I'm currently just outside of Tumbler Ridge, BC where the weather is astonishingly great. I got here a few days ago, after a 3 hour drive from Grande Prairie. The day before I left I drove from south of Grande Cache for 3 hours plus, where the weather was also incredibly great. The days are equipped with a constant blue sky and an infrequent gentle breeze. The warm sun on my face seems like summer and I have time to think about how fortunate I am to spend this winter in a place where the weather is abnormally kind. Sure it's usually in the minus but this winter has been amazing.
I told all my friends this winter would be different because I plan on wearing longjohns. I haven't worn longjohns since grade 4. But she was mighty cold a few times last year, like -38 for a week and a half on one job and pretty much the same on another job which lasted over 2 weeks. I worked with a guy who drank red bull like it was free, he would walk outside with a can and it would be frozen in less than 5 minutes. This occurred several times a night.
Its odd when the sun is beating on your face and its still -32. But this hasn't been the case this winter. I read an article in the Edmonton Sun about a conference on climate control and the keynote speaker was suggesting that we aren't going through global warming. I think he's wrong.
Alberta is known for it's cold winters, yet all I have seen in the past 5 years is that the winters are getting milder.
Do you know scientists haven't come to terms on how oil and gas deposits are formed.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Is he or isn't he?
In a room furnished with 16 luxurious leather chairs positioned one in front of the other, in such a way that you can barely fit into it as the chair ahead of it is so close. Roughly enough space to put your feet down and have 6 inches to spare. These chairs are offset diagonally to allow for all the chairs to fit into a room which is longer than wide. In the front corner of the room is a widescreen TV in which I am watching the olympic coverage, seated one chair back and to my left is the man I seen at supper the night before.
He is an older man perhaps 65 and by the way he walks, not in the best physical condition. He's meek and has a high geeky voice with a nasal twang. He's nearing the end of his life as opposed to beginning it, if you know what I mean. He and his arrivals are late for supper which tells me this is their first day at this camp. Upon seeing him at the supper table surrounded by younger men I assume he's there on some mentoring mission or perhaps even a group outing for some organization - I'm thinking church. But, this being a camp in Alberta especially designed for housing individuals working for Encana in the oil and gas industry, I immediately decide against this first theory of mine.
At breakfast he seems kind and addresses those who walk into the dining area, bidding them a good-morning.
He says fuck a lot, which I don't find odd. This is a camp where the men are hard working, tired and dirty at the end of their day, the work "fuck" is common place. But this doesn't sound right coming out of his mouth. You see I have prejudged him and I expect him to be polite and kind, soft spoken and Grandfather-like.
After I eat my supper I go directly to the TV room and sit one seat back from the TV. The older man is in the room watching the olympics and offers me the control. "No" I say as this is exactly what I wanted to watch.
During our time together he learns I am from Newfoundland and tells me that him and a few friends are planning an RV trip this coming summer. I learn he works for a trucking company transporting drilling rigs from one location to another. He sits in the chair where he farts from time to time. No expression or gesture is made, no reference to it. He is old and farts as though every fart leads to a better life, like it is pertinent to his health at the end of the day. When he gets one out there is an audible sigh of relief. Each gaseous expulsion is like a treat for him, I guess where he is old his guts don't work like they used to and the old adage of farting being a sign of health is now his mantra.
He gives colour commentary during the moguls competition, again he uses the word "fuck" profusely. I now think he says it to sound gruff, just to fit in, in this hard working atmosphere where the man with the deepest, scratchiest voice is king, a place where smoking a pack of cigarettes a day just barely tempers the voice box and years of straight whiskey puts the finish on it. But he doesn't have to act around me, and I try to encourage this with my friendly banter.
The next day I eat my supper and head er straight to the TV room to get my full of the olympic coverage. Half asleep and yawning is the old man laid out on a chair suffering through the final hours of consciousness. After half an hour of sports coverage punctuated by slight conversation I simply say "sure buddy you're better off hittin the sack, you can barely keep your eyes open". He takes my advice and walks to the door saying "see you in the morning".
