28 June 2007
The Time Elevator window is closing. TV, in general, in the Hawaii Grand Hotel in Cyprus in particular, is still not very good.
Last night a man danced with 23 glasses balanced on his head. That was the highlight of the trip. My flight out was delayed. Tomorrow I come home.
25 June 2007
I'm pretty excited about the idea of it, but if I actually think about who i'll be hanging out with, and what i'll be doing, and what we'll be talking about I realize the reality is less than what it could be.
I am excited to hear the President speak my words though, and maybe go for a swim. Business travel? I'm pretty new to it. Colour me Reservedly Optimistic.
21 June 2007
And not that long before that, people went to their office jobs, and
COMPUTERS DIDN'T EXIST!!
And not long before that, people went to their office jobs, and
COMPUTERS WERE REALLY REALLY BIG!!
And not too long before that, people went to their office jobs, and
DESKS DIDN'T EXIST!!
In all of these circumstances one can only wonder:
what did these people do all day?
I honestly have no idea.
20 June 2007
19 June 2007
Sent: Sunday, June 17, 2007 5:12 AM
My dad used to say that inside of the car's air-bags was uncooked popcorn. When you wrecked the popcorn would pop and you would have a snack until help came.
Sent: Sunday, June 17, 2007 8:29 PM
when i was little my dad told me that polyester was a small animal in australia & they would kill it to make clothes. that night i sat in my room reading the labels on my clothes for hours & threw all of the polyester ones away.
Sent: Sunday, June 17, 2007 9:56 AM
When we'd approach exits or toll booths, my father told me the sound the car made when it went over the rumble strips was the car getting angry because I had been bad. I still sit up a little straighter when I hit a rumble strip.
Sent: Sunday, June 17, 2007 6:55 AM
My dad told me the worst swear word you could possibly say was "Bostonian". It meant "someone who has no private parts." My brother and I used the word until we were teenagers and my father giggled every time we said it, right before he sent us to our rooms.
Sent: Sunday, June 17, 2007 10:06 PM
When I was little my Dad told me that the tune played by the ice-cream van was the ice-cream man letting everyone know that he'd run out of ice-cream.
'Best Dad Hands Down' Darren Millar, with his 1-year old son who believes everything he says.
18 June 2007
Awesome to get some improv into my life, if only for a weekend. And sadly, I was unable to participate in Steve's workshop on Sunday. I would've loved to but cashflow is tight and I still hadn't finished laying down vocals for my new hip hop album.
In an alter ego I'm a rapper. Rapper me teamed up with soon-to-be Australian expat Shortcut Kid, and Dutchstralian expat Creaseless Ben to form Overboard.
Now at work on an e.p. called F.I.T.
That's pretty awesome as far as I'm concerned.
Because I like yelling/rapping.
All in all, Amsterdam was a good good time. Visiting with some old friends and flicking sparks at more than one creative pursuit.
This week started with a rehearsal yesterday for Accidental Death of an Anarchist by Dario Fo. Get to Brussels late September for some solid English language political farce theatre. Featuring me. Really excited to be in on that project. I gotta good feeling. And alot of lines. Alot.
Scripted acting is the opposite of improv. Because with improv, (a) golden rule is 'anything you say is correct.' That is, whatever you say will be accepted by the other actors and built into the story. With regular theatre, only one thing you say is correct. So you better say it. Still we got plenty of rehearsal time left. And the process is fun.
As well I've been working on some stand-up and sketch comedy. Trying to follow up random jokes and offhand comments, massage them and see if they can't grow up into bigger concepts.
Someone has told me I should channel my energy at one pursuit, and that seems like a good idea. A good idea. Not the good idea. For now I'm gonna keep throwing everything I got at everything I want to.
And then write a book.
Or make a movie.
Or paint a picture.
15 June 2007
Chiara dragged her mononucleosis ridden body down three treacherous flights of steps and out the front door. Armed only with an umbrella and rainboots she trudged, quickly yet slowly (she had mononucleosis) around the corner to the spot where her douchebag boyfriend had inconveniently parked the car, mere days before. Gone. Her heart leapt into her throat as the icy fingers of panic latched onto her eyes and savagely began to claw. Breathlessly she pulled her mobile phone from her bag and, once the keypad was unlocked, dialled 'Ryan Work.'
