Thursday, March 31, 2005

Last Night A Driver Saved My Life...

Of all the fellas that make their living by driving me around, I definitely like Majeed the best. He is always reliable, safe and punctual. But beyond being a good driver, I always felt a bond with Majeed, always sensed a camaraderie which I can’t really explain because he doesn’t really speak much English. Maybe it was because he reminds me of darker, swarthier version of my cousin Paul Robichaud, or maybe because when I would make a joke or try some Urdu he would always laugh. In any case, I like the guy… Good ole Majeed.

Anyway a while back I actually had a dream about Majeed. Ok, quit it, not that kind of dream, that’s not what I meant by camaraderie. Anyway, Majeed was driving me to a national conference for NGOs in the education sector. It was early morning, I was sleepy, but I noticed a man walking two, huge Alsatian Shepherds. Just as I was taking this in, Majeed turned to me and said, "Those are beautiful animals," in perfect English. He even sounded kind of aristocratic and British. I was taken aback. I really didn’t think it was fair of him to have been hiding his English skills from me for so long. I immediately suspected that I might be in a dream, but I looked around and didn’t see a midget on a tricycle, so I was unsure. I realized that a reply was in order, so I stammered, "Yes, they sure are." Majeed nodded solemnly and said, "I once had an animal of such a caliber. He was nearly 200 pounds." "Hmmm" I said. I thought maybe I should try to lighten the mood, so I added, "200 pounds, just like me…" Majeed stared at me for a moment before turning his eyes back to the road and saying, "Were I you, I would not compare myself to an animal." I realized I had made some kind of tactical error. "Ahh, right, exactly, only kidding." I stammered.

We arrived at the venue and I proceeded into the large conference room on the top floor. Representatives from all the Education NGO’s were there to discuss government policy, and the Teachers’ Resource Centre, where I work, had sent me there to report on the proceedings. The conference room was beautiful and surrounded on all sides by full windows overlooking the city (in fact it looked suspiciously like the view from Fuji, a local sushi restaurant that I frequent, but there was no sashimi in sight).

I stood back from the crowd and admired the view. As I scanned the room, I suddenly realized that I couldn’t see any government representatives, and at the exact same moment I heard helicopter blades slicing the air outside the building. In a flash of knowledge, possible only in dreams, I realized that all the NGOs were being set up by some fanatical wing of the government. We were trying to educate the people and they wanted to keep the people down. We were there to be taken out; it was a massive hit.

The scene morphed into the Godfather Part III, where all the Dons are brought together in the conference room and gunned down. The helicopter appeared outside the window with a side-mounted gattling gun like in the Matrix (I didn’t see Keanu Reeves, but the gunner’s face was emotionless… so, same thing). I tried the doors, but they were locked. Just as the firing started, the doors smashed open with a CRASH and Majeed came flying through the wreckage, dove over a table and tackled me to the ground behind the buffet tables. I looked up at him in awe. Majeed had saved my life. I kind of expected him to pound his chest and say, "Just when I thought I was out… they pull me back in!" but I realized that that would be my role and it wouldn’t really make sense. Instead, he reached behind him and pulled out a nine-millimeter pistol, handed it to me and said, "And now my friend, we fight for justice." I was getting the hang of this dream, so I said, "Fair enough" secured the weapon, locked and loaded, and ran out the door with my driver as soldiers of fortune.

The day after the dream, I decided I would give Majeed a 1000 Rupee tip for being such a good driver, and saving my life in a dream… but I forgot.

Random Snippet # 9

He was the type of guy who would crawl, naked, a quarter mile through broken glass for a ten-dollar bill and still consider it a sound investment.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

The Ole Ticker

A few days ago, I saw what was by far the strangest "up to the minute" news item scrolling across the ticker at the bottom of the screen during CNN. I thought that it must have been a mistake or some kind of joke. It said something like (imagine the scrolling):

Australian boy has both hands and one foot reattached after they were severed in a freak basketball accident.

I couldn't believe it.... They play basketball in Australia?

Beggar's Banquet

On the way home from work the other night, we were stopped at one particularly long light when I saw some sort of commotion on the sidewalk. There seemed to be a writhing Chimera of tearing, dirty flesh right there on the corner amongst a crowd of beggars. It turned out to be two street girls in a cat-fight. It took me a while to ascertain what was happening, because it looked like one of those old Peanuts cartoons where you can see the legs of the fighters but the rest is lost in a cloud of swirling action, disembodied limbs, lightning bolts, exclamation marks and ampersands. The girls were literally tearing at each other’s hair, circling round and round, locked by their locks. Another girl tried to intervene, which was noble, but of course it led to an immediate three way cat-fight.

While I was busy trying to decide whether it would be inappropriate to take a picture, one of the girls reached out to find a weapon, and her hand fell on an inflatable plastic hammer toy that they must have been selling car to car. I’m sure she would rather have found a rock to bash the sweet bejesus out of the other girls, but, as they say, beggars can’t be choosers. In light of this, one of the other girls took off her sandal and started wailing away. Now, of course, things were out of control, yet comical beyond belief. Try to imagine three girls screaming and yanking each other’s hair and beating each other wildly with flip-flops and inflatable hammers.

At this point, a grubby young boy with a monkey ran over and started yelling down the street. Soon a grubby man with a monkey arrived who was obviously the head beggar of this corner. (Begging is a full, systematic profession with territories, payoffs and its own Mafia – which I learned to my detriment one Friday night when I tried going down to the intersection to make some extra cash). The Monkey-Man, and the boy, who I thus named "Tweeter", burst into the fray in a fury. Tweeter and the Monkey-Man (who, presumably, were hard up for cash…) tore the girls apart, and doled out swift justice. While Tweeter held them, the Monkey-Man gave each girl, including the one who had tried to break it up, a good cuff to the face.

And as quickly as it began, the episode was over, and everyone was big smiles again. We finally made the light and moved on. Of course, the ironic thing is that I usually hate to see kids begging, but I certainly would have paid for that show.

Late Breaking News...

This just in... Five years too late... "The Office" is a hilarious show.

Please also note that I am very sceptical about the prospects of an American version. Has that come to air yet, or is it still in development? Americans trying to do British humour just doesn't work.

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

"Mass" Generalizations...

To what I’m sure must have been the utmost delight of my mother, I went to church on Good Friday. My friend Cheryl, who incidentally is moving to Canada soon, is a Pakistani Christian and invited me to mass (she even gave me hot-crossed buns)(…to eat). Christians are, of course, a minority in Pakistan, but in a city of 15 million, minorities can be fairly major… major-minors … or perhaps a major seventh. The Cathedral itself holds close to a thousand people, but they hold major services outside in the yard. So, I found myself on a hot and sultry Friday afternoon, under a huge tent with 3000 Pakistani Catholics. Not how I generally spend Friday afternoon, but it was really interesting. Like half a dozen seagulls floating in a sea of brown, I spotted a few other white faces, and I think we were all melting. But despite the heat, I had a fantastic experience.

Now, I’m not Catholic, but I was raised Anglican, which is more or less the non-union, Protestant equivalent. So I generally know what’s going on, a lot of the readings and prayers are basically the same, but there’s just a dash of wacky thrown into the mix. To continue in my unfair generalizations, I have usually found that Catholics love the gloom and doom. For that reason, Good Friday is the place to be if you’re a Catholic. The death of the savior, you really can’t get much gloomier. They started out by narrating the entire Passion of the Christ. This took quite some time. I felt required to tell Cheryl that in Canada, we read much faster in church. They also read all of the prayers for the people. This also took quite some time.