5:25 the next morning I'm sat at the table eating my oatmeal and in walks the old man with a "good-morning" and sits next to me. On the TV is Sportsdesk(as it was once called and I will forever call it) and they are showing the highlights from the day before. They are covering the NBA allstar game and after a minute the old man looks at me and asks "you watch that Nigger ball?"
"What?" I utter.
"Do you follow Basketball?" he reiterates.
I pause as 5 quick things come to mind. I'm figuring 10 long seconds pass as I try to put my words together and be diplomatic yet strong in my conviction.
Here is a man whom I have pitied and sort of befriended. Without calling him out or making a scene I decide to say in a firm and cold voice, whilst patting him on the shoulder "You know you should keep those racist comments to yourself, not everyone appreciates them"
"No" was all he said.
He said it in a way that I couldn't discern whether he was defiant or concurring with what I said and he had just realized.
I had nothing further to say.
What puzzles me is that the first night of us watching TV together, one of the people who works at the camp walked in the TV room and grabbed a bag of potato chips and smiled acknowledging the 2 of us. The old man commented "that guy's a good fella". "Who? Isaac?" I said in agreeance, while actively making him aware of the worker's name. "Yes" he said saying "he's a good guy"
The funny thing about Isaac is that he's Black.
He is an older man perhaps 65 and by the way he walks, not in the best physical condition. He's meek and has a high geeky voice with a nasal twang. He's nearing the end of his life as opposed to beginning it, if you know what I mean. He and his arrivals are late for supper which tells me this is their first day at this camp. Upon seeing him at the supper table surrounded by younger men I assume he's there on some mentoring mission or perhaps even a group outing for some organization - I'm thinking church. But, this being a camp in Alberta especially designed for housing individuals working for Encana in the oil and gas industry, I immediately decide against this first theory of mine.
At breakfast he seems kind and addresses those who walk into the dining area, bidding them a good-morning.
He says fuck a lot, which I don't find odd. This is a camp where the men are hard working, tired and dirty at the end of their day, the work "fuck" is common place. But this doesn't sound right coming out of his mouth. You see I have prejudged him and I expect him to be polite and kind, soft spoken and Grandfather-like.
After I eat my supper I go directly to the TV room and sit one seat back from the TV. The older man is in the room watching the olympics and offers me the control. "No" I say as this is exactly what I wanted to watch.
During our time together he learns I am from Newfoundland and tells me that him and a few friends are planning an RV trip this coming summer. I learn he works for a trucking company transporting drilling rigs from one location to another. He sits in the chair where he farts from time to time. No expression or gesture is made, no reference to it. He is old and farts as though every fart leads to a better life, like it is pertinent to his health at the end of the day. When he gets one out there is an audible sigh of relief. Each gaseous expulsion is like a treat for him, I guess where he is old his guts don't work like they used to and the old adage of farting being a sign of health is now his mantra.
He gives colour commentary during the moguls competition, again he uses the word "fuck" profusely. I now think he says it to sound gruff, just to fit in, in this hard working atmosphere where the man with the deepest, scratchiest voice is king, a place where smoking a pack of cigarettes a day just barely tempers the voice box and years of straight whiskey puts the finish on it. But he doesn't have to act around me, and I try to encourage this with my friendly banter.
The next day I eat my supper and head er straight to the TV room to get my full of the olympic coverage. Half asleep and yawning is the old man laid out on a chair suffering through the final hours of consciousness. After half an hour of sports coverage punctuated by slight conversation I simply say "sure buddy you're better off hittin the sack, you can barely keep your eyes open". He takes my advice and walks to the door saying "see you in the morning".
5:25 the next morning I'm sat at the table eating my oatmeal and in walks the old man with a "good-morning" and sits next to me. On the TV is Sportsdesk(as it was once called and I will forever call it) and they are showing the highlights from the day before. They are covering the NBA allstar game and after a minute the old man looks at me and asks "you watch that Nigger ball?"
"What?" I utter.
"Do you follow Basketball?" he reiterates.