Ryan slammed down the phone with a force that rattled the windows in his office, and the depths of his soul. He leapt to his feet and shook his fist at the bad weather/bad luck gods operating on Mount Frustration. "Dammit," he cursed angrily, "why must you work overtime to thwart me?" It was a rhetorical question, one to which he knew he would receive no reply. He received no reply.
Summoning the final reserves of his formidable wellspring of inner strength he composed himself enough to google "Brussels Police contact Ixelles." The triumph of finding the contact number for the local police office faded quickly once the number were entered into his office telephone. It was replaced by the now familiar feeling of frustration. Only this time the frustration was due to his complete inability to make himself understood in French. "Dammit!" he cursed silently for the second time in only minutes "why do I know neither the verb for 'to park,' nor its past tense? Let alone the verb for tow, or its past tense" The question this time was not rhetorical; he knew the answer, and it chilled him to his very core. However, he had not time to think about the dual culpability of Summerland Secondary School or his current CPAB Language Programme. He could think of only two things: "One, it's in no way my own fault my French is so so terribly shitty, and two I NEED TO GET THAT CAR BACK! NOW!!" Fighting back the terror that threatened to consume him, he bravely switched to English.
Chiara crawled back up the stairs, too weak to even move. Almost. Shedding boots, umbrella, pants and bag she staggered towards the spare bedroom. Her eyes lolled in their sockets as the strength leaked from her fingertips. She paused, supported by the doorframe, and tried to focus. Then she saw it, the one thing that could save her. A plan began to form in her now feverish mind.
The smoky voice on the other end of the phone line uttered assent and the conversation proceeded at a figuratively BREAKNECK pace. In English. Ryan's hunch that it had been towed had now been confirmed, in English, by the police officer on the other end of the phone. Now Ryan knew, knew beyond a shadow of an inkling of a tiny doubt, knew with a certainty he had felt only infrequently before, that the car had indeed been towed. He also knew that he needed to get to that police station... and FAST!
Chiara settled onto the futon upstairs and closed her eyes. Her plan had worked! Though it had only been sketchily drawn in her mind, it had been executed flawlessly. She had lain down on the futon almost perfectly. She allowed herself the briefest sigh of relief before an awful question entered, unbidden, into her mind: 'Why is my boyfriend such a fucktard?' she thought, before passing into a blissfully fitful sleep.
The locations raced by like a musical montage, only there was NO music! Just a blur of ID cards, signatures and bitter, bone-chilling rain as Ryan raced from elevator, to car of colleague who offered him a ride, to home to pick up car keys and an umbrella, to police station, to tram stop, to tram, to tram stop three stops along, to bus stop, to bus, to bus stop on other end of the line with only the most cursory of inspections of the decent looking pizzeria he saw along the way. And then, finally, his pentultimate destination loomed before him casting a dark shadow across his heart: The Tow Truck Place.
He knew his luck haD not deserted him entirely when the stupid bitch behind the counter gestured into the parking lot in the back. She knew she had been outfoxed: the car was going back to its rightful owner. There was nothing she could do to stop that piece of justice. Ryan pushed his way through the open door and walked the length of the counter moving inexorably into the parking lot. But as Ryan walked through the dirty puddled parking lot towards the object of his desire, a realization hit him. Hit him like a 2x4 in the face. And the wallet.
"I just spent 218 euros, euros I can scarcely afford, on a car that we already owned," he thought (and not for the first time that day) very, very, angrily, "It's not as if they did detailing work, or changed the oil, or anything at all: except take it away. They're little better than thieves! 218 euros is a fucking shameful amount of money to charge for towing a car. I fucking hate those fuckers." Then he throw his head back, looked at the purple sky, and puked.
"Hi baby," Chiara shouted down from upstairs. She had decided that Ryan's own anger and frustration would suffice, and the valuable parking lesson had already been learned. No ball-breaking would be necessary.
Ryan trudged upstairs, ball-broken and weary, but comfortable in the knowledge that the white Citroen Saxo they legally owned was legally parked out front. He looked at his girlfriend, and happiness and relief washed over him. Then he thought again about all the fucking money he had just spent and puked. Puked with anger. But no amount of puking would get his money back, and deep down in the very core of his being he knew this. The only thing that would end this ordeal would be acceptance of events as they unfolded, or revenge. Ryan swore revenge.
14 June 2007
Not exactly a reversal of fortune but that's a huge powermove! POWERMOVE!
Only Armenia made a bigger powermove. BIGGER POWERMOVE!!
