking up.

Excuse me, who the fuck does this guy think he is? Some developer punk straight out of university is giving me attitude about changing the channel from CNN. I think about what I am going to say next, because not everyone has views as radical as mine (they are not even that radical, but times are tough).
"How does CBC Newsworld sound?” I ask him.

Again, he answers without looking up. “You think CBC will be less depressing than CNN?"

"At least it's true." I walk away.

He proceeds to sweat all over the elliptical machine, eliminating any desire I had to ever use it.

One of my most avid readers, if not the only avid reader, mentioned to me yesterday that he reads this blog about twice a week, "which is more often that it is updated". Suddenly I felt bad about letting down my audience and about not giving them enough.

I immediately came up with the excuse that "nothing is really happening", and I was reminded of the scene in Adaptation, where the character Robert McKee lambasts Nicolas Cage for thinking that nothing really happens in the world. "What planet are you living on!!" he screams. Every day people are raped and murdered, they fall in love and are betrayed. There is so much going on that the problem is choosing what to use.

So, with that as my inspiration, I give you my weekly update:

Report Magazine has finally died, striking a blow to right-wing fanatics all over western Canada. The magazine had hoped to spread into Canada the shift to the right of mainstream politics that occurred in the US during the 1990s. It succeeded only in preaching to the converted about the evils of liberalism, the need to integrate into the United States, and the usual right wing hack agenda.

David Frum eulogizes it on the blow to the conservative mvement in Canada. Gee David, I wonder why this never caught on in Canada. Could it be that we are different from right wing Americans and like it that way?

Is it possible to revoke his citizenship?

Jeffrey Simpson must have read his eulogy and felt compelled to kick them while they were down.
The last time I saw it was in a Save On Foods in Penticton. Eminem was on the cover with the headline "All You Need Is Hate".


My brother Michael was picked to play the part of a giant tongue in a Hi-C commercial. I had no idea they still made Hi-C, but apparently, they do.

Women Who Do Yoga

I see them every day on my coffee break, which is now just a walk break since I quit drinking coffee 2 weeks ago. They walk into Yaletown around 9am, with their coffees in one hand and their yoga mat bags in the other, dressed in the latest Lululemon fashions. Often they are yammering away on their mobile phones, probably to other idle women, about what to do after yoga. Shopping? Lunch? They need something to fill the time between yoga, working out, and pilates.

Yaletown is full of these people; all image, no substance. Who is footing the bill for their lifestyle I wonder? I can only assume it is some guy working in one of the office towers downtown, or prowling Yaletown in his Escalade, searching for a parking space close to Cioppino's. What amazes me is how hard they work at creating the image despite the transparency of it all. Vancouver ain't New York, but a lot of people think that if they act rich, they will be rich.

Then there is the coke dealer with the 64 impala. He works so hard to advertise that he is man of leisure, except when he is doing drug deals. Isn't the point to hide what you are doing when you're in that business?

Hey Fuckhead!

Are you the man that honked at me on Davie St last Friday? Yes, you remember. It was around 630am on a splendid summer morning. Hardly any traffic at that hour, but you must have been so hurried and so important, perhaps you even had to get to a conference call with an important client, maybe even an important American client.

So you had to honk at me. At first I didn't think you were honking at me. What could I have done? Riding my bike happily in the left hand lane was no reason for honking. I have to ride in the middle of the lane, as that is the only way to get respect from cars, and not get pushed into the gutter.

This, apparently, is new to you, and you brand new Toyota Echo. So you pulled up close to me and said "You're not a bike, eh bud?" I don't know if it was a question or a statement. I think the "eh" means "what i have just said is true, is it not?", so i'll treat it as a question.

Normally my first response would be "Fuck you motherfucker", a reaction that has been drilled into my synapse from years of defensive cycling in this city. However, as i was still blissed out and zen-like from my yoga the night before, I calmly said, "you need to respect me like a car. You need to treat me like a car."

To which you replied "Fuck you".

Ouch. I was so hurt that my calm approach failed, and I almost went to work in a bad mood.

Okay, i was in a bad mood at work, but that was only because i was suffering from caffeine withdrawal.

Be Careful What You Wish For


The importance of setting goals was a concept I never seemed to grasp until my mid-twenties. Perhaps at some point in my youth I had set goals unknowingly, but these were usually forgotten quickly in the lazy haze that covered my mind at the time. I think I set some fairly unrealistic goals (win the gold medal in the men's downhill at the 1988 Olympics), but I never had any realistic goals, written or otherwise.

