Well, what to say... Where to start... This year has to be better than the way the last one ended. I had my soul stomped on by a woman who ate my heart and forced me to watch, I alienated myself from half of my family, and managed to get into a fist-fight with my kid brother on Christmas Eve. All in all, I'd say that last year was a train-wreck.
How are you?
Sunday, January 01, 2012
Monday, August 29, 2011
Funeral
Please be there by 7:15, show starts at 8:00pm.
Doors open, "Make It Rain" by Tom Waits plays. (Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Version.)
MC: Matt Duke (Family Funeral Theme)
Says something he figures he should.
Introduces Mike Kanaroski.
Mike tells anecdote he thinks is funny, falls flat.
Matt Resumes, people clap for Mike.
Kerry (assuming still alive) Fraser speaks.
Break for David Kanaroski short film, (Tom Kanaroski film if David dead). Arranged to Jimi Hendrix's "Little Wing" as performed by Stevie Ray Vaughan.
Assuming smoking is still legal, people smoke.
Assuming smoking is not legal, people smoke twice.
Sevie takes Mic.
Sevie breaks down.
Matt, consoling Sevie, introduces Stacey Mee.
Stacey tells everyone something nice. No tears. She's soldered her tear ducts.
(Jordyn screeches obscenities in background)
Matt introduces Janet Noyle (nee Mckie)
Janet isn't there, next guest.
Kara Knight is introduced.
Relays funny story about how we relate. Nobody gets it.
Break: Kris Kristofferson's "The Pilgrim (Chapter 33)"
Bad recording of original song.
Everyone cries on cue.
Matt introduces Keith Richards, Kerry(assuming still alive) Fraser hands Matt a letter excusing Keith...
Mom makes a public appearance.
Dad and Lee arrange outfits.
Dad doesn't know how to act, cries to self. Hugs Mike.
Matt introduces Stacey (insert last name here) nee Craig.
City and Colour's "The Girl" plays.
Stacey throws darts at coffin.
Cries, walks off stage.
Uncle Bruce takes place behind Mic.
Reminds everyone that "we're all here because of the love/hate we felt for someone who wouldn't let us know him".
Reception held at Ship & Anchor.
House Band: The Plaid Tongued Devils.
Pleasantries exchanged.
Terrible self recorded song played.
Life goes on.
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Sixteen Scars From a Fairly Odd Chick
Today I'm going to try something a little different. Normally, the beginning of any entry I make is a funny (to me at least) diatribe having very little to do with what follows it. Today all I'll say is that if you, dear reader, do not want to know what has been filling my days over the last two years, STOP READING NOW!! Seriously. Everything following this paragraph is true (by my memory at least) and I'm fairly certain that not every eye is going to like what it sees. So read on if you must, and enjoy. If you're able.
"Why the fuck did I move to Chilliwack? I didn't mean to, it was just one of those things. I'd love to be able to tell anyone that I didn't have any fun, but..." - Fishbait
Chapter One
I met her, or rather, I met her in person on June 6, 2009. In order to tell this story properly though, I need to start a week earlier when I jumped in a car heading west with a woman I'd met only once before, three days prior.
Her name was Stephanie, she lived in Abbotsford, and she offered to drive me coastal. I had twelve dollars, a half pack of cigarettes, and only a vague idea of where I would stay once I got to wherever it was I was going. But as Steph and I had enjoyed each other's company while ignoring a movie the night that we'd met, I was really looking forward to this road trip. I had it in my mind that the tedium of the drive would be relieved by frequent rest stops involving animalistic carnal rituals. It wasn't. In fact, we made the drive in less than ten hours.
When we had reached Hope, I finally managed to get a hold of my good friend Darcy. And when Steph dropped me in Chilliwack, there he stood, guitar in hand, looking like a worn out, ragged, taller version of Kurt Cobain, whom he claimed to hate, but couldn't and didn't seem to want to stop resembling. Darcy and I had met a few years earlier while I was living in Nanaimo. Our friendship was based on a shared love of good books, great music, cold beer and hard drugs.
We wandered to the closest bar to have ourselves a reunion drink. Between the two of us, we had enough cash for one each and after denying a woman "D" later told me was a hooker a drink of her own, we left. As it turned out, Darcy had "borrowed" his mother's Visa so our next stop was to the liquor store to procure a bottle of Vodka. Then, and only then could we continue the walk to his place. By "his place" I mean of course, his parents' house.
