Take our Vancouver weather. Please!

This week’s irritation is the neverending inclement (Vancouver) weather. Ah, you say, but at least you get the change in seasons. Yes, raining with warm temps in summer, raining with recurring crap on TV in fall, raining with good chances of slipping and snapping a vertabrae in winter, raining with college grads looking for nonexistent jobs in spring. If these are the changes that are so coveted, you can have them. With my blessings, though I am not an ordained minister. We’ll take your year-round balmy weather anytime.

Ha! I’d take some Minnesota weather: weather where there is an outside chance you may die is good. For character, or whatever. But this monochromatic palette with little chance of anything happening except getting wet, uncomfortable, and smelling like that fetid canvas tent of your childhood. Or, if you plan to see the Olympics on the cheap, the smell of your current home.

Indoor activities? I am almost at the point of buying those purple properties in Monopoly, if only to prolong the game. And actually working out 10% of my assets, instead of paying $200 for tax. I have played so many hands of solitaire that I break out in a rash whenever I have to play cards with more than one person. I have spread Nutella on almost everything but drink coasters for a snack. There are so many used teabags in my sink that it looks like, well, a sinkful of used teabags – something that I am sure looking at takes years off your life.

I have taken to staring at my bright livingroom lamp in an attempt to minimize the seasonal disorder thing. All I can think of is how much better it looked in the Ikea showroom. All curtains are, of course, drawn, because who wants to see that high-pitched-whine-TV-test-pattern weather? I am not at the point where I read that fine print that flashes on the screen during car commercials. But getting close. Real close.

Screaming into a pillow in Vancouver.

Vancouver Weather

Why should only tropical storms, tornadoes, hurricanes have names? And doesn’t GIVING them names personalize them, make them more approachable? The prospect of death or impaling by large slivers from telephone poles does not make me want to reach out and embrace these weather abominations. Isn’t that the point?

Take our Vancouver weather. Please. Our weather is a leaden, featureless sky from which varying amounts of water falls, and at many angles, depending on wind speed. These nameless, impersonal weather systems parade through, leaving sullen faces and bowls of hot soup in their wake.

Now, get your head around this: A warm front, named Richard, is creeping towards the coast. The front will be dumping large amounts of stinging rain on our heads, but because it is named Richard, we won’t feel so bad about it! And it will be followed closely by an even more volatile system named Jeff. Jeff has been floating off the Hawaiian Islands picking up lots of evaporated warm water, all set to shower it upon us in three days time, along with thunderstorms. That Jeff!

See? Our formerly drab, featureless weather now has character. No longer will one day blur into another. Instead, conversations will go like this:

Guy: Hey how about that barbeque we had last year, that was interrupted by Brian, that system of icy rain?

Other Guy: Yeah, I remember. It was even worse than when cold front Justin ruined Stacy and I’s wedding.

Guy: Normally, I’d be so pissed off about this, but somehow it doesn’t bother me as much.

Other Guy: Me too. Instead, I feel this warm sort of feeling.

Guy: Snap.

Wilt

Vancouver, where there are innumerable opportunities to christen this rain, that goes by many names, none of them printable on this blog.

Where have all the composers gone?

Here is the problem. No one has time for classical music these days. Let us explore the underlying issues. A commonly asked question is why there aren’t any composers of note today, like Beethoven, Mozart, et al. Here’s your answer. There is always something good on TV. With no TV in those pre-20th century days, there were long stretches of time in which composers could practice their craft. And avoid personal hygiene. These days, how can anything of note be completed when there is a new episode of Heroes?

Perhaps it is time to change the parameters. Why not make symphonies 5 minutes in length, 1 or 2 minutes per movement. This way, everyone wins. The composers are happy. They can create something in a fraction of the time, and still have time to program their PVR. The listenership too, is happy. No longer do they have to sit through long, ponderous symphonies, with the ever-present possibility of their mind wandering and thinking of whether Prison Break will be pre-empted for a Presidential Debate. In fact, many works could be squeezed in before even hitting the shower, before work.

