Regret

Dear Nose,

I know we haven't always agreed on things and that sometimes I haven't appreciated you fully. We've spent a long time growing together and I've come to think of you as a necessary part of Me. All I can say is, please come back, without you I don't feel whole.

Hark! Thine Umbrella Doth be in Mine Eye

In total I've lived in the moist climes of coastal British Columbia for about three and a half years. I like my walks in our rainy haven. Wet jackets and damp hair remind me of how much better off I am weather-wise than I was growing up (At this moment, Fort St. John is -24 and feels like -34 with the wind chill, what a bunch of masochists). 
The one complaint I do have with our wet weather is people and their umbrellas. I can't be sure whether it is out of frugality, laziness, or some idea about masculinity, but, in all my time living in the South I've never gotten around to owning an umbrella. Whatever reason for my lack of an umbrella, though, I do not believe it is acceptable for those with on to ram it in my face, force me off the sidewalk, or make me leave cover from the rain.
When I'm walking down the sidewalk I don't feel that it should be my responsibility to dodge your rain cover. Just as hockey players are always responsible for their sticks, you are responsible for your umbrellas. Two techniques to save my face from those high-tension pokie-sticks are the lift, where you elevate your umbrella to avoid the heads of other pedestrians, and the tip, where you tip the umbrella to the opposite side. Both techniques are acceptable and have their place in different situations, practice at home before you try these on the road.
Even more terrifying to the un-umbrellaed pedestrian than a single umbrella zombie coming towards you is a pair of them. When two dudes are deep in conversation, carrying their oversized golf umbrellas, walking down the sidewalk, oncoming pedestrians have little to do but hit the proverbial ditch and step into the gutter. The innocent pedestrian is left with soaked shoes and a burning hate for umbrellas and the people who carry them. When you and your friend are walking down the street under the dry confines of your fancy new umbrellas, ensure that you are allowing room for oncoming traffic to easily pass by. For bonus points, consider sharing one umbrella.
The last major umbrella crime is the use of overhangs and bus shelters with your umbrella opened. If you do this, I'm probably wasting my time complaining, you're obviously retarded and beyond any help, kill yourself.
Hopefully we can work this out, umbrella people, we may not be able to love eachother, but at least we don't have to hate eachother.

Now that I have my feet firmly planted back on Vancouver soil, I can go back to criticizing the city I love and love to criticize, and now that I have a blog I can subject more of you to my banter. First victim of my attack: Vancouver Public Library's main branch.

Beautiful as it may be, the library is lacking something, cool. Stepping into the glassy, coliseum-like building you feel openness and energy and are surely thinking the very same thing I thought as I first walked in, "Where's the Daft Punk and shooter girls?" Surely if there some tracks from "Discovery" were cranked and scantily-clad hussies doing body shots, the library would be fast on its way to becoming the cool spot that it dreams to be. Alas, instead of young, hot under-35s grinding eachother on top of vertical files, the typical scene inside the library is something like this.

"Pardon me, grandma, where's the closest spot I can grab a King Kong?"

Ascending on the elevator hoping to find some hidden niche of cool I am startled to find nothing but a seemingly endless supply of students, octogenarians, and bearded guys there for the washrooms and free heat. How could this be? How could one of the coolest looking buildings in the city be filled with some of its lamest inhabitants. There are even computers there so that people can use the internet in public. People, the internet is like masturbation, something we all do (some of us too much), but should only be done behind closed doors with the closest of friends or exceptionally attractive acquaintances. Nothing kills a party like bringing out the internet or saying "I'm going to jerk off in the middle of the room". In order to cure these problems, a cover charge and security staff need to be put in place. In no time the less desirable crowd will vacate. With no more seniors or crusty, questionably-homed people to bore them away, a new hip and affluent crowd will assume their place.