About half a block from the bar Darcy stopped walking and asked if I was still using cocaine. I said I wasn't, which I didn't view as a lie because I'd been out of work for three months and couldn't afford groceries much less cocaine. That's when he decided to tell me that he wasn't either. He'd "graduated", as he put it, to crack. By week's end I'd discover that he was also shooting heroin, thankfully he never offered any. He did however offer a blast of the rock he'd just packed his straight shooter with. I accepted and that was about as much catching up as we seemed to need.
It took nearly an hour to get to his folks' place, though the walk shouldn't have taken more than twenty minutes. But between stopping to get high every ten or twenty steps, and me having to drag my enormous travel bag, things took a wee bit longer than normal.
D's parents were cool enough, even offering me a bed to use until I could find a job and a place. Darcy later told me that I was the first friend he'd introduced them to that they liked. He said they thought all of his friends were manipulative, drug head losers. And they were. So was I for that matter, I think I just played it down a little better than most.
I tried to help out around the house the best I could. One thing I am, at first at least, is a lovely house guest. So I'd cook dinner every night, help out in the garden and try my damnedest to get Darcy out of bed. I think one of the reasons D's parents let me stay for as long as I did, was that they were hoping, and not so secretly, that I'd be taking Darcy with me once I found a place.
On top of wanting to show Darcy's folks that I wasn't a fuck-up like the other people he normally hung out with, I had another reason for wanting to help out: Darcy's mother had been the victim of a horrible accident years earlier that had left her blind and disfigured.
From what I understand, she'd been trying to clear a sewage drain at work and when the industrial grade Drain-O didn't do the trick, she'd decided to pour Lye into the drain as a chaser. The reacting chemicals blew up and basically erased her face. Years of skin grafts later, she was left with little more than a skull with patch work skin pulled tight enough to snap. She had no lips to speak of and her eyes had been eaten entirely, so the doctors had grafted skin over the sockets. While this woman cooked, washed the dishes by hand and went as far as to clean D's room when he was out, Darcy and I spent the little time we were awake drinking or driving around (without insurance) looking for crack or coke or anything else to kill the boredom.
As thankful as I was D's parents for letting me stay, we all knew it wasn't going to be a permanent situation so I started looking for a job and a girl. Thankfully it seemed easy enough to find both online, and over the next few days, I made contact with two women. One, Lani, lived on the Island. The other, Cylena, lived in Chilliwack. I talked with both of them on the phone a few times and when I mentioned to Cylena that I was looking for a job, she offered to buy me lunch if I wanted to meet up with her at Earl's. She had told me that she was a massage therapist and not being one to say "no" to a free lunch, I gladly accepted.
Well folks, that's what I've got so far. There's a helluva lot more and it only gets darker and more depraved, so I'll only be sending out following posts to those that request them. Take care everyone,
Fishbait.
"Why the fuck did I move to Chilliwack? I didn't mean to, it was just one of those things. I'd love to be able to tell anyone that I didn't have any fun, but..." - Fishbait
Chapter One
I met her, or rather, I met her in person on June 6, 2009. In order to tell this story properly though, I need to start a week earlier when I jumped in a car heading west with a woman I'd met only once before, three days prior.
Her name was Stephanie, she lived in Abbotsford, and she offered to drive me coastal. I had twelve dollars, a half pack of cigarettes, and only a vague idea of where I would stay once I got to wherever it was I was going. But as Steph and I had enjoyed each other's company while ignoring a movie the night that we'd met, I was really looking forward to this road trip. I had it in my mind that the tedium of the drive would be relieved by frequent rest stops involving animalistic carnal rituals. It wasn't. In fact, we made the drive in less than ten hours.
When we had reached Hope, I finally managed to get a hold of my good friend Darcy. And when Steph dropped me in Chilliwack, there he stood, guitar in hand, looking like a worn out, ragged, taller version of Kurt Cobain, whom he claimed to hate, but couldn't and didn't seem to want to stop resembling. Darcy and I had met a few years earlier while I was living in Nanaimo. Our friendship was based on a shared love of good books, great music, cold beer and hard drugs.