One ambition that I did voice repeatedly was the dream of being a foreman on some type of work crew so that I could drive a pickup truck. While waiting for the school bus I would often see the city workers in their pickups and I wanted to be the one in charge. My oldest friend Chris never fails to remind me that as a child this was my ambition.

Perhaps it is coincidence that in the summer 1996 I achieved this goal, a mere 16 years after setting it. I had become a foreman on a forestry services crew comprised of drifters, scammers, ex-cons and morons. But I was in charge.

The dream had lost in lustre in the light of reality. Skidding to a stop in the truck and jumping out to berate unproductive workers seemed like fun when I was 10 years old. But at 26, it was pathetic and depressing. As the job wore on and the productivity and work quality went through the floor, I asked myself "How did I get here? What am I doing here?"

It didn't occur to me at the time, but the seed had been sown as a 10 year old child, wishing to drive a big truck and yell at people.

Why am I spending so much goddamn time in front of a workstation? I think it is starting to have adverse physical effects on me. My jaw locks and my eyes glaze over moments after I sit down and rest my arms on the desk. My body does not like it when i do this.

I turned 32 the other day, and for the first time really feel like I am in my 30s. I have recently noticed how creeping changes have now become distinct shifts...

Hip hop (am i supposed to capitalize both H's?) no longer holds any interest for me.
I don't care what people think I look like, or how i dress, or whether women think I am hot.
I spend a lot of time looking at young couples with children.
I am much more left than I was at 19. Isn't it supposed to work the other way around?

Yesterday, for the first time in months, I rented a DVD. It was raining torrentially, and I had nothing to do while waiting to meet with someone later in the day, so I headed to Independent Video and picked up the documentary film Biggie and Tupac. I have enjoyed Nick Broomfield's other documentaries, but was excited for this one, having missed it at the Vancouver Film Festival last fall.

It is typical Broomfield guerilla-style film making, where he puts so many of his interviewees in an uncomfortable position with his direct questions. His soft English accent makes him seem less aggressive while dogging his interviewees for their stories.

Before seeing the film, I had bought the idea of a East Coast vs West Coast rivalry as the reason for the killings. However, Broomfield shows that if you want to solve a crime, follow the money. In this case the money leads back to Suge Knight, and two of the dirtiest cops to ever wear a uniform.

In the end, it was all about money and power, and two talented young men paid the price with their lives. This got me thinking about how many people have been murdered in the US with the full knowledge of the police of FBI, simply because they had grown too popular, and thus too dangerous.

Ever recognize yourself in a book?

On a cold night in February 1995, I sat curled on my plaid couch reading The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. My friend John had loaned it to me in the attempt to help me change my life. I recognized myself in what the author called Quadrant IV: activities that are neither importnant nor urgent. He did not waste much time on people who lived in this quadrant, stating only "these people basically live irresponsible lives". That was me. But what really hit me that night was his description of relationships gone wrong. There it was on page 182, my relationship described to me as if he was living in the next room. Two people leading separate lives in a fairly respectable and tolerant manner. I put the book down, looked at my girlfriend of 4 years and said, "We need to end this. Now".

I saw myself again in The War of Art.

Guilty as charged, on every page.

Leaving time! I get to go home. I didn't get much done here besides see customers, drive from one customer to the other and eat a lot of take out food.

Some things I learned: there are liberal Americans in the least likely places, Cleveland should be wiped clean off the face of the earth (although I have been told constantly that it is much nicer than it used to be) and that I I am sick of seeing American flags on every car.

Do you ever feel like you don't belong? I feel that right now, mired as I am in the midwest, surrounded by suburban sprawl, traffic, landfills, malls, and an alarming number of obese people. I have a skill at fitting in and looking like I am part of everything, but inside it is painful. Perhaps that is why I have been asked to join fraternities I despised, political parties I opposed, or churches whose gods I don't believe exist.

Whenever I come here I blend in with the rest of the people, but I simply cannot wait to get back to Vancouver.

I am staying with a friend, who, despite his intelligece and success in life, likes to watch Fox News. He has a home office in his basement, and there is a wall mounted TV above his desk, about 25 feet away from me. I have never watched it before, so it shocked me exactly how skilled they are at taking real events ( and fictional events) and dumbing them down to their most simple forms. It is the like turning healthy food into junk (there must be a word for that process). I had to turn it on mute because I found it so offensive.

And to think that I contemplated a move to Columbus, Ohio.