After searching without success for a cool nook in the library I am mortified to find a complete lack of hip. No mirror balls, no strobe lights, no VIP room, no music (though there is an entire section supposedly devoted to it), no girls gone wild, no big spenders, no excess. The only lighting I encounter is from fluorescent tubes, there is nothing less sexy than fluorescent lighting. With this many floors you would imagine that there would be any combination of chill-out rooms, laser shows, DJs, live bands, mosh pits, dance floors, and go-go dancers. NONE! The library's entire concept of entertainment needs a restructuring, with a little thought and effort we could have a veritable one-stop Ibiza in our back yard.

I think that with Vancouver's hosting of the olympics we need to move further towards becoming the capital of culture, civilization, and cool that the rest of the world looks up to us as. The perfect start for that is the re-branding of Vancouver's library as an entertainment mecca for all the world to gaze upon, much as the original Coliseum was.

Everyone Has Given Up

I don't know any astronauts, jet pilots, or rock stars. Kinda strange looking back at primary school, I'm sure that these were the future aspirations of at least half the boys in my class. I feel ripped off. Our teachers told us that we were all special, and could become whatever we wanted. Those bastards. All the years I spent towards my dream career as a firetruck!

Czech this out:

The Search Remains the Same

Happy new years everyone. New beginnings all around. May the past be forgiven.

Seeing as no sugarmamas have stepped forward to supply me with accommodations I've had to start to resort to the rather drastic option of looking, and paying, for my own housing. For other people in other cities this probably isn't the most overwhelming task. However, for a cheap bastard who will only tolerate a flat in one the most desirable neighborhoods (Gastown) of Canada's most expensive city, it's kinda tough. 

The problem not only stems from the expensive location, but is compounded by the fact that landlords are looking for some mythical perfect tenant who possesses numerous qualities I do not. Ads upon ads fill craigslist, demanding applicants be female, Asian, working professionals, students, exchange students, quiet, non-drinking, non-partying, mature, able to turn coal into gold, or a decorated war-veteran. If you don't possess most of these qualities, your options are, either that dump filled with those 5 perpetually stoned douchebags who want somebody who is chill and will hang out with them in their shit-ass living room around their bong collection, or, social housing. Since I can't qualify for the abundant supply of subsidized housing in Gastown (don't get me started) and I'm definitely not living with the douchebags, all that stands between me and homelessness is the grace of my far-to-tolerant friends and family (special thanks to Alissa, Uwe, and Plummer, I love you guys). In the end homelessness might be the wisest option, it would qualify me for that sweet, recently renovated place right above the Lamplighter. 15 second walk to work!

In other news:

Just stumbled upon this, czech it out, unless you're members of my family, that's gross.

Caution: hot sexiness involved

cafeglow   

Excerpt

The root of The Sadism is linked to the need to be felt. Negative feelings manifest themselves in their host very visibly. If love and happiness arrested someone as totally and easily as fear and hate, being kind would be much more rewarding. It's all from an unfeeling boy's desire to be felt. Vicarious emotion, borrowed humanity.

Merry Christmas

It's time! Christmastime, which for me marks the end of my extended world procrastination tour. I'm not sure what it marks for you, and frankly, we'll stick with topics of importance here. We all know the true meaning of Christmas, no matter how hard religious lobbies and the cartoon industry try to force their sentimentalist borderline-socialist interpretation of the holidays down our throat. The true meaning of Christmas is to get sweet stuff showing people how much you love them. The bigger and more expensive the stuff, the more you obviously love someone. On that note, my lovelies, here is an up-to-date list on things that can buy my affection, or at least my attention:


-A condo in downtown Vancouver (at least 600 sq. ft., w/ view of North Shore mountains preferred)
-Round trip flight to Saigon.
-A Lotus Evora S (White)
-Tickets to the 2011 Heritage Classic
-Membership at a slightly-less-than-reputable massage parlor
-A Hu Ming original http://www1.hu-ming.com/all_list/08/list_2008.html
-Lessons in any of the following (Mandarin, French, piano, voice, scam artistry)
-A job
-Hang out with me on New Year's


Don't be shy, whether we've been friends for years or merely high-school acquaintances, it will never be considered inappropriate to share your holiday spirit with me. Merry Christmas to everybody, may next year be even more ridiculous than this one.