We wandered to the closest bar to have ourselves a reunion drink. Between the two of us, we had enough cash for one each and after denying a woman "D" later told me was a hooker a drink of her own, we left. As it turned out, Darcy had "borrowed" his mother's Visa so our next stop was to the liquor store to procure a bottle of Vodka. Then, and only then could we continue the walk to his place. By "his place" I mean of course, his parents' house.
About half a block from the bar Darcy stopped walking and asked if I was still using cocaine. I said I wasn't, which I didn't view as a lie because I'd been out of work for three months and couldn't afford groceries much less cocaine. That's when he decided to tell me that he wasn't either. He'd "graduated", as he put it, to crack. By week's end I'd discover that he was also shooting heroin, thankfully he never offered any. He did however offer a blast of the rock he'd just packed his straight shooter with. I accepted and that was about as much catching up as we seemed to need.
It took nearly an hour to get to his folks' place, though the walk shouldn't have taken more than twenty minutes. But between stopping to get high every ten or twenty steps, and me having to drag my enormous travel bag, things took a wee bit longer than normal.
D's parents were cool enough, even offering me a bed to use until I could find a job and a place. Darcy later told me that I was the first friend he'd introduced them to that they liked. He said they thought all of his friends were manipulative, drug head losers. And they were. So was I for that matter, I think I just played it down a little better than most.
I tried to help out around the house the best I could. One thing I am, at first at least, is a lovely house guest. So I'd cook dinner every night, help out in the garden and try my damnedest to get Darcy out of bed. I think one of the reasons D's parents let me stay for as long as I did, was that they were hoping, and not so secretly, that I'd be taking Darcy with me once I found a place.
On top of wanting to show Darcy's folks that I wasn't a fuck-up like the other people he normally hung out with, I had another reason for wanting to help out: Darcy's mother had been the victim of a horrible accident years earlier that had left her blind and disfigured.
From what I understand, she'd been trying to clear a sewage drain at work and when the industrial grade Drain-O didn't do the trick, she'd decided to pour Lye into the drain as a chaser. The reacting chemicals blew up and basically erased her face. Years of skin grafts later, she was left with little more than a skull with patch work skin pulled tight enough to snap. She had no lips to speak of and her eyes had been eaten entirely, so the doctors had grafted skin over the sockets. While this woman cooked, washed the dishes by hand and went as far as to clean D's room when he was out, Darcy and I spent the little time we were awake drinking or driving around (without insurance) looking for crack or coke or anything else to kill the boredom.
As thankful as I was D's parents for letting me stay, we all knew it wasn't going to be a permanent situation so I started looking for a job and a girl. Thankfully it seemed easy enough to find both online, and over the next few days, I made contact with two women. One, Lani, lived on the Island. The other, Cylena, lived in Chilliwack. I talked with both of them on the phone a few times and when I mentioned to Cylena that I was looking for a job, she offered to buy me lunch if I wanted to meet up with her at Earl's. She had told me that she was a massage therapist and not being one to say "no" to a free lunch, I gladly accepted.
Well folks, that's what I've got so far. There's a helluva lot more and it only gets darker and more depraved, so I'll only be sending out following posts to those that request them. Take care everyone,
Fishbait.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Really? Gowan?!
So spoke, well typed I suppose, my one time love in response to having read the fifteen albums that were the first to come to my mind when I was asked about quality music. Whatever the medium used, the sentiment is the same: Gowan isn't cool.
And instead of serving up a steaming pile of reasons to the contrary defending a Canadian treasure, I'll leave it, it being her of course, with these words: You're fuckin' wrong!!!
Now that I have that outta my system, on to the bits and pieces I humbly refer to as my life.
Somewhere along this twisted path I stumble, I decided that I deserve better than waking up in hospital psych wards. Waking up next to coke addled whores who resolve their issues by hurling glassware. Waking up next to convenience stores missing a shoe, but gaining someones cell phone and $26. Somewhere I decided I deserve better than waking up.
I would think that any of those situations would inspire some to sit down and really look at their lives. I would be, most likely, correct(read: corrupt) in thinking the above thought. Of course, I'm only basing that latter assumption on the fact that I haven't learned much from my past. If given the opportunity to do even half of those damnable things again, I most likely would. And with crippling fucking patience at that.