While flipping channels late last night, I came across ESPN, which was showing a clip of some WWF wrestlers making an appearance on US Navy aircraft carrier, ostensibly to bolster morale. One of the officers was being interviewed, and he mentioned how much this means to the sailors, because being on an aircraft carrier is extremely boring. The only thing we have to offer the crew, he said, "was the odd war and the occassional celebrity visit like this." What kind of people see the odd war as a mere escape from boredom?
I could not believe that I had actually heard him say that.

But when I looked at the wrestlers, who were addressing the crowd wearing makeup, masks and headgear, I realized that most of the people on the ship were still adolescents.

I am scheduled to meet a client at Case Western Reserve University next week. However, due to the recent events there, I wonder if it is still appropriate. This is the building where the gunman shot 2 people. The SWAT team had a tough time subduing him because there were no straight hallways in the entire building.

I was getting bored yesterday, just sitting around listening to the rain, so I got in my car and followed the neverlost map system to the nearest large mall. Since I was stuck in the suburbs of Cincinnati, I thought I would get out and see the country.

What amazed me is how frontal and complete the assault is upon the average American here. They are told at every turn through radio ads, visual ads and television that they need to get out and spend money at this mall or that mall. Everything is in malls, and everything is designed to be done with a car.

While wading through the massive parking lot at Kenwood mall, I came across a family waiting to use a crosswalk. The crossing was duly marked with paint on the asphalt and a sign indicating that it was a crosswalk. But no car would stop, and the family made no move to signal their intention or need to cross.

I just walked right out into the traffic and made the cars stop. Everyone looked at me in disbelief. What is the point of having a crosswalk if you don't use it?

This just found in my other blog archives...from July 2001:

It's been a while since I discovered this forum for solipsistic expression and theater of the self absorbed. Well, now I am charging into its swollen ranks. Initially my intentions were to fashion this blog from the very beginning with witty and informative quips on the human condition that were oh-so-spot on. However, I've realized the point here is merely to express yourself. If I go for being the Moredcai Richler of blogland, I will only ever look like a cheap imitator.

Someone was fired at work today, which I think is a good thing. Good because they are finally realizing that there are many people who do nothing at our company, and have been doing so for many years now...

Being from a middle class Protestant family in Edinburgh, it was natural that my grandmother was warned and persuaded not to take up with my hardscrabble grandfather. He was Catholic, he was from Glasgow and he came from a “questionable” family. That I know almost nothing about my grandfather’s background suggests to me that he came from a long line of criminals.

However, when you’re a 22-year-old girl growing up in a repressed Protestant family, you are a sucker for a bad boy from the wrong part of town, especially if he is riding a motorcycle. Sure, he might be a little rough around the edges, she explained to her parents, but he has an engineering degree from the University of Edinburgh. How respectable is that? Unfortunately, the degree was not worth much in Edinburgh, at least not in the hands of a Catholic, and he was shut out of the shipyards, the natural place for a recent grad to seek employment.

One day while they were riding on his motorcycle (made entirely from “found” parts), the brakes failed, and they both crashed into a brick wall. My grandfather was not hurt, but my grandmother had knocked out all her front teeth on the wall.

Time to make a run for it, thought young Jimmy Smith. He booked passage on a ship headed for Canada, with a job arranged for him in Vancouver, some small town way out on the west coast. My grandmother did not want to leave her sister behind, but staying in Scotland was no longer an option. So the three of them came over, but on the way my great aunt nearly died of pneumonia. When the ship docked in Montreal, Auntie Alice was too ill to get on the train for another 6 days to Vancouver. They settled in Montreal.

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The last time I saw my grandmother was in August 2001. I pulled up to her house and parked, and was immediately asked by a neighbor what I was doing. I walked over to the man and told him that I was Mrs. Smith’s grandson. He shook my hand and introduced himself as “Gary”, and said that he lived across the street. He told me to have a nice day, and put his hand on my bicep and gave me a little squeeze.

I thought nothing of it at the time. When I went in to see nana, she asked me if I had talked to Gary. I said yes, and that he seemed like a nice man, looking out for his neighbor like he did.

“I think he’s gay son” she replied.

Clementine Lavin Smith died on May 8, 2003. She was 98 years old.

I guess what bothers me, or what makes me feel inadequate, is reading all the other blogs that seem so much better than mine, by people who are probing the outer boundaries of CSS development or developing new ways to post text, and who seem to live lives that are so much more interesting. Well, at least they make it sound interesting. The problem is, and I have known this for a long time, is that what I am doing is not what I am supposed to be doing. I put on a pretty good show, but in the end, I really don't care about helping some company sell more hams and more effectively manage their supply chain, or their sales forecast.