Still not satisfied? How about a version of Beethoven’s Ninth in 2 minutes? And I don’t mean by just speeding it up. I mean by leaving ‘the boring bits’ on the cutting room floor, so that all you get is pure gold, as Beethoven would have wanted it. How many of you have fast-forwarded to that choral part that everyone knows?

Smack of something sinister, this tampering with what is sacred? Get over it! There is simply not the time to worry about these distracting side issues. Let’s face it, classical music these days sits and molders in public libraries across the country. Concert halls play their symphonic works to empty seats because, let’s face it, the home team got through to the third round. Oh, and that girl on House is so hot!

Next, I will tell you how you can watch a movie on a 2-inch screen, so that you can enjoy the works of Seth Rogen and Adam Sandler while sitting on the crapper. Oh wait, Apple already did that.

The more people I meet, the more I like my dog.

We’ve all heard the saying: The more people I meet, the more I like my dog. But how about: the more dogs I meet, the more I need to carry that anti-bacterial hand lotion stuff. So often, when you met a dog, it will lick or nuzzle your hand. Or, you will stroke its fur which can sometimes be in an unwashed state. You will stroke its seemingly clean fur, and your hand will come away smelling like its been stuck up the wrong end of a skunk. Then you have to walk with your hand extended away from the trunk of your body, like you have just performed a pre-surgery scrub.

I suppose that the drift of the original saying is that people are so annoyingly unpredictable and fickle, that your own dog seems an oasis of sanity and stability. This is false, because I have met some dogs whom I wouldn’t give the time of day to. Nor would they understand, if I did, what with that 7-year old child mentality.

I say, let the saying be amended to: The more people that I meet, the more I feel about the same about my dog. It really smacks of general laziness to adhere to such a negative attitude as that the original saying conveys. People can be a handful, but have you ever extended a hand to a seemingly friendly dog? Next thing you know, you are putting globs of Polysporin over gaping wounds.

How about: The more people I meet, the more that I know. It leaves dogs completely out of the equation. Not exactly what I’d want to put on my bumper sticker, true. If it’s cleverness you want, how about: The more people that I meet, the greater the proportion of people that I know, compared with dogs. See? I have repurposed that saying nicely, and reintroduced dogs into it, in a most suitable fashion. Perhaps you have some sayings of your own that you, too, would like to, well, refurbish. Keep me posted.

A funny thing happened to me

This funny thing happened to me! It was so out of the ordinary, that it cried out to be transcribed to the amusement and entertainment of all! It was the kind of thing that puts everything into perspective. Believe me, it was just so funny, and it really left me thinking.

But I forgot what happened.

Sorry about that. You would have really enjoyed it!

100 things I hate (sorry about this)

(1. I hate lists of things)

I was finally out of the house by 845. I had the clock radio set for 730, but hit the snooze button (2.) enough times to get to 815. I took an ‘express shower’ (3), meaning I brushed my teeth while peeing. Talk about your water conservation (4. Two thirds of the planet is water, and we still have to sprinkle our lawns on set days, I don’t get it).

As I walked/jogged (5), it seemed that everyone was in my way. There were senior citizens (6. Hate that term. ‘Golden agers’ is even worse.) out and about, getting in people’s way who were trying to earn a living. Why couldn’t they stay in and open a can of sardines (7. Even Scope cannot mask the odor) over the sink? Or look through a stained and dog-eared Yellow Pages (7. Why do I always end up with 3 or 4 of those?) for where to get a toaster oven (8. It makes great Pizza Pockets, and turns bread into charred slabs in seconds flat) serviced.