I'm sure, somewhere, there's some very large, pseudo-scientific acronym pertaining to this condition. But I gotta tell all three of you reading this: I'm not all that concerned about what some bespectacled, overinflated, undersexed pinhead community has to say about what may, or may not be, an actual problem.
And though normally, I would be trying my damndest to defend my past behavior, right now I find myself starting to consider the ramifications of such a shallow learning curve. Seriously.
And instead of serving up a steaming pile of reasons to the contrary defending a Canadian treasure, I'll leave it, it being her of course, with these words: You're fuckin' wrong!!!
Now that I have that outta my system, on to the bits and pieces I humbly refer to as my life.
Somewhere along this twisted path I stumble, I decided that I deserve better than waking up in hospital psych wards. Waking up next to coke addled whores who resolve their issues by hurling glassware. Waking up next to convenience stores missing a shoe, but gaining someones cell phone and $26. Somewhere I decided I deserve better than waking up.
I would think that any of those situations would inspire some to sit down and really look at their lives. I would be, most likely, correct(read: corrupt) in thinking the above thought. Of course, I'm only basing that latter assumption on the fact that I haven't learned much from my past. If given the opportunity to do even half of those damnable things again, I most likely would. And with crippling fucking patience at that.
I'm sure, somewhere, there's some very large, pseudo-scientific acronym pertaining to this condition. But I gotta tell all three of you reading this: I'm not all that concerned about what some bespectacled, overinflated, undersexed pinhead community has to say about what may, or may not be, an actual problem.
And though normally, I would be trying my damndest to defend my past behavior, right now I find myself starting to consider the ramifications of such a shallow learning curve. Seriously.
Monday, March 16, 2009
It's with painted nails, I begin this tale of verbal abuse, comedic sex, and sobbing socialites. Come join me at this written orgy where, instead of pleasuring all involved, I satisfy only myself, leaving all others dejected and ill amused.
He sat up late.
Listening vapidly for answers that seemed unavailable.
He felt.
At least he thought that he did.
He just didn't know what it was that he was feeling about.
Or thinking about for that matter and...
Things went on.
They always do.
He woke up early.
He did that sometimes.
He yawned, and tried to find out where the roommate's had hidden the coffee and...
Things went on.
They always seemed to.
He ate lunch.
It filled his belly but it wasn't what he was hungry for.
He only seemed to think that it was.
That he was full of something, of that much he was certain.
He went back to work and...
Things went on.
He noticed that now
Things will be,
Good and bad,
Hectic, sad,
Frustrating and balanced,
And all for the taking.
He stopped.
Beside a Willow.
The branches held his thoughts.
A star held his wishes.
He slept then.
Held tight.
He found a dream of a smile.
It broke a heart at paces.
How many?
Jesus, who has time to count?
Things went on.
He knew that they would.
Morning came.
He fought the afternoon.
Afternoon reared.
He prayed for evening.
It invited him for beverages.
Evening sent him home.
He sat up late.
He sat up late.
Listening vapidly for answers that seemed unavailable.
He felt.
At least he thought that he did.
He just didn't know what it was that he was feeling about.
Or thinking about for that matter and...
Things went on.
They always do.
He woke up early.
He did that sometimes.
He yawned, and tried to find out where the roommate's had hidden the coffee and...
Things went on.
They always seemed to.
He ate lunch.
It filled his belly but it wasn't what he was hungry for.
He only seemed to think that it was.
That he was full of something, of that much he was certain.
He went back to work and...
Things went on.
He noticed that now
Things will be,
Good and bad,
Hectic, sad,
Frustrating and balanced,
And all for the taking.
He stopped.
Beside a Willow.
The branches held his thoughts.
A star held his wishes.
He slept then.
Held tight.
He found a dream of a smile.
It broke a heart at paces.
How many?
Jesus, who has time to count?
Things went on.
He knew that they would.
Morning came.
He fought the afternoon.
Afternoon reared.
He prayed for evening.
It invited him for beverages.
Evening sent him home.
He sat up late.
Friday, August 31, 2007
What Can Flowers Say That Handcuffs Can't?