Pleats.

They all wore pleated pants, and all were double pleats. The corporate American uniform- pleated pants and a button down shirt or even better, a golf shirt with a logo. Most of the my other attendees, being 33 year-old American salesmen, wore pants with double pleats. The pleats create the appearance of a smaller waist by inflating the area around the thighs.

I have only pants with single pleats or flat front pants. I can pull this act off for another few years, but it is starting to get a little painful.

Another quarter end, this time falling short, with one man let go. As much as it had to happen one way or another, it still hurts. It feels like somebody died and everyone else has woken up to their own mortality.

Last Saturday, like millions of others around the world, I marched to protest the proposed invasion of Iraq. After marching and spending time with my younger brother and then writing, i realized that for the first time in months, i could not feel the chronic pain in my jaw and ears. I think getting out with all the people was therapeutic in a way.

My father used to pretend that he could play the piano and would always air-piano Rhapsody in Blue. After being on hold with United Airlines for a total of 30 minutes today, I never want to hear rhapsody in blue again.

last night i went to see The Pianist, a story about a young jewish man hiding in the warsaw ghetto during WWII. It was disturbing to wathch how cruelly humans can treat each other. I hope that Jews who watch it will be reminded of how horrible and pointless it is to tear people from their homes and put them into camps.

However, I doubt it will make any difference at all, and will probably encourage most Jews to rationalize how Israel is terrorizing the Palestinians. I had the same hopes that after Sept 11, the US would stop and think about how it treats everyone else. I did not expect this to happen, but I remained optimistic. Instead, GWB shose to beat the war drums.

All for one and one for all, and lots for oneself! And therefore . . . no slackers allowed! no deadwood! no lightweights! no loafers! You headed straight for your desk, your telephone, and your computer terminal in the morning. The day didn't start with small talk and coffee and perusals of The Wall Street Journal and the financial pages of the Times, much less The Racing Form. You were expected to get on the telephone and start making money. If you left the office, even for lunch, you were expected to give your destination and a telephone number to one of the "sales assistants," who were really secretaries, so that you could be summoned immediately if a new issue of bonds came in (and had to be sold fast). If you went out for lunch, it better have something directly to do with selling....otherwise--sit here by the telephone and order in from the deli like the rest of the squadron.

A nation has lost its way...

What is Andrew up to today?
a) writing his memoirs
b) upgrading his blog to blogplus
c) being a total fuckhead and getting stoned on Monday night

While falling asleep on the couch last night, I watched Much Music's diary of P.Diddy. It was a"day in the life of" style documentary on the daily grind of a hip hop producer, actor, father and role model for aspiring hip hop artists. During one of the commercial breaks, I saw an ad for "Much 90s" compilation CD of hits from the 1990s, which I may have to remind you, were only 4 years ago. Just as The Onion predicted.....

What this war is not about, by Rick Salutin. Did I mention I love Canadians?

When I started this blog, I did so with the idea of emulating some other blogs that I had read and which inspired me to create a blog myself. For a while I unsuccessfully tried to imitate these blogs; their style, their ideas, their writing. But I realized that I was pleasing no one by doing this. As far as I know the only people who read this blog are Scott, Rob, and Sean. So now I write for myself, if only to make myself feel better.

There, there. No I feel okay.

Still waiting to hear from two customers to get their orders and process them so I can go home for the day. Reading the War of Art at my desk in the meantime, hoping that no one will notice. Actually, I don't give a shit anymore.

Although it is very lame, I give a lot of gift certificates to people. This is partly because I do not like shopping, and partly because I am often too lazy to think about what the recipient would really like but would never think to buy for themselves. Perhaps that is the art of gift-giving, moving it from a mere transaction to an exchange of energy.

What inspired me to write this is the gift I received from my brother Jim, The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield. As soon as I opened it, I felt his presence in the room, even though he was a thousand miles away. It was sent as a wake-up call to a man who is only have awake, and living somebody else's life.

The first record I ever bought with my own money was Combat Rock, by The Clash. I paid $2.50 for it in 1983, at Cheap Thrills, a used record store that would go on to provide me with over 100 more albums, cds and tapes. The Clash to me were as far as I could really venture into the punk world, being a white kid from the suburbs, but they had a huge impact on me, both socially and politically. They showed me that there was space in the world for people like me, who were sent to private school but did not want to swallow the bullshit we were taught to believe. They showed me there was an alternative path to mainstream society, other than becoming a headbanger. And for this, I am truly thankful.