I don't know if that means we'll be on the World Cup Stage come South Africa time. In fact we can be almost certain that Canada doesn't have the talent to go that far but I'd be happy with a solid mid-30s ranking. MID-30'S!!
Let's go Team!! Let's strive for respectability!!
12 June 2007
I am in the first level. And you know what? It's pretty easy. I started getting a little bit of a swelled head, thinking 'I'm too good for this class, they should put me in the next level, that'd be more my speed.'
And it gave me a little warm glow, because I figured I had underestimated my French, and maybe it wasn't so bad. Maybe my French is almost decent. Then last night I asked how many levels there were in the school.
No matter how good I'm doing in the 'You don't know anything about French' class, i'm still a long way off from attaining 'French speaker' status.The 12 Levels of French at my School
- Completely Inept
- Aww, you're trying.
- Cute... Let's speak English.
- Upper Intermediate.
- Good French
- Really Good French.
- Really, Really Good French
- French French
11 June 2007
"Hey Karen, are you wearing a speedbump? Ha ha. Just joking. But seriously, That hat looks stupid."
"What? My hat isn't stupid, it's hot. I get tonnes of pussy when I rock this chapeau. And have you looked at your bowtie lately, Mr. Fashion Critic?"
"You think it's too wide?"
"A little. And way overstylized. It looks like a fucking bikini top, you dickwad"
"Whatever. God. I really have to piss."
"Me too. I hope this elevator hurries the fuck up."
"Let's do the pee dance, see if we can't speed things up."
"We already are."
08 June 2007
07 June 2007
06 June 2007
After much discussion on facebook we compiled a list of exceptions to the rule.
An Exhaustive List of Danes Johannes Doesn't Hate
- Niels Bohr, physicist
- Helena Cristiansen, hot model
- The Guy Who Invented Lego
- The decapitated body of the Little Mermaid statue in the harbour of Copenhagen*
- Carlsberg beer**
*The statue is no longer headless, but the head doesn not make the list. The rock she sits on does.
** Carlsberg beer is not a person. However as a subsection of this entry we included the drunken Danish twat who ran onto the field and tried to take a swing at the referee in the 89th minute of the recent Sweden-Denmark football match. His actions cost the Danish National team valuable EuroCup Qualifying points they had earned by coming back from a 3-0 deficit to tie the game. The fan (who lives in Sweden) admitted to consuming 15-20 beers prior to the incident. Johannes would not deign to give him his own entry on the list, but did agree to give him a note under the Carlsberg entry.
But there's also real independent media that is awesome for other reasons. Indy news agency The Tyee is a pretty hot Canada Left Coast media source, and they produced this video, which is awesome.
It's the best thing I've seen fish do in a long while.
On the unhappy side of things Medichannel is an awesome independent media source that 'watches the watchers.' It is a great site that unfortunately is in dire financial straits, so go ahead and kick down a dime. After you watch the youtube video, you'll probably have a renewed appreciation for the importance of independent media, and the need for continued critical analysis of the copy they print to make an awesomely welcoming environment for advertisers.
04 June 2007
Sunday June 3rd was no ordinary 'lazy Sunday' in the Chatelain neighborhood of Brussels. Nope. This particular Sunday saw the streets blocked off to cars and filled instead with the joys of junk-sifting and sea-faring. It was the Chatelain annual 'Navy Junk Street Sale', where many a blanket was piled high... not just with shoes and broken record players as is usually the case at these flea markety things. But also, on blankets, tables, and parked in handicapped spaces: nautical equipment.
For reasons completely unclear to the outsider participant, this entirely land-locked neighborhood has a day devoted to watersports and navyishness. Fishing rods, motor boats and boat motors, wetsuits, drysuits, flippers galore, anchors, sextants, maps, surfboards, waterskis and the like. If it requires a large body of water (of which there are zero nearby) for its' use, then it was on sale on this day.
A landlubber hawks fishing rods on the left, while a navy junk enthusiast strides past. I saw that Navy Junk enthusiast later with a harpoon gun and an armful of maps.
Showing little or no regard for enemy lives or the rules of engagement the Belgian military is deploying here in Belgium to inflict heavy casualties on their foes.
Europe and Belgium usually favour a 'soft power' approach. That is, wielding influence over adversaries by means other than force. But that doesn't always work, especially when the enemy infilitrates your hallowed territory. Then you gotta send the army in and fuck your enemy up. Right on! Eat shit, caterpillars.