Well, well, well, it's been awhile, hasn't it my friends? (I'm referring, of course, to the masses I imagine reading my all too indulgent entries) Well fear not, I've once again found myself depressed long enough to scrape some sort of inspiration from the underside of my colon, all for you dear reader, all for you. And now, w/only another minute's hesitation...........
We begin this tale about three weeks ago, and seeing as most of my behaviour since then can be reduced, if not entirely blamed, on the severe romantic shit-kicking I received that Thursday evening, that strikes me as good a place as any to start.
It was Thursday morning when the aforementioned kicker of shit finished getting dressed, leaned over to give me a kiss, professed her love and left for work. My day, like most of the week leading up to this particular one was spent doing housework, patching holes in the drywall, hanging photos, taking down blinds, setting up entertainment systems, etc. But when 5 o'clock strutted by, there was I, still alone in the house. After deciding to wait for my wonderful girlfriend to get home before once again cooking dinner, I settled down for an early evening nap. Startled awake by the slamming of the front door, and the high pitched whine of heavy machinery screeching "Wake up!", I took firm hold of my bearings and found an angry, and quite possibly drunk, cohabitant explaining expletively how we were once again finished.
Now, having rehearsed this part of the the play at least once every two weeks for the last seven months, I was finally told that there would be no encore this time. Having grabbed most of my things, I was about to leave when she offered to drive me where ever I needed to go. I declined on the grounds that there was no reason to make things more uncomfortable by sitting next to her and considering she hadn't actually said anything since my rude awakening except: "I can't deal with this" and "Can I drive you?", I failed to see the point in not listening to someone not talk.
On Friday I received a call from my personal Delilah. Still in the fetal position I took up immediately upon getting home from work, I cradled the phone to my newly shaved noggin and asked what she wanted to do to me now. What I got still makes me laugh, it was an apology for her timing in this matter. Not for the heartbreak, the stomach pains, or the crying myself to sleep, but for her timing. Don't be so hard on yourself baby, I said, you waited until I moved your apartment, set everything up in your new place, and only a few hours after saying you love me. Your timing was spot fuckin' on!!
Saturday night came, as it so often does, pulled in a flaming chariot by whores on horseback.
To the bar to drown the image of her in the cheapest pint available, seemed to me the best course of action, and luckily enough, I found a nice little 19 yr old to help ease the pain in my balls, if not the one in my heart.
Things went mostly the same until Wednesday. Why Wednesday? Why not? Wednesday happened to be payday and depression and a thousand dollars do not go hand in hand. Well they might, but it's not a slow romantic stroll on the beach, it's more of an old school knife fight, combatants lashed together at the wrist and neither victorious.
I called in sick for work the next day, explaining that I had spent most of the morning strapped to the toilet and aiming carefully for the bathtub. All I needed was a doctor's note I was told. Well that should be no problem for someone lacking Alberta Health Care, doncha think?
Anyway, that day I ended up chatting with someone who found my profile info funny:
I'm a 6 ft tall, 29 yr old musician, working as a bartender, who spends his off time talking to walls, sleeping in books and used coffee filters, tracking the elusive Quadraduck, and smelling the backs of postage stamps. I'm just looking for a nice girl that will let me duct tape her to the wall, and test her for food allergies. Hmmm perhaps that's a little much. How about someone who doesn't bug me? Too general perhaps.... hmmmm, let's try this: I'm looking for people that are a little less than normal, a little more than interesting, and somewhere between a bus and the colour orange.
She responded to this by telling me that she's allergic to chocolate.
My kinda grrl!!
We made a date to grab a beer and I went to buy some sort of a greeting gift. Hmmm... what would someone with a similar sense of humour appreciate? Flowers are right out, too much money to spend on someone I don't know. Her nickname is Twinkle, maybe I should get some glow in the dark stars for her to look at while she's on her back? Naw, that's just childish and crude. What else is there here at the dollar store? AHA!!!!! Handcuffs!!! Perfect.
Walking into the dark, dank, disheveled local, she stood out immediately. Tall brunette, great body. This is gonna be good. Grabbing a table and a couple pints of Grasshopper, we started chatting. Laughs all around, good times to be had and handcuffs to be given, I did just that.
Perfect, she said, what can flowers say that handcuffs can't?