Long may you rest in peace Joe Strummer.

I am going to have to get serious here, so there will be no post about the boring life endured in a "business intelligence" sales office. No, you see I originally started this blog to express my views on the world, and in that process hopefully cultivate a distinct view of the world; distinct enough for me to call it my own, but still relevant to many.

I have to put that aside and go on record regarding some current issues. You may or may not care, but it is important that the records show how I felt at this time.

I have never felt worse about the prospects for peace and prosperity in this world. Evil men, (yes, they are evil) are in powerful positions, and are eager to unleash a bloodbath on this world; they have stated publicly that they intend to wage war anywhere, at any time without notice, and for whatever reason they deem necessary. The pending invasion of Iraq will certainly result in hundreds of thousands of dead, even more homeless refugees, and another generation of orphans. Despite these certainties, Dick Cheney and Co. feel it is a necessary cost of doing business in their quest for oil.

I refuse to accept the commonly held belief that Saddam Hussein is hiding weapons, and even if he is, that is his business. Were he ever to use them, his destruction is assured, which makes me believe that he has no intention of launching any attack on anyone.

I am against this war. I am against the war on drugs. I believe that George Bush was not elected by the people of the US.

I do not hate Americans, but I hate what their government does, and what is does to its own people.

Enough ranting. I cannot change the way they operate. But I can help you change the way you think.

Have a peaceful holiday week.

Ah yes, here we are at another quarter-end, rushing to get revenue booked so we can sleep soundly on Christmas Eve. However, there are bigger problems right now, like my pounding headache, brought on by too much Christams cheer and not enough food. I only have three deals to close, but here I am begging like a pauper for a little generosity to be thrown my way.

Because Scott asked for it, and he may well represent 10% of my viewers, here is another Victoria Moment; number 27, taken from March 1998....

The dealership used to be named $1995 or less, but I don't remember seeing a sign indicating its name. But on its lot sat a mint-condition 1981 Honda Civic Wagon ( the long body-type, not the hatchback). Two guys seem to run the place, both in their 30s, but how late into the 30s I can't tell. The older one is talking on the phone with what must be his wife, as he arranging a pick-up or drop off of his children. His partner is in the office, a shack with a sliding glass door, two tiny desks and a cracked radio playing Q-103, Victoria's all classic rock station.
He too is on the phone, making arrangements for the evening, being Friday night. They both hang up to deal with me as I enquire about making payments on a $900 car.

Divorced dad comes on all friendly and warm-hearted, offering to take me out for a test drive. We drive down through Juan de Fuca park to the water, where I can really it open it up, making it into 4th gear. He tells me the CV joint will need to be replaced, and that frankly, for a man of my means you would be hard pressed to do better.

I give him $500 and tell him I will come back with the rest in 2 weeks, and makes me sign a document, effectively transferring the car to his name if I fail to pay. Partner is off the phone now, enjoying a cigarette while telling me how great the car is. I ask them if they make a good living selling used cars. They immediately reply " Oh no, we just live cheque to cheque like everybody else." They looked at me with empathetic smiles, convinced that we all agreed there was nothing you could do in life but just get by.


Thirty minutes after taking the bus to the dealership I arrived home in my Civic to the astonishment of my roommates.

While he is not an alcoholic in the neglect-your-family and beat-your-wife definition, by the standards of Alcoholics Anonymous, he has some serious thinking to do about his relationship with alcohol. To his credit, he stops drinking for lent each year. My mother has nagged at his drinking my entire life. Some of the more memorable excuses he has come up with for drinking are:

It is St Patrick's Day
It is St Andrew's Day
It is Father's Day
It's Sunday
The Masters is on
The Super Bowl is on
But it's the Grey Cup
It's the playoffs
My son has returned from _______ safely
Your mother said it was okay
Mr. Davey made this wine
I made this wine
This beer is imported

Right now I am updating my sales forecast for next quarter with Lenny Kravitz wailing "Fly Away" through my cheap Canada 3000 headphones. I should hang on to these, as they could now be a collector's item, just like my Wardair tie. Lenny Kravitz I find a little cheezy, with his cliched 70s guitar riffs, but I bet a 14 year old would love it.