I walked through a mother and child (9. The most annoying stage of human development), severing their bond. The mother called me selfish and then invited me to perform an anatomically impossible feat in front of her child. (10. I hate when parents do this.) A bus was on the horizon, and I had to be at the bus stop, or it would simply sail by (11), since the driver was almost always behind schedule or railing to his shop steward on a company cell phone (12). There is never anyone at the bus stop (13) when you are not yet at your stop. It DID sail by, and a teen (14) in the back seat of the bus grimaced at me like a monkey (15). I gave him the ancient hand gesture which conveyed my warmer feelings. (16. It goes without saying that feelings should be bottled up, never to be exposed to the world unless they will result in an immediate reward or tasty treat)

I reshouldered my backpack (17. What is it about the West Coast that compels us to carry all our possessions on our back like a snail?) and resigned myself to the fact that I would be late for my doctor’s (18) appointment. I had forgotten my cell phone (19) and was unable to update the doctor’s office as to my tardiness (20. being late for things simply colors the rest of your day a dull shade of crimson). Another bus rumbled by (21. once you start walking, you get the bonanza o’ buses) and I cursed under my breath, garnering a dirty look from an elderly lady (22. let me reemphasize their need to remain at home, out of the way of breadearners, and those who will outlive them by a fair margin) grasping a garbage bag full of cans and bottles. (23. Does living 60-plus years earn you the right to monopolize bus seats with this repellent and amorphous cargo?)

I was tempted to take a taxi (24. They shuttle drunks around town, and parade around as moral superiors) when I realized that I possessed enough taxi fare (25) to take me 3 blocks. I seethed as I walked, and muttered a mantra under my breath not taught in any meditation class (26. paying money for what comes naturally at bedtime: sleep?) I would just walk the entire distance, knowing the exercise (26. we all hate it, which is why we love Ipods and TV so much, it distracts us from the soul-sucking boredom of it) might benefit me. (27. Things that are supposed to benefit me, I just feel a need to rebel against for no discernible reason)

As I quickened my pace, I felt myself running out of breath; I found myself sucking in toxic gases from traffic (28) and teenage smoking (29). If I wished I had brought an MP3 player.(30. Responsible for the dumbing down of walkers/joggers everywhere, unless they listen to Stephen Hawking (31. Makes us all look bad.) or that American genius guy (32) who dropped out of university (33. I always get lost in them, bet the architect went to a community college) and works on a farm (34. That smell) in Alabama. (35. The butt of jokes state)) I lost track of where the brackets go.

I crossed just as the light was turning red, and incurred the wrath of those who wanted to run the red light unimpeded. (36) I channeled Dustin Hoffman (37. Philip Seymour Hoffman’s dad is on a decline) and yelled, ‘Heeeey, I’m walkin’ heyuh!’ in a Bronx accent. (38. I hate that cliche that is used in endless situations: in toilets (I’m crappin’ here), hospitals (I’m dyin’ here), or adult-ed algebra classes. (I’m factorin’ polynomials here)).

At last, the doctor’s office in the distance. I knew that, despite my haste, I would still be required to wait several hours in the waiting room (39. everyone in there is sick and reading years-old copies of Sunset Magazine.), because my doctor in question ran so far behind. This is likely due to a high-maintenance patient (40), who mistook a HP sauce stain for a lesion. An easy mistake to make, if your mental capacity is close to that of a shower cap. (41. They make you look stupid even if you ARE that guy with the 200-plus IQ)

I made my way to my doctor’s office, which is located on the 16th floor (42. What’s the matter with this guy that he can’t get one of the lower floors? A cancer diagnosis makes that elevator ride so unendurable.) I sat in the waiting room for three and a half hours, before realizing that I had the wrong day. (43) The fact did not hit suddenly, but kind of crept over me, manifesting itself on my face as a kind of stiffening of my features, followed by a kind of facial slump.