I pause as 5 quick things come to mind. I'm figuring 10 long seconds pass as I try to put my words together and be diplomatic yet strong in my conviction.
Here is a man whom I have pitied and sort of befriended. Without calling him out or making a scene I decide to say in a firm and cold voice, whilst patting him on the shoulder "You know you should keep those racist comments to yourself, not everyone appreciates them"
"No" was all he said.
He said it in a way that I couldn't discern whether he was defiant or concurring with what I said and he had just realized.
I had nothing further to say.
What puzzles me is that the first night of us watching TV together, one of the people who works at the camp walked in the TV room and grabbed a bag of potato chips and smiled acknowledging the 2 of us. The old man commented "that guy's a good fella". "Who? Isaac?" I said in agreeance, while actively making him aware of the worker's name. "Yes" he said saying "he's a good guy"
The funny thing about Isaac is that he's Black.
Friday, February 5, 2010
He has seen it all!
Know it alls, aren't they the best? Consummately talked about after they leaveand a pain in everyone's ass. Especially other know it alls!
I was working with this one know it all who said he has seen WD-40 freeze. Now my co-worker and I found this quite hard to believe, we've been around some cold situations. Naturally my co-worker and I countered his comment, suggesting it would have to be pretty cold in order for this to happen. To which he said "I've seen it happen".
Now what brought this all on was our canister of WD-40 not working/spraying in -22 weather. The problem as we soon found out was that there was ice around the nozzle preventing the lubricant from coming out.
As soon as Ginger (as I will now refer to him) seen that the canister was not spraying he didn't suggest but told us that it was frozen. We obviously didn't think this was the case as we have both used this product in temperatures below -30. Given our experience with WD-40 we had to argue against it.
Another instance was when we were talking about hunting and bottling meat. He offered that he eats it straight from the bottle, not even heated. This was all fine and well. During this conversation he says that "rabbit meat isn't really good for you" because it "doesn't contain any protein". Well I knew that was totally incorrect right off the bat! I told him that he has received some bad information. No he says, "there's no protein in rabbit". I told him that it was impossible, that lots of things have protein, "Christ dude" I said "even grass has protein", but to say an animal doesn't have any protein is blasphemous.
Me being me and knowing I was right I argued with him. See I used to be a know it all too. I had a fucking comment to say about everything or a fact to offer that people rarely gave a shit about. I rid myself of this sometime ago, but the temptation is always there, I just let it pass - knowing how bad it looks. My co-worker and I were in on this arguement and as much as Ginger tried to convince us of his "bad second hand news" - as I called it, we just would not give in. Normally during our days working together we would let Ginger go on and on about his superior knowledge and not challenge him since it made the day go longer - but it added quite nicely for something to laugh and talk about when we got back to our office. Realizing it was futile to continue arguing we let him have the last word. His last words and which seemed to me to be his sure fire way of substantiating this claim was that, and I quote "I was talking to someone who works at the hospital"
By the way WD-40 does in fact freeze. It's freezing point according to my second hand information is -73 degrees celsius.
I was working with this one know it all who said he has seen WD-40 freeze. Now my co-worker and I found this quite hard to believe, we've been around some cold situations. Naturally my co-worker and I countered his comment, suggesting it would have to be pretty cold in order for this to happen. To which he said "I've seen it happen".
Now what brought this all on was our canister of WD-40 not working/spraying in -22 weather. The problem as we soon found out was that there was ice around the nozzle preventing the lubricant from coming out.
As soon as Ginger (as I will now refer to him) seen that the canister was not spraying he didn't suggest but told us that it was frozen. We obviously didn't think this was the case as we have both used this product in temperatures below -30. Given our experience with WD-40 we had to argue against it.
Another instance was when we were talking about hunting and bottling meat. He offered that he eats it straight from the bottle, not even heated. This was all fine and well. During this conversation he says that "rabbit meat isn't really good for you" because it "doesn't contain any protein". Well I knew that was totally incorrect right off the bat! I told him that he has received some bad information. No he says, "there's no protein in rabbit". I told him that it was impossible, that lots of things have protein, "Christ dude" I said "even grass has protein", but to say an animal doesn't have any protein is blasphemous.