Cheryl is a choir director for one of the church choirs, but her group had vehemently refused to sing with the other two that day in some sort of large-scale choral coup, which I did not pry into. This did remind me that church is church wherever you are in the world, and no one can ever agree on the music. I have to say that from what I heard of the two choirs, I can see why Cheryl didn’t want to sing with them, but then, I have never heard her choir, so I shouldn’t comment. That would be base of me, and might influence the tenor of the discussion. Cheryl, however, did not refrain from comment, pointing out exactly who was singing badly and why.

The Bishop interrupted Cheryl’s diatribe to give the sermon. I have to admit that I didn’t get much from the sermon, I was too interested in the Bishop’s voice. To me, he sounded just like Bela Lugosi in top Count Dracula form. "Da Vood ov Da Cross!" he would proclaim (Catholics seem to love the wood of the cross I noticed), and all I could think of was Lugosi saying "Pull da strings…" After the Bishop spoke, the actual Wood of the Cross was brought out. About half a dozen mini-Jesus’s on mini crossses were held out in different places around the pavilion. 3000 people lined up to kiss Jesus’ feet. This took quite some time. I have always found the tradition kind of creepy, but it didn’t help that I watched one old man kiss Jesus right on the crotch. I mean, I don’t care where you’re from, that doesn’t seem right.

Soon thereafter came the Eucharist, where everything had been consecrated the day before (thanks be, since that tends to take quite some time). Still, giving 3000 people communion, even without the wine, takes quite some time. The service dissolved quite quickly, and I was kind of relieved because it gave me a chance to ring out my shirt.

In all, a fascinating experience. I felt good about making it to church on Easter, and I didn’t remember that sometimes churches get bombed over here until much afterward. I think the most interesting part was how everything was the same but different at the same time. It was great to feel that familiarity around me, and the sense of community that comes with a church. I was even asked to join the choir. I smiled politely and backed away slowly...

Are you being served?

It’s taken me quite some time to get used to servants. In fact, in many ways, I would say that I’m still not used to them. I don’t even know what to call them. Some people call them "Peons", some "Domestic Help", some just "The Domestics," some just "the Help," sometimes "House-Boy." I just can’t do it. I usually just call them, "The Dudes." As in: "I wonder when The Dudes will be bringing my breakfast…"

It doesn't bother me. It’s not a moral thing. I know that they wouldn’t have a job otherwise, and that they are generally well treated and well fed (at least in all the households that I frequent). I guess I’m just not used to asking someone to do my menial tasks (besides mom of course).

My friends tell me that I have to be assertive or the help will walk all over me. I try my best, but since the dudes rarely speak English, it can be a little tough. Where I’m staying right now, it was apparently not clear for a while that I do not speak Urdu. I’m generally quite proud when people think I might just be a local, but this became a little awkward. The dudes would walk up to me, ask me questions, and generally just chat away at me. I would stroke my beard and look thoughtful while I tried to gauge the tone of voice enough to assertively nod and say "Hmm, Yes." I was a little worried that my arbitrary yes and no answers might have caused some trouble, but none seem to have surfaced (although my shirts are a bit more starched than I like, and I’m not sure why there’s a Russian girl in my room every night).

I’m sure I am the source of much mirth in the servant quarters. "Guess what the Gora did today tee-hee." I don’t mind too much, I like to entertain, even if I don’t realize it. And as I get used to servants, I realize that I will be really irritated when I don’t have them. It's just so convenient. Imagine having your clothes disappear and then reappear washed and pressed and hanging in your closet. You get back from work and your bathroom is cleaned, your bed made and your room swept.

It’s like having elves.

Monday, March 28, 2005

The Day the Music Died...

You know, it's amazing that I can pin-point the exact moment that my self-esteem was destroyed by woman-kind.

I was in grade six. A cute girl in my class approached me, looked up at me in what I would have called a demure way (had I known what that meant), and said, "Has anyone ever told you that you're really good looking?"

I was very taken aback, and stammered, "Ahh.... No."

Then, with a cold feminity passed down through generations, she replied, "Well, there's a reason for that."

I realise now, that she must have heard the line in a movie or something and was trying it out, thinking that I could take a joke. That must have been it... right?... right?

Reality Bites...

The other night I watched the Grand Finale of "Out-Back Jack" (insert didgerydoo sounds here). I know that right now, everyone I know is saying, "What? How could Dave, the anti-reality show zealot, be watching such a show with such a ridiculous concept?" Well the answer folks, is that I got hooked. You know that someone is good at their job when they can get me to watch a show about spoiled Valley-girls sent to the Australian Outback to compete for Jack, the rugged, new millenia version of Crocodile Dundee, who just happens to have one of the most beautiful houses I’ve ever seen.

In truth, I am ashamed.

I remember reading an article in Newsweek back in ’99 about the dominance of Reality TV. (I bet there was an article on how the world was going to collapse during Y2K as well, which it didn’t, except for me, but that had less to do with faulty computer code, and more to do with the psycho I was dating.) I remember thinking, "Ha, Reality TV, that’ll never last."

But here we are. And in truth, I think we have to question the whole concept. "Reality" television – Is there anything real about it? As Jeff has often said, "I can’t count the number of times I’ve been offered a choice of 25 women and a million bucks over the course of six weeks." Yup, that’s a "real" dating scenario for you.

Now, the reason I got hooked into this latest spin on the exact same show, is that I started perfecting my prediction equations, and was consistently predicting who was getting kicked off each week. I’ve always wondered how much these things are set up, but now I’m sure that to a certain extent the whole thing must be a rig. So, the next time one of these dating shows comes on, here are some handy tips:

Dave’s Sure-Fire "Reality" Dating Prediction Methodology:

Ok, first, if there is someone that you are set up to hate or distrust, then there is no way that they won’t make it to the final. This is to ensure that you are hooked into watching until they get kicked off because you hate them so much. Next, about midway through the show’s run, decide on the girl that is cute and funny and generally the best pick, you know, the one who hasn’t insulted any of the other girls or anything. She will seem like she is always on the edge of being eliminated, but she will also make it through to the final. I presume that this makes for "good television" since it sets up a "good and evil" dichotomy. The final show will be edited in such a way that you think that the "Evil girl" will be picked, but then, in the end, the bachelor in question will make the right choice. Then, suddenly, a sunset will appear, and they will ride off into it to enjoy their two weeks of extravagant paid vacationing, until they break up in dramatic fashion, after discovering that they actually aren’t suited at all, and realize that maybe they should have thought of discussing politics or religion or who squeezes the tooth-paste from the middle of the tube before they agreed to get married on national television.

Don't it make your brown eyes blue...

I was just remembering that my Dad always used to say, "David, you're so full of shit, you're down a quart."

In retrospect, I have no idea how that even makes sense.

On Boys and Their Wolf-Crying Ways...

Ok, the cat is out of the bag (but I’ll be damned if I know who put it in there).

My co-workers seem to have realized that I have a slight tendency to exaggerate. For example, if someone asks me how long I was waiting for a ride, I might say, "An hour and a half," where I probably should have said, "Three minutes." And no one can ever guess my age, so I usually say something like, "42" just to see what happens (believe me, that's backfired a few times).

But really, you can’t blame me. After all, when you get a post-graduate degree, all you’ve basically proven is that you’re a better bullshitter than most (For example, I would often nod my head thoughtfully and say, "Oh yes, Queen’s University has a great English Department, very inspiring.") So I'm fully trained in the art of Bullshit. By the end of a Masters degree in English Lit. you’re writing 30-some pages of Bullshit about some subject that you don’t give a rat’s ass about every time. They should call it an M-BS.