I slunk out of the office, kicking my long face as it dragged on the ground, picking up all sorts of debris. I let the repurcussions of this fatal mistake wash over me, like a sluicing of warm sewage. (44. Sewage is the great equalizer; we all produce it and, despite our best efforts, it still smells like shit.) I stepped around a young man, intent on his small, glowing electronic device (45) whose main purpose was to notify everyone of his location on this planet and his opinion of the acquisition of the letter T by Microsoft. (46)

On the ground floor, I bemoaned the day off I had wasted on a non-appointment. I caught sight of myself on 20 or so televisions in a display window (47). I looked fatter than I thought, and consciously sucked in my stomach. I realized that I had left the house without looking in the mirror, and a Cheerio was stuck on the corner of my mouth. (48)

So that the day would not be a total waste, I went to a movie, which turned out to be dubbed (49), and the person I sat behind kept texting (50). I went to another theatre, but it turned out to be full of mothers and their babies (51); a special matinee for such individuals. The noise and smell of spit-up (52) drove me out into the lobby. I made for the exit, but not before peeking into the other microtheatres (53) to see if there was anything worthwhile playing. I had had my fill, having seen 40 minutes worth of trailers (54) and so had essentially seen about 15 movies, complete with all spoilers.

I stepped out into the street, and the first thing I noticed was an 30s-ish someone holding a cardboard sign (55) advertising a pizza restaurant. He shook the sign to such an extent that I was unable to read the sign. (56) Then, he started moving in an erratic, spasmotic manner, while maintaining a blank, bored facial expression. I believed he was having some sort of seizure, and looked about for help. I then realized that he was engaged in some rudimentary dance movement (57). I clapped my appreciation.

Hungry now, I saw a hot dog stand (58), but was lined up with suited business types, all focused on their Blackberries (59). No ordinary hot dogs, these. They were embellished, and tarted up to such an extent that they were almost gourmet food (60). Except, of course, for the fact that they were the end product of parts of the pig nobody ate. (61)

I entered a McDonald’s (62) and immediately lost my footing on the slick, just-mopped floor. (63) The janitor person (64) railed at my stupidity, despite the fact that I had almost split my skull open, and the resulting cranial fluid spillage would have been even more of an inconvenience. I picked myself up and found my way to the cash area, which was clogged full of wide-hipped customers (65) eager to chew and swallow as much processed food as they could carry on a plastic tray. (66. Nothing says ‘I believe our medical system will see me through any calamity consuming this may produce’ better)

I stood behind a 60-ish somebody with a ponytail and a giant bald spot (67); he wore an enormous fanny pack (68), so that the whole effect was like a mentally-challenged George Carlin gone to seed. He stood in front of a cash register which, when he moved aside 10 minutes later, said ‘CLOSED’. (69) I was tempted to reach into the talking garbage bin (70) for a meal, which had a good chance of being as nutritious as anything received over the counter.

I decided to eat later, and focused on paying some bills (71), while I was near a bank machine. Unfortunately, the machine ate my card (72). I turned to the dozing security guard (73) who shared the glass room with me and the ATM machine. He must have been in REM sleep, since his eyes fluttered uncomprehendingly at me, as I described what had happened to my card. A runner of drool (74) fell from one corner of his mouth. An odorous bike messenger (75) pockmarked with 5 pounds of facial studs (76) rudely asked if I was finished with the machine yet.

I exited the bank, but not before helping myself to a half a dozen desk calendars (77). A street entertainer (78), who had painted himself silver, was in a frozen state, (79. When did panhandling become so awesomely sedentary?) until somebody deposited money in his hat. I placed the calendars in his hat, prompting the man to shower me with expletives, which seemed out of character for his performance piece. I urged him to seek gainful employment and left the area.

I suddenly found my way blocked by some yellow caution tape (80). A movie shoot (81) was in progress. A cluster of supremely bored-looking individuals (82) handling many different shapes and sizes of equipment expertly and matter-of-factly. I imagined myself as one of them, grew depressed at the prospect, and started to hate Mankind (being a Tuesday (83)).