Perfect indeed, that is until I found the wheels on the bottom of the chairs. How did I find them? Well, you may already have an idea, but let me enlighten you. Better yet, let me impart some free advice: don't lean backwards in a chair on wheels.
Things kinda went downhill after that.
The bartender cut me off, and girly suggested I get a cab. This would all be hysterically entertaining if I had been drunk, but as I'd only had a pint and a half, sad is probably a better description.
I'm sure there are other dangerous and debaucherous things that have happened over the course of three weeks, but I've either decided to not include them or they happen to be too mentally scarring and I've simply blocked them out. Whatever the case, that's it for now.
Take care all,
Fishbait
We begin this tale about three weeks ago, and seeing as most of my behaviour since then can be reduced, if not entirely blamed, on the severe romantic shit-kicking I received that Thursday evening, that strikes me as good a place as any to start.
It was Thursday morning when the aforementioned kicker of shit finished getting dressed, leaned over to give me a kiss, professed her love and left for work. My day, like most of the week leading up to this particular one was spent doing housework, patching holes in the drywall, hanging photos, taking down blinds, setting up entertainment systems, etc. But when 5 o'clock strutted by, there was I, still alone in the house. After deciding to wait for my wonderful girlfriend to get home before once again cooking dinner, I settled down for an early evening nap. Startled awake by the slamming of the front door, and the high pitched whine of heavy machinery screeching "Wake up!", I took firm hold of my bearings and found an angry, and quite possibly drunk, cohabitant explaining expletively how we were once again finished.
Now, having rehearsed this part of the the play at least once every two weeks for the last seven months, I was finally told that there would be no encore this time. Having grabbed most of my things, I was about to leave when she offered to drive me where ever I needed to go. I declined on the grounds that there was no reason to make things more uncomfortable by sitting next to her and considering she hadn't actually said anything since my rude awakening except: "I can't deal with this" and "Can I drive you?", I failed to see the point in not listening to someone not talk.
On Friday I received a call from my personal Delilah. Still in the fetal position I took up immediately upon getting home from work, I cradled the phone to my newly shaved noggin and asked what she wanted to do to me now. What I got still makes me laugh, it was an apology for her timing in this matter. Not for the heartbreak, the stomach pains, or the crying myself to sleep, but for her timing. Don't be so hard on yourself baby, I said, you waited until I moved your apartment, set everything up in your new place, and only a few hours after saying you love me. Your timing was spot fuckin' on!!
Saturday night came, as it so often does, pulled in a flaming chariot by whores on horseback.
To the bar to drown the image of her in the cheapest pint available, seemed to me the best course of action, and luckily enough, I found a nice little 19 yr old to help ease the pain in my balls, if not the one in my heart.
Things went mostly the same until Wednesday. Why Wednesday? Why not? Wednesday happened to be payday and depression and a thousand dollars do not go hand in hand. Well they might, but it's not a slow romantic stroll on the beach, it's more of an old school knife fight, combatants lashed together at the wrist and neither victorious.
I called in sick for work the next day, explaining that I had spent most of the morning strapped to the toilet and aiming carefully for the bathtub. All I needed was a doctor's note I was told. Well that should be no problem for someone lacking Alberta Health Care, doncha think?
Anyway, that day I ended up chatting with someone who found my profile info funny:
I'm a 6 ft tall, 29 yr old musician, working as a bartender, who spends his off time talking to walls, sleeping in books and used coffee filters, tracking the elusive Quadraduck, and smelling the backs of postage stamps. I'm just looking for a nice girl that will let me duct tape her to the wall, and test her for food allergies. Hmmm perhaps that's a little much. How about someone who doesn't bug me? Too general perhaps.... hmmmm, let's try this: I'm looking for people that are a little less than normal, a little more than interesting, and somewhere between a bus and the colour orange.
She responded to this by telling me that she's allergic to chocolate.
My kinda grrl!!
We made a date to grab a beer and I went to buy some sort of a greeting gift. Hmmm... what would someone with a similar sense of humour appreciate? Flowers are right out, too much money to spend on someone I don't know. Her nickname is Twinkle, maybe I should get some glow in the dark stars for her to look at while she's on her back? Naw, that's just childish and crude. What else is there here at the dollar store? AHA!!!!! Handcuffs!!! Perfect.