Me being me and knowing I was right I argued with him. See I used to be a know it all too. I had a fucking comment to say about everything or a fact to offer that people rarely gave a shit about. I rid myself of this sometime ago, but the temptation is always there, I just let it pass - knowing how bad it looks. My co-worker and I were in on this arguement and as much as Ginger tried to convince us of his "bad second hand news" - as I called it, we just would not give in. Normally during our days working together we would let Ginger go on and on about his superior knowledge and not challenge him since it made the day go longer - but it added quite nicely for something to laugh and talk about when we got back to our office. Realizing it was futile to continue arguing we let him have the last word. His last words and which seemed to me to be his sure fire way of substantiating this claim was that, and I quote "I was talking to someone who works at the hospital"
By the way WD-40 does in fact freeze. It's freezing point according to my second hand information is -73 degrees celsius.
The misunderstanding
I remember as a wee man, one day a Mr. Parsons was at my home when I arrived from school. He was making a brick mantle and shit behind our woodstove downstairs in the basement. I spent - what seemed like- all day with him asking questions and watching his trowel lift and place motar on the wall and lay brick neatly, one atop the other in staggered rows. There was a pleasant smell of brick dust and mixed motar, a musty smell, like that of my grandparents' vegetable cellar. The sound the trowel made as it scooped up the grey mud againt the metal board was satisfying every yearning my ears where in need of. The sound was complicated with bass and treble it had a pitch and a particular rhythm to it which I could count as Mr. Parsons without missing a beat, spread motar along the brown brick. The scraping of metal with the grit of the mud in between was nearly hypnotizing. The mud was prepared in a heavy plastic which lay on the floor protecting the carpet. Many times I bent over to smell the mixture on the plastic and stick not only my finger but tissue, wood, crayons and even slathered some over a piece of paper, all to see the after effects.
I had certainly spent an hour and a half with Mr. Parsons talking and asking him about his work in as much as a 9 year old kid's comprehension would allow. I found it interesting and for that short time, him and I were friends. Our conversation was light but mutually respected, I asked questions and he gave answers. I made sure too, not to pester him as he was there to perform a job. I remember joking around in the simple way a boy and a man could, so it was some surprise to me when my Dad came home and I made an "off" comment.
When my Dad arrived I stayed there in the basement while they made small talk and when Mr. Parsons was finished I made the comment: "that doesn't look very good", I said it with a tone that - between friends - would be easily discernible and taken as a tease. Well my Father didn't think so. He was nearly appauled at his little boy's comment and thoroughly embarrassed. I was told to apologise to the man and was further repremanded apres.
I tried to explain to my Dad that it was taken all wrong that I was just joking with him, teasing him in fact. I pleaded my case right there in front of my Father and Mr. Parsons. I suggested that it was OK to make a comment considering I had spent that time with him and was able to say such a thing and it not be taken seriously. I mean I was kidding anyways, I guess I had the tone wrong. You know how kids try to emulate grown-ups and make uncomfortable comments or converse in such a way that it's obvious they spend a lot of time with people not of their age. Comments that you would expect a 60 years old to say spoken through a youngsters mouth are often curiously peculiar and humourous - like a 2 year old saying "fuck".
At that time I didn't know how to explain to my Dad that I had build a friendship with Mr. Parsons, I was years away from using the word rapport which would have summed it up. I thought I had created a certain rapport with Mr. Parsons which would allow such comments to be passed of as easily as I tell my friend Parsons to go fuck himself, he knows I don't mean it! Without my being able to solidly justify my actions to my Father I must certainly been seen as a brat - which I most definitely was not. Although many babysitters would disagree - but look at me now - I'm a nice guy, and well behaved.