So, one of my co-workers recently said, "As if we can trust you Dave, you always lie." Now, she must have been kidding around, because I’m no liar. I’m a bullshitter. The differences are subtle. For one, if I carry on about some bullshit story, I always fess-up a few moments after the laughs. Liars are out to convince… not me, I’m out for the laughs. And secondly, I usually stretch the story so far that it can’t even be feasible. My technique usually starts with the truth, and then begins to veer into the plausible, and then careens off into wacky-land.

So, some may warn that I should be careful, because I might become "the little boy who cried Wolf." But I think it would be more appropriate to call me "the little boy who cried Apache attack helicopters launching rocket-propelled Moose with laser-beam vision."

Friday, March 25, 2005

Dave's Credo

Some days life is a big bag of mystery... other days it's a three quarter tonne truck full of horse manure.

Words to live by, I tells ya

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Exercising my will, or lack thereof...

The other day, a friend was describing her day to me, and saying how she takes time out of the office to work out on the escalator machine.

I thought that was noble, but I had to admit my ignorance and say, what the hell is an escalator machine? I'm familiar with the stair-master idea (although I've never been in favour of it) but isn’t an escalator the mechanistic definition of laziness? "Hey, I've got an idea, let's make these stairs move, so you don't have to!" How do you make exercise out of that? I suppose it must be stairs that move and you have to keep on climbing them? Can you tell I haven't been to the gym for a few years?

It seems to me that most things at the gym work on some kind of subconscious level of anticipatory frustration. You row, but you don't get anywhere. You climb, but you don't go up. You can bike for hours, but you'll still be at the gym. Maybe that's why no one looks happy at the gym... wherever you're going, you're just not going to get there.

Gyms are intimidating to me. I went once for about three months, beyond even that "stay for a month and you'll get hooked" thing that everyone insists on, but I still didn't like it. Between the guys flexing in the mirror and measuring each other’s sweaty thighs, and the women who could quite easily kick my ass, I just somehow felt intimidated. And don’t even get me started on the changing room afterwards, I’ve never figured out the protocol in that netherworld of social impropriety. Besides, I would rather run around playing soccer any day than run on a treadmill. Don’t get me wrong, I admire people who can do it. I just can’t. I’m a big, lazy guy, and exercise without a point, without fun, is like work I don’t get paid for… I’ll do it, but not for long.

Chai-Tea

If there is one legacy that the British solidly instilled here before they left everything in a big, jeezly mess, it is the all-pervasive love of tea. You can drive through a crowded urban area and you’ll see guys threading through the traffic with trays full of tea. The Urdu word for tea is "Chai," and all you members of the Starbuck’s Nation will be saying, hey! I should’ve known that one. Of course, chai here means just plain old tea, but at home Chai-Tea is a strange, but delightful, mulled and spiced tea. I’m not sure who the genius was that decided on calling that mixture Chai-tea (quite redundantly "tea-tea"), I guess they must have thought it sounded exotic. In fact, partly because of Star-Bucks and the gang, Chai was one of the few Urdu words that I knew before arriving here. (My vocabulary at that time consisted mostly of asaalam alaikum, chai, motu, gora, and ban-chode – which I found covered most situations.)

But I realize now, as I stare at this steaming cup of tea on my desk, that my life is completely dominated by tea. I could schedule my whole day by tea, I could measure out my life with… teaspoons. I wake up in the morning, and servants bring me tea… I arrive at work, and within 20 minutes, the servants bring me tea… I have lunch, and within half an hour, the servants bring me tea… If I were somehow feeling low on tea, I need only ask , and the servants will bring me more tea….If I go to someone’s house after work, I will doubtless be offered tea (brought by servants naturally). If it is someone I know, I can refuse, but if it is an elder, or the first time I have been there, I dare not refuse out of courtesy.

All this tells me one thing: Servants are fantastic. But beyond that, my tea consumption is off the charts. For a coffee drinker who didn’t drink tea until a few years back, this is quite the feat. And when servants make tea, they tend to make a very milky, very sugary tea. I’m sure that if I insisted on Tea-Bag tea all day at work, and added my own sugar, I would lose 5 pounds right off the bat.

But I’m feeling the addiction, man. If I don’t get my afternoon tea I start to twitch, my eyes droop and I get grumpy. I get jumpy and start jonesing for a Lipton hit. But then, just when I think I can’t take it anymore, the dudes arrive and start distributing steaming cups of delicious ambrosia, and I relax and know that all is right with the world.

Look out Tim Hortons, I may have found a new socially acceptable addiction.

Failure

This is perhaps the most difficult post I have ever had to write. For the first time in my short life, I have failed in properly completing a Century.

Those of you who lived in residence in university probably know that a Century involves taking a shot of beer every minute, for one hundred minutes. This works out to about 8 beer in an hour and a half, and a general expectation of drunken hilarity. Why we have not yet grown out of this, I can’t really tell you. Nevertheless, the idea surfaced the other night, and my friend Zubair and I took on the challenge. Now, generally you do this with 1 oz shot glasses, but unfortunately, the only ones we had were two or three ounces. So instead of spreading things out, we figured that 2 oz. per minute for fifty minutes, would suffice. In retrospect, perhaps a tactical error.

Things started off fine, as thing often do. We were cruising along with our shots and all was well. Around about shot 20, which would be about 40 ounces of beer, or 3 beer in 20 minutes, something in my innards shifted. It’s just gas, I told myself, since generally, this is the root cause of most of my afflictions. I thought it would pass, but somehow, the relentless onslaught of 2 oz of fizzy beer every minute didn’t help matters. Around about 25, I had that moment where I could have bowed out with minimal embarrassment, but I couldn’t. How could a Canadian bow to a Pakistani in matters of beer?

And then came the shot. Somehow I knew that it just wasn’t going to go down. There was some kind of gaseous riot going on inside me… call it an uprising. I have often referred to it as the beer drinking bubble, and I’m sure that all beer-drinkers have experienced it at some point or another. But usually you have the time (and common sense) to let it work itself out. In this case, all factors worked against me and I could not get the shot down. This led to a gagging, half-vomitous affair that was an embarrassment to all… and by "all" I really mean "me."

This made Zubair the defacto winner. But to retain some dignity, or perhaps none at all, I rallied back to the table and did a further twenty-some shots. In my mind, this was to show that I was not "too drunk" to continue, nor was I "too sick." I was merely the sad victim of circumstance. I was like a well-oiled machine, a 747 for example, that can take off and land every day without incident, but there is still the potential for that one crossed wire, that one maintenance error, to send things on a turn for the worse. Perhaps, for example, that 747 should have eaten something that day, or perhaps should not have taken that gut-riling malaria tablet a few hours earlier. But wait, I lose my train of thought and my metaphors become mixed.

Nevertheless, Zubair has been a good sport. But the only way I could stop him from making relentless fun of me for the rest of my life was by promising that I would relate this story on the blog for all to see. And, having never been afraid of laughing at myself (which should be obvious to anyone reading this blog), I have done so.

But don’t think that this means that you’re off the hook Zubair. If there was one thing my mother taught me it was to strive through adversity, never quit, and never admit to defeat. "To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield" and all that jazz. I’m just not sure she would have meant it to apply to drinking games. Nevertheless, the next time the warm breeze caresses the Karachi night, and the bootlegger has some beer on hand, I will meet you on the battlefield, shot glass in hand.

Every heavy-weight gets a chance at a rematch.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

The New White...