I chose to listen to this song because it reminds me of the time when I was working for this customer relationship management company as an inside sales rep. I picked a call off the queue, and I was instantly put on speakerphone with some startup company in Silicon Valley. There were three young men around the speakerphone, with Lenny Kravitz's "Fly Away" blaring in the background. They seemed so cool and carefree in their e-jobs, perhaps changing the way people buy transit tickets or return pop bottles with their soon-to-be-released zero-client, customer-focused solution. I remember thinking that I wanted to work in such an environment, instead of the one where I was stuck, with an English-born matronly boss, whose face had acquired the permanent scowl wrinkles on her jawline; wrinkles that are acquired only through a lifetime of mean disposition. I wished I too could fly away to southern California and take part in the revolution that promised to change everything but in reality changed very little.

The cool startup workers nonchalantly bought about $500 of software on their Amex, treating me as if I were someone who was just so out of it, so not part of whatever it was that was going on.

I really have to watch my spelling when I am stoned.

For the first time since the early 1990s, when I felt I was part of the demographic that had the term 'slacker' attached to it, I feel that my lifestyle and many marketing campaigns have intersected. At times it feels like these people are trying to convince me to live their lifestyle. The stongest influencer is the Banana Republic, aiming its ads squarely at people like me and my wife. I have had to impose a ban on that store, just because I now feel each time that I go in there, I am admitting that I can no longer make my own choices, and that they know best for me. Douglas Coupland called this a 2+2=5ism.

Now they have an ad with the young couple and child lying in bed. It screams to me that I should be having a child and living this fast paced yet balanced urban life surrounded by grey flannel and the New York Times; ambitious, aware of the finer things in life, but without forgetting that what really matters is spending time with my well-clothed family.

Two feelings for which there must be a German word that describes each perfectly.

The habit of completely forgetting that you used to live in a basement appartment rife with wood bugs once you have moved into a new appartment.

The feeling of seeing an advertisement on a bus shelter for a rave that you used to attend back in the day when it was word of mouth with no security, no searches, and now you find that it is an all-day event hosted by Ron Jeremy and the Coors Light Girls.

The GDP includes air pollution and advertising for cigarettes, and ambulances to clear our highways of carnage. . . . It grows with the production of napalm and missiles and nuclear warheads. . . . It does not allow for the health of our families, the quality of their education, or the joy of their play. It is indifferent to the decency of our factories and the safety of our streets alike. . . . It measures everything, in short, except that which makes life worthwhile

Victoria moment #235

We had just moved into a house in James Bay, the 4 of us; me, Carrie, George and the Doctor, as he was known then. In order to get high speed cable internet access, we needed a "technician" from Shaw Cable to come to our house and configure all the equipment. I felt kind of embarassed when he came over to the basement of our house, which was made out like a rec-room, complete with ping-pong, bean bag chairs, and a shiny black coke-dealer entertainment console with no equipment in it. Our ritual after work was to hit the bong immediately upon entry to the house. I remember that I was wearing a suit, as I worked for EDS at the time, who required all their people to wear suits. I looked over to the technician tapping away on the keyboard as I pulled a bong hit, and I thought to myself, he'll understand, this is Victoria. He glanced my way and gave me a look that confirmed my suspicions of empathy, a look that said, "yes, we are in Victoria, and this is what we do, this is how we affirm ourselves".

However, the real affirmation came 5 minutes later, when I came back downstairs and found the technician pulling a bong hit of his own.

A childhood taunt from my school days in rural Vermont;
You think you're hot shit on a silver platter, but you're really cold piss in a dixie cup.

Children are so blunt and cruel.

"How can I hurt you?" he says when we finally get down to business. He leans back on his mangy couch or bed/futon; I can't tell because it is covered in dirty clothes. With a stroke back through his hair with his hand, I can see the giant "M" on his knuckles, some kind of ring. I don't like to buy in this "retail" market, let alone having to sit through 5 minutes of whatever pirated dvd is playing.

His two friends on the other couch, nod at me silently, and immediately return their gaze to the television.

"Nice day outside," I say, "you should get out."

"Yeah, maybe we should.....haven't gone out yet today.

I get what I want and leave, so happy that I no longer inhabit their world, but disappointed in myself for having entered it, if only for a moment.

Found, while cleaning out my files at work:


Belief Window


I am good looking
I am immature.
I am athletic
I am capable of achieving anything.
It is best to blend in and not cause trouble.
The world is a corrupt place that is getting worse everyday.
The US is an evil nation.
Money will solve most any problem I have.
I am a procrastinator.
I am not a powerful speaker.
I believe that everyone should pull his or her fair share.
I believe that leadership is sorely lacking in this world.
I believe there is a way to fix all this.
I believe that I will be the breadwinner for my family.
I believe that I should make the major financial decisions.
I believe that I can move the earth with my words…..