The movie shoot activity seemed so focused and purposeful that one temporarily forgot that, in all likelihood, in six months’ time, one would be pulling this from the bargain bin at Safeway. (84) I thought that I would probably end up renting this movie from Blockbuster (85), if only so I could glumly note familiar landscapes (86) that were disguised as more vaunted and renowned cities like Boise or Eugene, Oregon. (87)

I looked at my cheap digital watch (88) and noted that I would have been off work by now. This was a depressing thought, so I immediately bought a venti (89) dark roast and spilled out half the contents in order to put 8 oz. of coffee cream to mask the charcoal flavour (90). The barista (91) gave me a quizzical look, which I returned in kind, and then grabbed a handful of wooden stir sticks and cardboard coffee collars (92) for later use. I also took a ream of napkins, thirty or so sugar packets. I stopped to marvel at the sheer amount of sweetener choices (93). what was wrong with just plain sugar? I then took ten or so of each. My pockets bulged like a case of elephantitis (94) in the groin area. I took my leave.

I felt the need to commit a random act of kindness (95. too often these end up in court), and gave my coffee to a needy person. Unfortunately, he preferred decaf (96) and dumped the coffee on the ground and flung the cup at me. It fell to the ground after 2 feet or so. I reminded him for next time to be sure to throw the cup while it is still full of coffee for maximum effect. He thanked me after spitting in my direction. (97. Why can’t they just politely decline the food or drink that I offer them?)

My bus home approached, and it was so full that I could not discern daylight through the windows (98). It had been another waste of a day. A day that I would never get back. I already knew that I would regret having squandered that day on my death bed. (98. If only. How few of us actually die in bed – it’s such a hateful cliche. More likely, it’ll happen in a mall (99) or while writing a blog (100) oooooohhh . . .

Wilt Did It

Vancouver, BC

You heard it here first

Is it just me, or do authors, Augusten Burroughs and Bill Bryson, when they speak,  sound the same? Could they be, improbable as it may seem, the same person? Have u ever seen both of them in a unretouched photograph? You heard it here first.

Your Literary Public Image

Haha, author Mark Haddon intimated that the book you read in public sets the tone for what people’s perception of you will be. He likened the reading of ‘Pet Sematary’ to going out in your underwear. Here is a quick general guide on what to expect from people based on their public reading material:

Pet Sematary/Stephen King – elementary school drop out, blows leaves at the park for a living. Only recently found out what the term ‘pro-rated’ means. And mixes up ‘cahoots’ and ‘cohorts’ to humorous effect.

Man’s Search for Meaning/Viktor Frankl – studying criminology, hoping for insight into downward spiral of life. Grows a wispy beard and stands on public transit looking depressed. Sits at Starbucks at the tables with chessboards on them, hoping for a game. Reads Pet Sematary at home.

Back of Bran Flakes cereal box – busy go-getter type, has not read a novel since late 80s. Often seen reading over people’s shoulders on buses, carpools. Sleeps with pants on to save time, has three alarm clocks. Has Pet Sematary spoken word version on CD.

Instruction manual for DVD recorder – consumes each portion of his food until completion, then moves on to next. Alphabetical order. IOW carrots, peas, pork, then potatoes. Will watch Pet Sematary after downloading and setting up DVD player.

The piece of paper that indicates what each chocolate is in a box of Black Magic – avoid this person at all costs, as they are likely clinically insane. Each page of Pet Sematary is taped onto the wall of his apartment, the letter ‘h’ is cut out, placed in an envelope, and mailed to his grade four teacher, with a note reading: See? I’m over my ‘h’ phobia!

London to Brighton

Awesome movie. Did not know what to expect. It hit the ground running, and never let up. No time wasted on exposition and backstory – the way it was handled allowed the story to flesh out of its own accord. Gritty and harsh, the way I like my movies, this was a bit like Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead in its nightmarish no-exit quality. Not for the squeamish. Fine acting from all the players. And there are some despicable characters. Highly recommended.

　

Don’t Look Back in Manger

 

Where are all those Xmas things we got so cheap, after last Xmas? The rolls of wrapping paper, greeting cards. Why do we always seem to buy these items again? Will there come a day when these items will suddenly materialize, in the form of a very festive pile? It just seems in our giddiness at the reduced purchase prices of these items, that we somehow neglect to note where we store them.