All this talk of the colour blue has reminded me of the time that I went with a friend to buy a couple shirts. I picked out a nice Oxford blue dress-shirt. The salesman was intent on telling me that Blue was the new White. I was just as intent on driving him crazy by saying, "No it’s not… it’s blue." Poor guy, he went on and on trying to explain that since the colour was so popular it was like the new white. Then I would nod, like I was getting it, and then say, "Yeah, but, it’s blue." .... "But it’s ‘like’ white, see?" .... "No it’s not, it’s blue." My friend had to leave because he could no longer stop laughing, and by this time the joke had gone way too far. I was looking for a way out, so I told the guy I was white-blue colour-blind and that I didn’t appreciate him taking advantage of my disability. At this point, the salesman turned pale, which I think was akin to "the new white." I gave him a jab in the ribs and said, "Just kidding, I’ll take two."

This is just one reason why it's fun to go shopping with Dave. That, and I'm usually drunk.

Observations on the way to work... Vol. 3

Just as I was reaching work this morning, I saw a pedestrian whose t-shirt read:

"Get Up to Date!
– The Colour Blue"

Now, for the life of me, I can't figure this one out. If I want to get up to date, must I embrace the colour blue? Can we thus assume that the smurfs and the Blue-Man Group are hip and happenin?

Or is it, rather, the colour blue that needs to get up to date? I thought that Blue would fit into some kind of category where it superceded all necessity of update. How would it work? Create a new colour and call that one blue? That would be confusing. "The sky is so blue today"… "No it ain’t…. Get up to date man."

On the other hand, maybe it is the colour blue that is helpfully instructing us to get up to date. Kind of like how Sesame street was always brought to you by the letter X and the numbers 6 & 9. "Get up to date!" - A message from The Colour Blue. Maybe Blue does have that power, it is a dominant colour in our world. "I'm the colour Blue, and I support this message." Although, I would feel stronger about it if Magenta and Cyan would throw their weight onto the campaign.

Observations on the way to work... Vol. 2

Ever notice how you can drive the same route to work everyday and never see anything? Today, I noticed for the first time, a travel agency called "Gulliver’s Travels Ltd." Now, to me, this is a pretty poor choice of name..... Special seat-sale this week: "Land of the Giants!" Next month’s special: "Land of the Lilliputians! – Fare includes Swiss Army knife ideal for cutting tiny ropes." I just think that if you take one of those trips, you’re not too Swift.

Oh Lord, that was bad. Oh well, as long as it's funny to me.

Of course, the other night, my friend pointed out one of the greatest stores I have ever seen. It was hidden deep in Defense Market and was simply called, "The Adobe Photoshop." I thought it would be fantastic if there were a man on a trapeze inside who just reads text out-loud to customers, that way they would have their own Adobe Acrobat Reader as well.

Oh God, I just made a computer-related joke. I really have no idea how low I can go.

MiXed Meta-4

On the way to work this morning, I noticed some graffiti on a side-wall that read:

NOTORIOUS SUV

Made me wonder if there had been any gang-land violence with the 2-Pac Mid-Sized Sedan.

Monday, March 21, 2005

The Eels...

The other night I was having sushi with a friend, and I came dangerously close to telling this story:

You see, I can't eat sushi without thinking of Elmer.  Long before I even knew what Sushi was, I knew Elmer.  He was short and burly.  The hair he did have was cropped short, and he was one of those guys who was proud of his baldness.  His head always shone like my mother's stainless steel mixing bowls, and probably contained just as much substance.  He had one of those bellies that kept a belt well preserved.  If you squinted you could just imagine him at the mall in a Santa-suit, but it would help if your image of Santa was of a guy who worked as a crude, alcoholic, fisherman during the North Pole's off-season.

Even our connection with Elmer was strange.  He was my uncle's ex-wife's new husband, and even though there was no blood relation to either of them, we always visited, maybe for our cousin's sake. Elmer was a seasonal eel fisherman.  He would set traps called Eel-pods out in
the rivers and then sell his catch to the Japanese.  His partner's name was Rick.  Rick was the type of guy that everyone always called "Rickster"
or "Tricky Ricky."  He had one arm, which made him immensely fascinating to us kids.  He had lost his right arm in some kind of accident years ago.  He always wore plaid flannel shirts with one sleeve pinned up and it was impossible, as a kid, not to stare.  If he caught us, he would say something like," Are ya starin at my arm kid?"  We would nod in terrified silence, until he would invariably say something like, "No y'ain't, I don't got one." Then he would laugh in a raspy, gurgling way that made me think of cigarettes and clogged sinks.

My Dad and I decided to go out with Elmer and Rickster one Saturday while we were visiting.  A chance to go for a drive and get out on a boat was always welcome.  My Dad glanced into Rickster's truck and did a double take.  "You drive a standard?" he asked.  "Yup, shure do."  Rickster was proud of the fact that he had never given up his manual transmission despite his missing appendage.  He explained how he worked the clutch with his left foot, the brake and accelerator with his right, steered with his knees and reached across his body with his left hand to shift.  My older cousin Bill climbed up into the cab beside Rickster.  I started to follow him.  "No way in Hell," mumbled my Dad as he dragged me over to the car.

We spent the day retrieving eels from the stations where they were stored until they went to market.  It was more work than I wanted to do on a Saturday, but I think it was one of those parental lessons along the lines of "now you know how good you've got it" from my Dad.  On the way home though, things got interesting.  Rounding a corner on the Old River Road, Rickster misjudged the turn, no doubt some error in his beloved armless shifting.  His truck fishtailed onto the shoulder, he overcompensated again as it swung back onto the road, and two 1500 Gallon containers of eels flew off the back of the truck and spewed their contents all over the road.

We had been following at a safe distance, because with amazing foresight, my Dad had said, "I'm staying back, he may look 'armless, but driving like that is dangerous."  This was the type of joke we got all the time from my Dad, usually accompanied by elbow jabs to the ribs.  We got out and surveyed the damage.  The road was a black, swirling mass.  Eels curled and writhed on the pavement. Wildly, Elmer and Bill started scooping them back into the containers with shovels.  The road was now alive with their profits, because as Elmer said, "Those Japs will eat anything."  We stood back, since there weren't enough shovels anyway.  I was glad.  Truth be told, eels creeped me out.

Suddenly, from some distance I heard the roar of an engine.  It was a powerful engine, and if one thing was certain, it was an engine that wasn't slowing down for the corner.  We yelled out to the eel shovellers and they dove for safety just as a black Trans-Am (It was the 80's afterall) squealed around the corner and into the eels.  The driver slammed on the brakes, which was probably the worst thing he could have done.  But really, I can't blame the guy.  What would you do if you were roaring along on a Saturday, came around a corner, and the road was suddenly covered in snakes?  The muscle car spun out of control on the slippery surface.  It swung through a circle and a half, spraying chunks of eel everywhere, until finally it stopped, facing the way it had come.  The door flung open wildly and a young guy jumped out screaming, "What the fuck? ... What the FUCK!?"  He didn't seem capable of saying anything else, until an eel started to wriggle up his leg, and he said "Jesus Fucking Christ, what the Fuck!?" 

I wasn't accustomed to adults swearing in my presence yet.  It was a big day for me really, as far as childhood trauma goes.

The Blog Turns 1,000

Well, as of today, The Artsaypunks has received 1000 hits. Not bad considering I only started telling people about it six weeks ago. Now, for the moment, I'm going to ignore the fact that a good 600 of those hits are probably from me obsessively checking my own blog ( I often ignore my own obsessions, Onan be damned). But I'm confident that there are enough folks checking in on my foibles to keep posting.

So thanks for stopping by. Y'all come back now, Y'hear?

Saturday, March 19, 2005

God I'm retarded...