What was further troubling was that Mr. fucking Brick Layer wouldn't come to my defense, I even said to him to tell my Dad the difference but he wouldn't after my Father told me not to be disrespectful. Maybe he felt bad, maybe he didn't have the self-confidence to speak up, maybe he felt guilty or maybe he didn't think it was an appropriate comment. I bet if I made the comment before my Dad showed up it would have went over quite the way I imagined it would, I'm sure I did everything according to normal conversational rules, perhaps it was the fact that it came from a youngster. Nonetheless I got in shit for something which was meant to be taken lightly.
I had certainly spent an hour and a half with Mr. Parsons talking and asking him about his work in as much as a 9 year old kid's comprehension would allow. I found it interesting and for that short time, him and I were friends. Our conversation was light but mutually respected, I asked questions and he gave answers. I made sure too, not to pester him as he was there to perform a job. I remember joking around in the simple way a boy and a man could, so it was some surprise to me when my Dad came home and I made an "off" comment.
When my Dad arrived I stayed there in the basement while they made small talk and when Mr. Parsons was finished I made the comment: "that doesn't look very good", I said it with a tone that - between friends - would be easily discernible and taken as a tease. Well my Father didn't think so. He was nearly appauled at his little boy's comment and thoroughly embarrassed. I was told to apologise to the man and was further repremanded apres.
I tried to explain to my Dad that it was taken all wrong that I was just joking with him, teasing him in fact. I pleaded my case right there in front of my Father and Mr. Parsons. I suggested that it was OK to make a comment considering I had spent that time with him and was able to say such a thing and it not be taken seriously. I mean I was kidding anyways, I guess I had the tone wrong. You know how kids try to emulate grown-ups and make uncomfortable comments or converse in such a way that it's obvious they spend a lot of time with people not of their age. Comments that you would expect a 60 years old to say spoken through a youngsters mouth are often curiously peculiar and humourous - like a 2 year old saying "fuck".
At that time I didn't know how to explain to my Dad that I had build a friendship with Mr. Parsons, I was years away from using the word rapport which would have summed it up. I thought I had created a certain rapport with Mr. Parsons which would allow such comments to be passed of as easily as I tell my friend Parsons to go fuck himself, he knows I don't mean it! Without my being able to solidly justify my actions to my Father I must certainly been seen as a brat - which I most definitely was not. Although many babysitters would disagree - but look at me now - I'm a nice guy, and well behaved.
What was further troubling was that Mr. fucking Brick Layer wouldn't come to my defense, I even said to him to tell my Dad the difference but he wouldn't after my Father told me not to be disrespectful. Maybe he felt bad, maybe he didn't have the self-confidence to speak up, maybe he felt guilty or maybe he didn't think it was an appropriate comment. I bet if I made the comment before my Dad showed up it would have went over quite the way I imagined it would, I'm sure I did everything according to normal conversational rules, perhaps it was the fact that it came from a youngster. Nonetheless I got in shit for something which was meant to be taken lightly.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
What is up with that?
Crow shits: translated = pay day. That I do not get. What does crow poop and payment have in common? I've heard it a few times and the first time I had no clue what it meant. But people just go with it, I don't get the analogy, or is it even an analogy. I simply don't know.
That's like the saying "I gotta piss like a racehorse". I've asked my friends what it means, and some have said that the trainer prevents the horse from urinating until after the race, which makes no sense to me. If you had to pee real bad would you want to run the 100 meter? Not to mention the extra weight.
I've even got the response that race horses pee a lot after a race hense the saying - but why? wouldn't they be slightly dehydrated from the exercise and unable to pee?
Then someone said that horses pee really fast. But who has timed a horse for the time it takes to pee and compare that with the volume of pee to come up with a number that far exceeds some other animal? But then to come up with that it means other animals have been tested for speed peeing. So I guess the speed at which a horse urinates is so impressive it beats every other animal - hands down. But not only did the horse win but it won to such a degree that people started saying, "man I gotta piss like a racehorse".
My theory is that race horses are fast and people have taken that attribute of the horse and united it with having to pee and usually when you have to pee bad it comes out fast. But then I was thinking, horses are relatively fast, but jet planes are faster, so are sports cars and superbikes. This lead me to believe that the saying actually predated jet turbine technology and that of internal combustion engines.
