Filed under: Uncategorized
Time to get back to business. After nearly a year-long hiatus and some drastic personal changes, I’m thinking that coming back to blogging is finally a good idea.
Expect to read alot more about fashion, politics, all things vintage, music, and sharks with laser beams on their frickin’ heads. Watch out, interwebs; I’ll be polluting you with my snarky views on just about everything soon enough.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Costco, fast food, Junior Achievement, shopping, the girlfriend
So, this weekend I went to Halifax with my girlfriend and her parents to attend the annual Junior Achievement Awards Gala. Of course, got up ridiculously early and went up the day before, to maximize potential opportunities to, you know, shop and stuff. We made a stop at the Mic Mac Mall, where I purchased a lovely pair of [cheap!] khaki shorts from the Gap, and a most badass, if slightly untraditional, pair of new Chuck Taylors to pair with my blue shirt/grey pants/white tie gala outfit.
After hitting up Mic Mac, we proceeded on to bigger, better shopping areas- namely, the warehouse of heavenly goodness that most people refer to as Costco. Now,I’m a big guy ; as my old man often puts it, I’m “built like a brick shithouse”. Being as large as I am subsequently creates a desire for everything I come in contact with to be proportionately substantial, and for this reason, the idea of buying foods in bulk obviously makes me very happy . By “very happy”, I mean it makes me as happy as a prepubescent school girl screaming and crying at a Justin Bieber concert, which is, as many of you will know, is quite happy .
Costco, of course, really knows how to deliver in this respect. I’m convinced it is the Mecca of bulk foods; the one place where all shoppers are truly equal, regardless of size or monetary income. Martin Luther King, Jr. should’ve looked at Costco before he gave the “I Have a Dream” speech, because his dream had already come true. I mean, let’s be serious here ; where else but Costco can you purchase EVERY SINGLE THING YOU COULD EVER NEED TO LIVE under one roof , and for reasonable prices? They’ve got everything from frozen meat to construction equipment , all in massive quantities, and for significantly less than “small box stores” like Wal-mart (I say “small box” instead of “big box”, because I can certainly assure you, the boxes at Costco are positively mammoth). I snagged myself a number of wonderful items, including 2.2 kg of “Shopsy’s Premium 1/4-pound All-Beef Frankfurters” [read: big fucking hot dogs] for just $11.99, a colossal box of “Dad’s Old-Fashioned Oatmeal Cookies” containing a downright obscene ninety six delicious oatmeal morsels for just $13.99, and most magical of all, a ridiculously large apple & caramel pie that weighed so much I could have used it to work out with, for the low, low price of just $9.99 (plus HST and applicable taxes). The joy that I experienced while frantically running up and down the aisles of bulk goods with my girlfriend, elbowing viciously through a fierce conflict between a mother of 7 and a cheap bachelor over who gets the last 50-pound box of Cap’n Crunch breakfast cereal, isn’t comparable to anything else I’ve ever experienced.
I didn’t believe in love at first sight until I met Shelby. Then it made sense to me- however a part of me still figured it was just a coincidence, that I was at the right place at the right time, and things just worked out for the best. I was wrong; love at first sight exists, as I felt it the moment I stepped into The Holiest Warehouse. Costco swept me off my feet like a very strong, very attractive woman in some strange ultra-feminist romance novel. If I can’t get married TO Costco, I can guarantee I’ll at least get married IN Costco.
Oh, and the rest of the weekend was great, too . I had a great time with Shel, and the gala was a success; we looked damn fly, and watching the missus win EVERY GODDAMN AWARD I COULD THINK OF was wonderful. Good job honey ; we’re proud of you.
As I always say, quality time with the girl I’m crazy with is always wonderful ..
..especially when it’s spent at Costco!
Filed under: School | Tags: cheeseburger, Coast Guard, college, high school, interview
Warning: preposterous acronyms below.
So, I received word this week that I have passed the EPSAT (Engineering and Physical Sciences Aptitude Test), which I wrote as part of the application process for the CCGC OCTP (Canadian Coast Guard College Officer Cadet Training Program). I have been scheduled for an INTERVIEW (that’s not an acronym, I’m just being outlandish) at the CCGC in Westmount on May 29th at 10:00 am sharp. It’s the final step in the application process, and as you can imagine, I’m rather nervous; the state of my prospective career in the Coast Guard is hanging by this thread of interviewy scariness. If I nail it like the old sea dog I know I can be, I’ll be in (assuming I pass a basic medical and receive my “Level 2 (Secret)” security clearance, both of which should not be an issue unless they manage to uncover that Cuban refugee I helped smuggle over the border back in ’67); however, if I go down in a blaze of landlubbering glory, it’s quite unlikely that I’ll make it into the course this year, and will be left with the unfortunate reality that I placed all of my eggs in one big, scary, somewhat unreliable basket, and got the shit end of the stick.