You know, I'm a strong believer that laughter is the best medicine... although, when I think about it, Penicillin is pretty damn good too.

In fact, if I were Alexander Flemming, I'd be pretty pissed off.

First of all, the guy works his ass off developing Penicillin, and then half the people in the world think it was a big accident because he dropped a moldy cheese sandwich into his experiment. I have no idea where this cheese sandwich idea came in, but ask anyone about penicillin, and they're bound to mention a grilled cheese. It was partly accidental, in that a bacteria dish was spoiled by mold and before throwing it out, Fleming had the presence of mind to notice that the mold was killing the bacteria. But it wasn't like it was all one happy mix-up. Smart Feller if you ask me.

And secondly, this guy develops a medical miracle, collects 25 honorary degrees, 26 metals, 18 prizes, 13 decorations, a membership in 87 scientific academies, a knighthood and a nobel prize, but still, what does everyone say? Oh, laughter is the best medicine. I'd be pissed. I guess someone should have told him before he dedicated himself to saving countless millions of lives, that he would have been better off just cracking a few jokes.

I'd feel a lot worse for him if he weren't, you know... dead. That, and if the whole premise of this post weren't so damn ridiculous.

Hammin it up

By far the best thing I heard last summer was when I asked a friend why she had broken up with her boyfriend. Apparently the guy had been a real stoner and she was starting to get sick of him being dazed and confused all the time anyway, but the straw that broke the camel's back came one day when they were having lunch. She asked him where the big stain had come from on his jacket. He just shrugged and said, "Oh... Passed out on a ham."

The guy was so drunk and stoned that when he got the munchies , he pulled out a whole honey glazed ham to munch on. Next thing he knew, he woke up with a ham pillow.

Needless to say, the relationship was short lived.

What I love about the story is just the pure non-chalance of this guy. As if passing out on full cuts of meat is a nuisance, but something to be expected. For the rest of the summer, if anyone asked me a tough question, I would just shrug and say, "Passed out on a ham."

"Why are you so late?"
"Sorry....Passed out on a ham."

Wow. I just realized how horrifying this story would be for a muslim.

Friday, March 18, 2005

Grapes of Wrath

You know what's funny? When one post makes me think of another post, which makes me think of another post, but they really aren't related at all. Well, I guess they kind of are related, and really, it's not that funny at all... nevermind.

Anyway, my little grape anecdote put me in mind of another fine moment from my heady days of youth. Back in University, Jeff (the oft mentioned roommate with a sense of humour just a little too close to mine to be healthy) and I were trying to think of ways to procrastinate so we wouldn't have to study for exams. Procrastination methods were our specialty, and if there was a course on it at the university we would have gotten A+, if we ever got around to going.

On this particular day, I looked in our little bar fridge for inspiration, and saw some left overs from a "wine and cheese" function I had attended the day before. I turned to Jeff and said, "Want to play a game?" Inspired by the mischievous glint in my eye he said, "What have you got in mind?" I pulled out a bag of seedless grapes and replied, "Let's play the "Who can fit more grapes in his mouth" game."

We set things up and got ready for the big competition. It was decided that I would go first. Jeff said he wanted me to set the bar. (I'm telling you, we were serious about our procrastination.) Slowly and methodically, I started placing grapes in my mouth. Jeff waited anxiously for his turn, and a chance to show me up in the great grape off of 1999.

Unfortunately, Jeff's turn never came. And really we never found out just how many green, seedless grapes I could fit in my mouth, because we ran out of green, seedless grapes. By this point, Jeff had forgotten about his turn, and was urging me on in what appeared to be the greatest grape-related feat since Bacchus.

When we ran out of grapes, I had 62 crammed in my maw, juice was running down my chin, and I'm sure I was a sight to be seen. There exists somewhere, a photo of me with 61 grapes in my mouth and one falling from my lips, frozen in the air for posterity.

At that point, I was in trouble. Should I chew the grapes and try to get them down? Or should I spit them out? Through a series of rudimentary sign language we decided that to make it official I would have to swallow (like so many things in life). So I chomped down on those three score and two grapes. Suddenly my throat was flooded with grape juice and I started choking violently, turning red and grabbing at my throat.

But it was funny, cause I didn't die.

Sour Grapes

Speaking of Addictions:

I remember one day my mother brought home a bunch of grapes from the store. I popped a few in my mouth and realized that these were some Damn Good grapes. I had a few more, and then a few more, until with a sudden shock, I realised that I was going through grapes like ghonorrea through a whore-house... fast and furious. But it was too late, I couldn't stop.

My mother came in and said, "David! For God's sake, you're eating all the grapes, there'll be none left!"

"I can't help it Mom," I said, "I'm addicted."

My mother seemed very taken aback. I thought she was overreacting (afterall they were just grapes), until I realised that while I stood there plowing through the grapes, my mother thought I had said:

"I can't help it Mom - I'm a Dick-Head."

Addictions

Sometimes, at the most unexpected moments, from the deepest, darkest forests of my soul arises the strongest craving for a Large Double-Double from Tim Hortons.

What do they put in that stuff that somehow tastes so good and causes Caffeine-Flashbacks six months and 10, 000 miles later?

Thursday, March 17, 2005

Another Life

Since I seem to be stuck on the topic of Life this morning, do you remember Life - the cereal?

That was a great cereal. I used to love it as a kid. My mother never bought sugary cereals. We used to go on a rampage during the summers when we visited our cousins in Ontario who were allowed Honey-Combs and Lucky Charms. Marshmallows! For Breakfast! Really, whose idea was that? No wonder we're such a manic generation, millions of young adults are just now coming down off sugar highs.

My Dad grew up very poor and only ever had 5 KG bags of puffed wheat for breakfast (no, not the whole bag each morning, that would hardly be cost effective). When the family had enough money for a treat, they would buy a box of Shreddies. My Dad hated puffed wheat so much that when he was out on his own, he swore never to eat the stuff again, and instead ate Shreddies every day for the rest of his life. Those Shreddies were important. Every morning Freddie and Eddie the Shreddies told him that he had reached a higher level. His kids would never eat puffed wheat. Why he then chose to eat Shreddies every single day, I'm not sure... psychology is a strange science.

But Life! I loved Life. It had that slight sweetness from the corn or something, and it melted in your mouth. I used to pour my cereal and just let it sit in the milk. My father would growl, "Eat it already." But I would wait until it was a soggy mess. Dad would grumble, probably thinking how we didn't know how good our lives were when it came to cereals.

I remember the Life box, I don't think it's changed. Big colourful letters, and that smiling Quaker Oats guy (until I was 7, I was sure that the Quaker Oats Guy was my Great Uncle Dick... looked just like him... Why Uncle Dick was involved in cereal production, I never stoped to question). But who came up with the name? Never really made sense. Life - The cereal. Maybe it was a self-help cereal. Head to the cereal aisle for answers. Your life might be a soggy mess, but it still tastes sweet. That's a lesson right there.

I wonder if I can find Life in Pakistan?

Live Life

You know, my last post got me thinking about life. But not life in the conventional, "What the hell am I doing?" kind of way. My tongue in cheek title jogged vivid memories of playing "The Game of Life" at my Aunt Sharon's house. Remember that game? How bizarre that was. I guess in a way it predated, by several decades, the current obsession for role-playing games and being something you're not.