Ginger Alert! Now that the hangover has faded, it has become clear that the staff at Ginger 62 not only added a healthy tip without authorization to my bill, and subsequently ran through my card without my signature, and then, took my card and filled their car with gas at 3 in the morning. Thanks Ginger!

Marked in my daytimer for last Friday was a reminder to "rejoice in my success". What success you may ask? Well, if I have not explained before on these pages, I am in sales, in sofware sales, for a large company, whose performance is graded quarterly. Most of the business comes in during the last week of the quarter, with much of it on the last day.

So rejoice we did, perhaps too emphatically, as I am not used to drinking so heavily. I must have had 5 drinks before I even left the office. Then it was off the a pub with my coworkers to drink on the company tab. We left to have a smoke and perhaps watch a little "ballet", but we slipped into Ginger 62 for a drink. It turned out to be a mistake, as i lost my credit card there, and the bouncer wanted to take out Mike as we lobbied to go back inside to get the card. That will be my last time there. No regrets here.

And now for you, here is Dry Shave. Go buy the book, NOW.

Oh my christ, is television pathetic. I have tried, really tried to watch tv for the last few nights, but am never able to make it through more than a few minutes at a time. The programming during the evenings seems to break down into the following categories: sports, "news", infotainment, celebrity-based news, game shows, and of course, "Friends". Is this what you get for your $50 a month cable subscription?

I have been wasting much time at work playing gameneverending. Get on it and test it, but have patience as it is still a prototype, or God will smote your ass!

Dean of Textism writes today, or last night, about how much he hated being inconvenienced by film sets in Vancouver, producing the next episode of Hostage Negotiator, or Halloween 8. While I am concerned for his misanthropy, many of his points are valid. I detest the industry with more venom than he, as it holds my wife captive for 16 hours a day, leaving me a bachelor 5 nights of the week. Which is why I tried watching tv. I used to just smoke pot every night and fall asleep, but that left me too hazy in the morning to deal with the uppity midwesterners calling me on the phone to bitch about my price increases. Fuck them all if they can't understand why i am so drowsy. For christ's sake, it 630am in Vancouver, what do expect, complete concenration?

My ex-girlfriend got married last weekend. I was not invited, which was great, because I would not have attended, seeing as how I am married anyway. Strange how you can be with someone for 5 years and not even care in the slightest for them. Man, she was country.

I will upgrade this damn thing to blogger plus, or blogger de-luxe, sometime soon, as soon as I cancel my porn subscriptions.

Hello, I'm today's guest editor of Schoolboy77. Andrew's fingers are badly sprained as he is suffering from an acute case of carpal tunnel syndrome. It’s a warning to us all: if you don't use your whole arm muscles the nerves-and-tendon passage in the wrist can become inflamed. Actually that's a lie, I’m a 13-year-old computer hacker from Cape Breton and have decided to wreck havoc in the Blog community. Be warned: the CIA wants me to work for them.

I have this quote that my history teacher keeps taped to the front of his classroom (he's got a ponytail):

We are only geometricians in regard to matter; the Greeks were first of all geometricians in the apprenticeship of virtue. Since force corrupts even the righteous . . . the only worthwhile strategy for the true radical is the interruption of force wherever it appears.
-Simone Weil

What genius of political analysis recently said this: “The root causes of terrorism are terrorists.” Hint: he's the same Canadian Prime Minister who bares an outlandish chin and pooh-poohed the idea that free trade (question: more or less cool than the BareNakedLadies?) would limit Canada's room for manoeuvre. I cannot decide if this is solipsism or a tautology. But I'm only 13. Vexing, it keeps me up at night.

That said I'm not worried for Canada, because ‘the Americans’ will undoubtedly let us keep our bureaucracy. Not even US military might could defeat something that entrenched and obstinate. Saddam could use a platoon of clerks from any number of Canadian ministries; once they're dug in they never give up.

I used to think that Canada was the “North American Alternative” but now it seems we're more “the convenient Northern fiction”. That's it got to get to class.

See if you can guess who I am:

I have at one time been supported, or am presently supported by the US military.

I have bought many weapons from the US.

I have used these weapons against minorities that annoy me and get in the way of my agenda.

I have used these weapons against other countries.

Who am I?

If you answered Ariel Sharon, Benjamin Netanyahu, General Musharraf Parvez or Saddam Hussein, you are correct.