Walking into the dark, dank, disheveled local, she stood out immediately. Tall brunette, great body. This is gonna be good. Grabbing a table and a couple pints of Grasshopper, we started chatting. Laughs all around, good times to be had and handcuffs to be given, I did just that.
Perfect, she said, what can flowers say that handcuffs can't?
Perfect indeed, that is until I found the wheels on the bottom of the chairs. How did I find them? Well, you may already have an idea, but let me enlighten you. Better yet, let me impart some free advice: don't lean backwards in a chair on wheels.
Things kinda went downhill after that.
The bartender cut me off, and girly suggested I get a cab. This would all be hysterically entertaining if I had been drunk, but as I'd only had a pint and a half, sad is probably a better description.
I'm sure there are other dangerous and debaucherous things that have happened over the course of three weeks, but I've either decided to not include them or they happen to be too mentally scarring and I've simply blocked them out. Whatever the case, that's it for now.
Take care all,
Fishbait
Friday, April 27, 2007
This Is Disney Land
I'd like to share a story with you all, this is assuming of course that anyone reads these self indulgent writtings of mine, about the ten or so months I spent in Banff as a Steward's Labourer. To clarify,in the hotel industry, a Steward's Labourer is basiclly a fancy title for a dishwasher or garbage man. But that's really not the point that I'm trying to make, so we'll continue now, shall we?
I was 18, had lost my virginity to a girl I loath and had recently noticed that, whilst naked, I could actually see my penis instead of a fat roll, when my roommate at that time, nameless by his request, said to me during one of my frequent breakdowns, that we were living in DisneyLand(tm).
At the time, I thought: wow, wasn't that fucking profound.
Now though, I think to a point he was right. He just forgot to mention that we're all just waiting in line for an illusionistic view of excitment that will never, ever, fulfill our overblown expectations.
That may seem fatalistic, but I'm of the opinion that the above statement represents a nice balance.
Let me explain, it may the most wonderful place in the world to some, but there is always a line between you and euphoria. There are choices of course, you could butt in front of people, push your way to the front, perhaps even pick a different line but, as with every choice, there are concequences to be considered.
This is the part that bothers me I think. The idea that in order to move forward, you will hurt, step on, back stab, and try to forget about those affected by your selfish pursuit to be at the front of the line. What I wonder about is whether or not this ride I'm standing in line for is even operational.
Don't get me wrong, there are nice,interesting people in line with me, but really, what the fuck are we waiting for?
Those ahead of us just got there first, and those behind chose not to pay attention when this the event was announced. (That's assuming that there was an annoucment at all).
What the fuck is he getting at, you may well be asking. Hell, not sure I know myself, but given enough time I'm bound to figure it out.
Hey, I'm almost willing to pray to some invisible being what controls destiny in order to figure this all out.
fishbait.
I was 18, had lost my virginity to a girl I loath and had recently noticed that, whilst naked, I could actually see my penis instead of a fat roll, when my roommate at that time, nameless by his request, said to me during one of my frequent breakdowns, that we were living in DisneyLand(tm).
At the time, I thought: wow, wasn't that fucking profound.
Now though, I think to a point he was right. He just forgot to mention that we're all just waiting in line for an illusionistic view of excitment that will never, ever, fulfill our overblown expectations.
That may seem fatalistic, but I'm of the opinion that the above statement represents a nice balance.
Let me explain, it may the most wonderful place in the world to some, but there is always a line between you and euphoria. There are choices of course, you could butt in front of people, push your way to the front, perhaps even pick a different line but, as with every choice, there are concequences to be considered.
This is the part that bothers me I think. The idea that in order to move forward, you will hurt, step on, back stab, and try to forget about those affected by your selfish pursuit to be at the front of the line. What I wonder about is whether or not this ride I'm standing in line for is even operational.
Don't get me wrong, there are nice,interesting people in line with me, but really, what the fuck are we waiting for?
Those ahead of us just got there first, and those behind chose not to pay attention when this the event was announced. (That's assuming that there was an annoucment at all).
What the fuck is he getting at, you may well be asking. Hell, not sure I know myself, but given enough time I'm bound to figure it out.
Hey, I'm almost willing to pray to some invisible being what controls destiny in order to figure this all out.
fishbait.
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