There we were, looking down on our lives, making the tough choices. Fork in the road: Are you going to go to university or choose a career? Money now or money later? Buy a house, rent an apartment? It made you feel in control of things as you cruised around the board with your plastic peg wife and kids in your tiny plastic pink car. But at the same time, it was so depressing. You're whole life could change with a roll of the dice. The gods staring down, throwing your life around in some demented backgammon gamble. Children were rarely a choice, you just kind of lucked into them. There was so much chance involved. And of course, the winner of this American Dream board game was the guy with the most money at the end. Or was it? Or was it just the guy who got to the end first? That doesn't seem right. Why should you win for being the first to die. Or was it the first to retire? I don't remember. I know Jay, the board game / game show expert, will help me out with this one.

Although, thinking back, I realize that most of the "choices" I made in that board game, time after time, are similar to the choices I made in the Big Life. Education, travel, wife, kids... Well, of course, I'm not married, and I don't have any kids (none that I acknowledge anyway), but you know what I mean. So maybe I should find a copy of that silly game, roll the dice and find out what comes next.

Come on Double Sixes!

Life - The home game...

Ever feel like your life is on cruise control for what seems like ages, and then suddenly everything changes at once, new paths are struck, and the world turns upside down; and it was all caused by some insignificant shit ages back and you didn't even see it coming?

Nah... me neither.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Bipedal Dictators...

Of all the questions that folks at home could ask me about a dynamic and completely different culture, I would say that the number 1 query is: "Have you seen Osama Bin Laden?"

I can understand why people ask. I mean, first of all, there's what... a 25 million reward? And secondly, unlike the US government, I am in the right region.

But no, unfortunately for my bank account, but perhaps fortunately for my personal well-being, I have not seen hide nor hair of that sneaky Saudi.

But if it makes anyone feel better, a few weeks back, I could have sworn that I saw Saddam Hussein riding a bicycle.

Monday, March 14, 2005

A Quickie Update

It's been an extremely busy week, but I am finally here to deliver your much anticipated updates. No one cares, but here they are anyways. NB Music week will be taking place in Moncton at the end of April, meaning deadlines for show cases are this week, so we've been in a mad rush to get everything packaged and shipped off. Since the dead lines kind of snuck up on us, we had to get to work and get some photos done and I had to go in to the studio to cut some demo's over the weekend. I was pretty happy with the end results, but vocals at 11 in the morning are never a good idea. I've never been a fan of hearing myself on tape anyways, so whether they are good or not is besides the point and it's usually a painful process for me to listen to the play backs. The songs were fun though and it was great being back recording with my good friend Ethan Young Lai. He's a talented guy and we seem to have great chemistry when we work together. Hopefully we can do it again in the near future. I'll make sure to keep you all updated on what's happening with the show cases, but it'll be a few weeks before I hear anything. In the mean time, it's back to writing. The new songs are coming along nicely and I can't wait until we can get back in to the studio to lay tracks with a full band. Well, I'm out of updates for now, so I'm off. Hope you're all well.
-Troy-

The Numbers Are In...

This weekend I decided to keep track of my small-talk endeavours. Please don't think I'm making fun here. I'm just happy when people make an effort to talk to me. It just becomes funny when I think about how I've had the same conversation over and over again.

Here is the small-talk tally for this past weekend:

"You must find it really hot here".............................. 3
"Is the food too spicey for you?"................................ 2
"Yes, it is very cold in Canada"..................................5
"Is someone locked in that bathroom again?"............... 4
"No actually, not very close to Toronto"........................2
"No, actually, even further from Vancouver ..................1
"So how do you find Pakistan?" ................................. 6
"Why did you come here?".......................................... 3
"Sorry, I don't have any beer. Canadians drink beer, right?" ....... 1

On a related note, every single time that someone asks me "How do you find Pakistan?" (Which happens more than you would think, because it's kind of a British sentence construction.) I always answer, "It's easy, it's right there beside India." I'll let you know when someone gets it.

This Just In...

Hey Everyone, Good news.

My good friend Sophie has a blog for you guys to check out. It's called i am watercolor.

Soph's is a great writer, and she's got some good stuff on her site. So get over there, you can also link to it from the sidebar. And post her some comments too. And while you're at it, leave me some comments. Comments make me feel like a better person.

Everybody Must Get Stoned...

Well, this article struck me as particularly ridiculous.

And since I know that no one actually clicks on the links, I’ll just tell you about. Besides, it’ll be funnier that way.

It seems that the Editorial Team of the New International Version of the Bible (often referred to as the NIV for some reason) will soon be releasing a new edition of the Big Book. They’re going to be making some changes (about 5% of the text) to make it simpler for folks to understand that tough bible language. So if you’re too stupid to know that “tunic” means “shirt” and that “with child” means “pregnant,” then this is the book for you. Which makes sense if you think about it, I mean let’s face it, I think we can all agree without controversy that Religion (with a capital R) loves the ignorant. He who knows not, doubts not, and all that jazz. But that’s a whole other kettle of fish (whether it feeds 5000 or not).

So why not? Don’t we need a further simplified Bible in our modern culture? It’ll be like the microwave dinner for the faithful. No work required: peel back the corner, poke a few holes with a fork and you’re good to go with steaming bible goodness

Anyway, this panel of 15 Biblical scholars is very concerned that kids are going to be confused by the idea of martyrs getting "stoned" in the bible. Apparently, this ancient form of mass death sentence is no longer clear. "We wanted to keep it from being confused with drug addiction," states Professor Ronald Youngblood, who, despite his name, has got to be just slightly out of touch.

Oh yes, I’m sure that most young people are very confused. I mean, imagine reading a story about an apostle being labeled a heretic, rounded into the market square by furious villagers, and then passed a joint to get really high. "Dude, we may not agree with your preachings, but man, we can really dig your weed." And imagine reading all those old rules in Leviticus: Don’t work on the Sabbath, or you’ll get stoned... What better way to spend a lazy Sunday?

And just think of high-school students everywhere, confused by reading Shirley Jackson’s "The Lottery." It’s pretty tough to analyse the moral ambiguities of that story, when all the students are thinking that this is the greatest lottery ever. "Yeah man, and then the whole town votes, right? And then the winner gets stoned. Cool eh?"

And what is the solution proposed by these biblical scholars to this rampaging reefer-madness of misinterpretation? They replaced "stoned" with "stoned to death." Oh yeah… That’ll help.

Friday, March 11, 2005

Absolute Certainty # 8

If you're ever curious just how much your face can sweat... move to Pakistan.

No Kidding...

I think that what I like most about my life right now, is that I never quite know what’s coming next. This past weekend was no exception, as I found myself, through a series of random events, acting in a television commercial. Someone desperately in need of white guys with no shame contacted me and asked if I would do it, and naturally, I said, "Of course!" In retrospect, my enthusiasm probably automatically lowered my pay, but it didn’t occur to me at the time. All I was thinking of was the chance to be on national television acting the fool; as if I don’t stand out enough as it is.

Thus began a series of barely comprehensible phone conversations and text messages, wherein it was established, surprising though it may be, that I did not know my tailored wardrobe measurements off by heart. So I had to make a trip to a tailor and get that done. While demands were coming at me left and right, I kept asking simply when and where this shoot was going to take place. I thought that maybe that information would be more accessible than my measurements, but apparently not. At 11:00 Thursday night I got the call that I was needed at 7AM the next morning. Not for the last time during this experience I said, "You’ve got to be kidding me." "No sir, no kidding sir."