No matter how much I try, I can't let go of my love the Grateful Dead. Rob came by my workstation ( i can't believe i just wrote that), pinned a picture of the band from the Donna Jean and Keith period, and walked away without a word.

Things are getting pushed to the edge in the arena of world affairs. GWB is on the brink of starting a major perpetual war (the US having already started and funded several smaller perpetual wars), and no Americans seem to voice their disapproval. I say this not to call Americans apathetic. I think they care much more deeply than the press reports, and that is exactly the problem. The American media is not actively asking for justification for this war. This is being left to a handful of politicians and to the general public, who are largely excluded from influencing the opinions expressed through the major news media. Rise up and shout!

I love Canada.

I could not have said it better. It is time for Americans to wake up and blow off the mind dust from a lifetime of mind-numbing consumption.

What earthly good can this possibly serve?

Ahhhh, still recovering from Island Style 3, my first real outdoor party in several years, and my first time going off since I saw Ritchie Hawtin at Sona last September. I was quite anxious upon arrival, as Anya and I were stumbling around in the dark gaggle of youths, looking for west coast funky house....we found it.

My favorite moment of the night was when the DJ mixed in Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots Were Made for Walking". Everybody loved it, even the kids. Speaking of kids, a 23-year old came up to me and asked me how old I was. When I said "31", he said "cool, I would love to see my parents at this type of thing".

Too much work and too much worry make for a boring life. I refuse to sit around and talk about mortgage payments and investments, like people from southern Ontario. Well- they're not all like that, in fact only a few are, but I seem to know too many of them.

Boredom has spread through my office like a virus. The so-called War on Terror continues unabated and seemlingly unopposed. I am just glad Canada brought the troops home. I have been hesitant to post comments of a political nature here, but I can no longer ignore the political animal raging and seething underneath my button down existence.

Nepotism
n.
Favoritism shown or patronage granted to relatives, as in business.

Two years ago today I made the best decision in my life and married Anya. I love her more than ever.

According to my research, the second anniversary calls for a gift of cotton. This severely limits the gift selection to clothing. I bought her a Fred Perry t-shirt from the Pharsyde It's a tight light blue top. I think she will love it.


On another topic, my 4 year old nephew is now speaking like a 10 year old. Says he, " you would be impressed with the serious tennis we're playing."

I look to the south and pray it won't happen here, that we won't become what they have become. I don't think we have that in us, but i do worry seriously that the American tradition of extraterritoriality will continue with brutal measures against Canadian social values.

For the first time in a long time, i worry for the state of the world.

As I toiled in the sweltering heat of the summer of 1994, in various hellholes scattered across northern BC, I dreamed of escape. Escape from the gruelling phyical labor of treeplanting, the monotony and uselessness of replanting clearcuts that were only going to be logged again in 60 years if the trees actually survived, and the spirit crushing reality that we were so very far away from anything.

I sang in my head to rid myself of the pain of this reality. Reggae, the music of 400 hundred years of suffering, offered little other than eventual but distant salvation, and the occasional dose of revenge. What I love to sing was Steely Dan, and while looking through my CDs tonight, I saw a track I had to play, if only to make me feel grateful that I am not out there with the cold, heat, bugs, bears, stinging nettle, devils club, and rednecks.

This is what I would sing:

Bad sneakers and a pina colada my friend

stomping on the avenue by radio city with a

transistor and a large sum of money to spend

Perhaps you are wondering if I managed to beat coffee.

I did not.

How much time are you wasting?

I have noticed recently that events that unrelated to work that occupies people's time during regular working hours are now being measured for their negative impact on productivity. I first noticed this with Star Wars, but have seen it measured again due to England's positive showing in World Cup 2002. Some predictions are drastic, but never fear, for any problem, whether real or percieved, there is a consultant waiting to bill you.

If David Frum had his way, every sporting event will have its productivity cost worked into its project justification. I can't wait.

Today is my first day without coffee. I will make it. I will win.
Why am I quitting? Oh, the headaches, sleeplessness, and not to mention the ulcer-like feeling in my stomach.

This only reminds me why I don't live in the US. Has anyone heard Ashcroft sing? Do you Americans out there not realize this only encourages other nations to despise the American government even more intensely?

From Gary Shteyngart in this week's New York Times magazine.

"The past 100 years have been just horrific for Russians. They're history's losers. Their country has become a third-world cesspool. Yet the Russian people survive somehow. I'm not excusing criminality, especially the violence., but I do try to understand it."

If you have not already done so, GET YOUR WAR ON!