Normally, of course, this wouldn’t bother me; interviews are my bag, and I’ve been on a streak of fairly good luck for the last little while. But strangely, that’s just the problem; throughout my teenage years, strings of good luck have been consistently followed by bouts of inescapable, incredibly unpleasant bad luck, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about due to commit another bunch of minor fuckups. I’m aware that if I psyche myself out too much about this, it will undoubtedly have negative consequences, just the same as walking in cocky would – however, this has slid beyond that “keep you on your toes” type of nervousness into a full-blown, can’t sleep at night, bite your nails and shit your pants fear of failure, and it’s quite unsettling. I just cannot handle the idea that my “flawless” Coast Guard plan, which I feel represents the perfect career for a fellow like myself, might not work out. I’m usually fairly good at simply holding on for dear life and letting the raging river of my existence drag me along to wherever it may take me; but in this case, I’m going to work my fat ass off to make things happen exactly how I want them to. Being concerned about being concerned makes me … concernicus.
… oh, and hungry – I could really use a cheeseburger.
Filed under: Art | Tags: gonzo, Hunter S Thompson, journalism, politics, writing
There are very few people in this world that I can say I unconditionally look up to and admire. My parents, for their tireless efforts to keep a little bastard like me in line; Tom Waits, for his reprehensible “classy sleaze” that not another soul in the universe will ever be able to emulate, and his ability to demonstrate the views and aspirations of the proletariat without seeming pretentious; Gord Downie, for his sheer Canadian-ness; my girlfriend, Shelby, for a variety of reasons which she knows all about, but also because she’s downright wonderful and has the brains to prove it ; and most of all, the late Dr. Hunter Stockton Thompson, father of gonzo journalism and one of the greatest writers ever to walk the earth. His unapologetic views on the twisted values and corrupted fundamentals of American culture, and especially the American government, never cease to amaze me, and the only negative thing I can say about Thompson is that the crazy bastard shot himself before he got around to writing more books or articles for interested folks like myself to read.
I’ve read several of Thompson’s works, including his two most famous novels, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and The Rum Diary, and I am currently working my way through the first volume of his collected works of journalism, The Gonzo Papers, Volume 1: The Great Shark Hunt; it is, of course, my favourite of his works thus far, since it best showcases his iconoclastic “gonzo” style and his general contempt for the global “Establishment”. Each article becomes more depraved than its predecessor, and Thompson’s drug-fueled rants about the evils of the American dream and the perilous actions of the Nixon administration have sucked me in, twisted my mind around, torn me a new asshole and swiftly kicked me in it, giving me an entirely new outlook on both American politics and the idea of politics in general.
Thompson didn’t just rave like a lunatic about the horrors of American governance ; he was also a freelance writer for a variety of publications throughout his life, including newspapers throughout the United States and Central and South America and a variety of major magazines, such as Rolling Stone. He was also, as you may have guessed, very politically active, running for several elections of various types, including his famous campaign to become sheriff of Pitkin County, Colorado, in which his platform, called “Freak Power”, included such interesting points as renaming Aspen “Fat City”, decriminalizing drugs on the whole, and the demolishing of all roads in order to encourage pedestrianism.
Thompson resided in a fortified compound , which he named “Owl Farm”, near Aspen for the latter portion of his life. There, he worked on all manner of journalistic pursuits, including a number of articles for Rolling Stone, a slew of novels (most of which were never published), and several compilations of his works. He enjoyed a number of recreational pursuits, in particular the use of a variety of firearms. On February 20, 2005, Thompson took his own life using one of his beloved handguns- police reports state that in front of him was a typewriter with a single piece of paper, bearing the phrase “Feb 22 ’05- counsellor”. He left a suicide note, found several days later. Addressed to his wife and titled “Football Season is Over”, it read as follows:
“No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won’t hurt.”
You, the reader, are, in all likelihood, currently wondering, “How can he support such a raving lunatic?” The truth is, I don’t look up to Thompson for his beliefs ; in fact, I don’t even look up to him for his persona. I look up to him for his methods , and his attitude ; his unflinching stance against his personal evils. Hunter S. Thompson stood resolute in the face of the Nixon administration, the editors of Rolling Stone, the people of Aspen, and the entirety of US popular culture simply because he believed that it was the best way to do things. His ferocious writing style, his open embracement of the counter-culture, his incredibly scathing views on a wide variety of topics, and even his own death were, and are, completely adverse to what is deemed acceptable, but Thompson simply didn’t give a fuck, even when he felt “The Fear” and began to doubt everything and everyone, including himself. And if you ask me, that’s a very badass way to live .
Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming– “Wow! What a Ride!” — Dr. Hunter S. Thompson (1927-2005)