So, a van arrived at 6:30 in the morning to pick me up. I was barely conscious as we wound our way deeper and deeper into the city. Civilisation crumbled around me as we passed through urban slums and arrived, finally, at a converted warehouse in an industrial area. I walked inside the main hangar, and suddenly I was in an advertising agency in New York. The set was shiny and new and everything was fake, in that special television way that somehow makes everything look more real. I was rushed upstairs, through dilapidated hallways that smelled of cat-piss, to the dressing room. Wardrobe decisions were made from the shirts and ties I had brought with me, and I was urged into the suit that was now tailored and waiting for me. Not bad, I thought, they made a suit in 12 hours, that sure beats Jack Frasier’s. I was told that I wouldn’t need any make up because my skin was perfect, which I took as a compliment, until I realised that by "perfect" they meant "white." By 7:30, I was dressed in my cheap, 12-hour old, fake Italian suit, with my hair slicked back into a tight pony-tail. Maybe my role would be as a bad-assed gangster. They told us we would be shooting in twenty minutes, so it was only a matter of waiting.

Seven hours later, my suit had lost some of its crispness. I was finding it difficult to say anything without interjecting several cuss-words into my speech. Every couple of hours someone would come up to tell us that we would be shooting in twenty minutes or so. I would ask them if they were kidding, and they would say, "No sir, no kidding sir." Turns out there was some kind of disagreement between the client and the agency… Excellent.
More time passed. The highlight of the afternoon was probably when the hairdresser asked me if I had ever "tried" boys. I told him no, but that he could go to Canada and marry one if he wanted. He seemed to like that idea quite a bit, so I took that opportunity to tell him that I might be more comfortable if he didn’t touch me like that. This shed a little more light on the earlier comment about my perfect skin.

Finally, we were brought down on the set where we sat in our places and they set the lights. Then we were sent back upstairs to wait for another hour. At long last, we started actually shooting. The director, who looked so much like my friend Mark that I started calling him Chewey, explained the concept of the commercial to us. You would think that someone might have let us in on that little secret in the previous 8 hours, but until that moment, we had no idea what it was about. For the first scene we were told to react to what was being said by the lead actor. After the first take, I observed that it might be easier for us to react if we had any idea what the actor was saying, since he was speaking Urdu. "Wow, that’s a really good point!" said Director Chewey. "No kidding," I said.

After a few different takes and angles we set up for our big shot. I found out that we were to be hit by a large shock-wave of energy emanating from the phone-set we were advertising. I took a little time-out to ensure that there would be no real shock wave hitting us. It turns out it was going to be a crazy Matrix-Style, slow-motion, computer generated deal. "You’ve got to be kidding," I said, as I realised that I was in Pakistan, and I was about to be filmed in "bullet time." The shot itself took hours, most of which I spent frozen, my hands in front of my face, wincing at the awesome, telephonic power of the supposed shock-wave. At one point we had to cut because a stray cat wandered through the shot. I thought that was funny. After that, they took about 150 photos of me from different angles so that they could map a computer version of yours truly.

Finally, I was done… that is, until I got a call on Saturday night that I was needed the next day at 2:00. "No sir, no kidding sir," The van came to get me again and I made the trip back to the "studio." I was once again rushed into my suit, but this time I knew better and took my time getting ready. I was told that we would be shooting in twenty minutes or so.

Seven hours later we were called down to the set. I sat in a chair and they took ten still photos of me from different angles. "Ok, you’re all done," they said. At this point, I have to explain that I am not the kind of guy that gets angry very easily. I snapped. Lost it. "Are you fucking kidding me?" I yelled at this poor assistant director. I didn’t even let him stammer out the accustomed response. "You’re telling me that I’ve been sitting here for 7 hours, waiting for you to take two minutes worth of pictures that you could have taken when I walked in here?" This appeared to be a question he could answer: "Oh, yes sir." Furious as I was, I still took satisfaction from my first ever chance to "storm off the set."

Someone tried to stop me to say that they needed to keep my clothes to help with the computer modeling. "Come again!?" I asked, so taken aback that I even forgot to curse. "Look man," I said, "This shirt and tie probably cost more than this whole suit, so forget it, if I give it to you jokers I’ll never see it again." He protested and said that they were very trustworthy people. I laughed and told him I was taking his suit too. "Are you kidding sir?" he asked. "Yes," I said, "I’m kidding. I’ll hang it up upstairs." What he didn’t realize, was that I was using my sarcastic voice. I turned around, walked straight to the van and went home.

I felt a little bad about stealing the suit, but really after spending 24 hours for what will probably be about 3 seconds of footage, I really couldn’t have cared less. Besides, if they can show me a Pakistani that can fit into my suit, I’ll give it back with pleasure. No kidding.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Absolute Certainty # 7

It's awkward when you're getting measured for a suit and the tailor measures your crotch. But it's all worth it, when he writes down, "Fly = 12.5 Inches."

Sh*t Happens

You know, I can already tell that this will be one of those things where everyone says, "Oh Gawd, Dave… only you."

But I can’t help myself. Since I’ve arrived here in Pakistan, I’ve been consistently curious about the device lovingly known as the "Muslim Shower." This is basically a small shower-sprayer head, similar to those ones that some people have on their kitchen sinks, that is mounted on the wall in the bathroom beside the toilet. It has the exact same function as a bidet, but it is hand-held, and thus I will leave your imaginations wander from there. Using only toilet paper, as we do in the West, is generally looked upon as revolting and disgustingly unhygienic, and of course, against Islamic code. If you know any Muslims in North America, you’ll always notice a small pitcher or container beside the toilet ready for service.

At first, I approached this device with complete and utter fear of the unknown. Later though, that fear became fascination, but it still took me quite some time to gather the courage to attempt using it… to take the plunge, so to speak. Believe me, the cold water is a bit of a shock at first, but you get used to it (although, it tends to make me have to pee again). So now, I’m a fairly regular convert. I find that this amazing appliance is the perfect complement to the status of my digestive system and my relentless pursuit of delicious, spicy foods.

However, where I remain curious, is in the actual technique. I have discovered that many people here can use this device with no use of toilet paper at all. As for me, no matter how thorough a rinse cycle I put myself through, I always need a few more goes at the paperwork. And even if the wash leaves a spotless finish, what about the drying? So now I am in a quandary. I would like to learn this paperless technique, because I just can’t see how it would possibly work. But I can’t exactly ask anyone here now can I? What would I do, ask for a demonstration? Somehow, I don’t think that would be kosher, or halaal for that matter.

So I guess I’m stuck with my cross-cultural technique. It will have to do for now. But my curiosity remains, if only to pass the knowledge on to Steve Dougherty at home, who would spend half his pay on toilet paper if he didn’t get it free from the pulp mill where he works. The guy has clogged more toilets than I have ever used. I’d just like to save the guy from having to buy another plunger.

Holy Cow

To those keeping track,

Please add the following to the list of cow-parts I have eaten:

The Udder

The temptation to make "udder" puns is strong, but I shall resist.

To those interested, it tastes kind of sweet, kind of rubbery, with that regular beef taste in the background. It might sound a little disgusting, but believe me, it was udderly delicious.

Damn it.

Monday, March 07, 2005

Random Snippet # 6

He had found that some people’s standards slipped when they were drinking. His friends told amusing stories about waking up beside ugly strangers. He supposed that this was what he liked about drinking. When he was drunk his standards slid too, he could look in a mirror and smile.

Friday, March 04, 2005

When You Think Things Can't Possibly Get Any Worse

I couldn't sleep last night, but thankfully the late night TV was there to save me. After some channel flipping, I stumbled upon something that has to be the absolute best thing I have ever seen on TV. I'm pretty sure that this has to be an all time low, even for American television. Since cameras have been barred from the Micheal Jackson trial, the E channel has apparently taken it upon themselves to create a mock trial, using the transcripts from the trial. I laughed so hard I swear I thought I was going to explode. I watched it in amazment for about five minutes and thought no way is this real. I sat patiently waiting for someone to look into the camera and say those all to famous words "live from New York, it's Saturday night", but no one did. So it turns out that this is the real deal and each night they'll be reinacting the daily events from the trial. Do people really care enough about this trial to turn it into a watchable program? If he is guilty of a crime, send him to prison, if not, let him return to Never Never Land with the rest of the lost boys. That country and the pople in it amaze me every day.

The video clips from New York Times best selling author Ann Coulter are beginning to resurface again where she stated that she was amazed that Canada sent troops to Vietnam, but still refuse to involve themselves with the war in Iraq. There's nothing better than a woman of her stature going on national television and making a complete ass of herself by throwing around false information such as that. For those that know the truth behind such inaccuracies, it's funny, but the problem with this is that the majority of the American public does not know the truth, gets completely misinformed by people like Ann Coulter and then regurgitates it in many "educated" conversations throughout America. The worst part about it is that no one takes responsibility for things like this either. Not Ann Coulter, not the American government, not the media and definitely not the public. It must be nice to live in a country where you can do or say what ever you want, no matter how far fetched or wrong and get away with it, with no regard for the out side world. Now, imagine if someone from say Canada or France went on national television and stated something as inaccurate as say there are no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq? I'm sure that if something as false as that statement were made, people throughout the world would soon learn the truth!

I think I posted the link for the Ann Coulter video, but if you missed it last time, here it is again. It's definitely worth a look just for the shear idiocy:
www.collegehumor.com/?movie_id=120992

I'll have some music updates for you very soon. Things in band camp are buzzing and moving along nicely. I'd post them now, but I'm meeting some friends for dinner and once again, I'm late. Cheers.
-Troy-

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Dave's response to Troy's response to Dave's response to the Oscars...

I too did not see the whole show, due to power-outages, satellite-outages, and my general inability to sit through any Oscar show. But still, that won’t stop me from responding to Troy… Two guys arguing about a show we didn’t watch… classic.

Chris Rock: I didn’t see the monologue, I heard it was funny, but went on too long and lost its edge. By the second half of the show, he looked like he just wanted to get it over with… like a guy who knows that the audience isn’t with him. I didn’t think he did a bad job, it just wasn’t interesting.

Hilary Swank: Total disagreement here. I think that was perhaps one of the worst speeches I have ever heard. I generally don’t like the commonplace "I want to thank this person and this person and this person and this person" type of speech anyway, I’d rather hear something interesting about the film, or an anecdote of some kind. Otherwise, it’s just so dull. . I thought having won once before might help, but Hilary Swank was all over the place. And honestly, you don’t need to thank your lawyers, send them a fruit basket or something.
Don’t get me wrong, I like her, but come to think of it, other than these two roles, I can’t think of anything else she’s done that I liked. No, come to think of it, I just can’t think of anything else that she’s done, period.

Carlos: This was a tough one. But it had to be said. I didn’t think he brought anything to that song at all. I think he actually distracted from the song itself… I would rather have had an acoustic-flamenco thing going on there. I love Carlos, he’s a legend, but lately, I find all he does is walk on, add some licks to someone else’s tune. Not that it’s bad, or I could do better, but that it’s always the same. Plus, no matter what he’s playing, he always looks like his guitar is electrocuting his groin. But I guess that’s passion baby.

Oscars in the audience: I thought it was goofy. Like a town hall meeting or something. And it was all the lesser awards. Oh here you are, ah, don’t bother getting up, it's not like you're best actor or anything. I thought Chris Rock was funny when he said that next year they’ll be giving them out in the parking lot. And yeah, the line-up awards were even stranger. You’re right, it was like star-search or American Idol or something… "You two, in the back row, join me at the mic, I’ll let you know if you win an Oscar… after the break…"

Foxx: I stand by the speech. I think it was the best of the big award winners. No back flips no, but he said all the right things, and the bit about his grandma seemed heartfelt and funny too. I didn’t see the Globes (except Selma’s) so if it was a complete repeat speech, then I take back some of my admiration.

Clint: Total agreement. The man is cool and always will be.

Synopsis? – Still can’t change my opinion, what I saw was pretty dull.

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Troy's Obligatory response to Dave's Oscar Rundown

I skipped most of the show, but figured this would probably annoy Dave. Here are just a few things I'll have to disagree with Dave on:

I thought Chris Rock did a great job with the monologue. I found it funny and edgy. He said ass and it wasn't censored. I would have found it hard for him to do his own thing there. If he had, I'm sure the conservatives throughout America would have had him assassinated.

Hilary Swank- I didn't know she had a speech problem? I though she did quit well for herself. At least she thanked her husband this time. Am I wrong, or was he one of the dudes on that show with Corky? That was a good show. "Ooh bla dee, ooh bla da, life goes on!" Anyways, back to some Swank. I like her, glad she won. Maybe it's just because I can relate. I to am but a girl from a trailer park who had a dream. Wait, boy, I'm a boy with a dream. This one's shot to hell. The last thing I'll say on this one is that her last name matches Dave's favorite magazine. Why do you talk so low of her Dave?

How dare you tell Carlos to quit it? That's just awefull Dave!!

I'm going to agree on all things Selma! I saw her and Penelopy Cruz side by side and thought they could have been twins. Gum anyone?

I thought giving out the Oscars in the audience was funny. But not as funny as when they had them lined up on stage. I was confused though. Was it the Oscars, or was it Star Search?

I thought Jamie Foxx's speech was decent, but nothing great. More of the same from the Golden Globes. Cuba did a back flip a few years ago. That was great. The part about getting whipped by his grandmother was priceless though. I think we've all lived that one a time or two.

All in all, from what I saw, I thought the show was pretty good. Had some funny moments, like when the producers from "Million Dollar Baby" were giving their speech, they cued the music and Clint leans in and tells them in that most familiar Dirty Harry voice "Don't let 'em run you off". I thought that was great. I love all things Clint. But like most award shows, they are bound to have their down sides. But what do you expect from a group that banned Lettermen? Like those asses know funny. Come on now! Anyways, that's about all I saw. Casino was on at the same time. It's safe to say what held my attention.
-Troy-

More or Less...

Last night was pretty crazy because I was chased down the street by the Pakistani Police.

Well, that’s not exactly true. Where I said "chased down the street," I probably should have said, "followed at a casual pace." And if I were being completely honest, I suppose it was more of a laneway than a street. Yeah, and if its confession time, it wasn’t so much the Pakistani Police, as it was a stray cat. But it was last night... well, moreso a couple weeks ago. But I guarantee you, it was pretty crazy. Wait… no it wasn’t.

Obligatory Oscar Rundown

I have no desire to write a commentary on the Oscars, so here are some random observations:

- Chris Rock: Boring. Should have done his own thing.

- Blondes who are trying to be Brunettes: Quit it.

- Hilary Swank: Please learn to speak in public.

- That red-haired chick who played the same annoying role on every sitcom like Suddenly Susan, and now seems to work for E! : Someone please pay her to shut up.

- Carlos Santana: Quit it.

- Selma Hayek : Could you possibly be any hotter?

- Hilary Swank: Why does your face frighten me so?

- Whoever designed the Hacienda set for the Motorcycle Diaries song: Please go back to designing sets for high-school plays.

- Selma Hayek : Please come to my house and read me to sleep.

- Famous Actors with plain wives: I like this, I don’t know why.

- Giving out Oscars in the audience: Stupid

- Hilary Swank: At what point does a backless dress become an assless dress?

- Jamie Foxx : Good Speech dude.

-Oscars 2005 Synopsis? ...Boring.


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