Well why didn't they use the saying "I have to pee like a bullet" because bullets are retarded fast, but maybe the saying even predated that. I'm not going to get into arrows and slingshots and medieval shit, suffice it to say I think I'm wrong too.Please advise
Worn to a tread bear? Worn to a thread bare? My Mom says this when she's exhausted or everyday when we were kids. As a child I used to think of a Bear skin rug or Bear fur rug - which would be more practical. I imagined a rug which had been walked over, one which lays on the floor and that my Mother assimilated with this rug to the affect that she felt used or that we had worn her down or exhausted her.
Later I thought of a piece of clothing, blanket or some fabric that has been used or worn. Worn so long that it has no longer maintained it's weave and the underlaying threads were easily seen. Maybe it's even a tire tread and the same goes for that. Last year I asked Mom what she was referring to when she used the phrase but she, like most never really thought about it and just called it a "figure of speech".
Smart vs.Smurt. When I lived in Pickering Ontario our grade 7 teacher asked us to write a story, and in it I used the term "smurt" as I spelled it - according to the way it was pronounced. When she corrected it she edited it and it was spelled "smart". I promptly went to her desk and asked her about the correction saying that in Newfoundland we use a word to describe a particular pain, that word being "smurt". She told me that it was actually spelled S M A R T and pronounced as such, suggesting that due to the dialects in Newfoundland it was somehow corrupted. I refuse to say something smarts, because I feel like an idiot saying it. I still resolve to saying S M U R T. It just sounds appropriate.
That's like the saying "I gotta piss like a racehorse". I've asked my friends what it means, and some have said that the trainer prevents the horse from urinating until after the race, which makes no sense to me. If you had to pee real bad would you want to run the 100 meter? Not to mention the extra weight.
I've even got the response that race horses pee a lot after a race hense the saying - but why? wouldn't they be slightly dehydrated from the exercise and unable to pee?
Then someone said that horses pee really fast. But who has timed a horse for the time it takes to pee and compare that with the volume of pee to come up with a number that far exceeds some other animal? But then to come up with that it means other animals have been tested for speed peeing. So I guess the speed at which a horse urinates is so impressive it beats every other animal - hands down. But not only did the horse win but it won to such a degree that people started saying, "man I gotta piss like a racehorse".
My theory is that race horses are fast and people have taken that attribute of the horse and united it with having to pee and usually when you have to pee bad it comes out fast. But then I was thinking, horses are relatively fast, but jet planes are faster, so are sports cars and superbikes. This lead me to believe that the saying actually predated jet turbine technology and that of internal combustion engines.
Well why didn't they use the saying "I have to pee like a bullet" because bullets are retarded fast, but maybe the saying even predated that. I'm not going to get into arrows and slingshots and medieval shit, suffice it to say I think I'm wrong too.Please advise
Worn to a tread bear? Worn to a thread bare? My Mom says this when she's exhausted or everyday when we were kids. As a child I used to think of a Bear skin rug or Bear fur rug - which would be more practical. I imagined a rug which had been walked over, one which lays on the floor and that my Mother assimilated with this rug to the affect that she felt used or that we had worn her down or exhausted her.
Later I thought of a piece of clothing, blanket or some fabric that has been used or worn. Worn so long that it has no longer maintained it's weave and the underlaying threads were easily seen. Maybe it's even a tire tread and the same goes for that. Last year I asked Mom what she was referring to when she used the phrase but she, like most never really thought about it and just called it a "figure of speech".
Smart vs.Smurt. When I lived in Pickering Ontario our grade 7 teacher asked us to write a story, and in it I used the term "smurt" as I spelled it - according to the way it was pronounced. When she corrected it she edited it and it was spelled "smart". I promptly went to her desk and asked her about the correction saying that in Newfoundland we use a word to describe a particular pain, that word being "smurt". She told me that it was actually spelled S M A R T and pronounced as such, suggesting that due to the dialects in Newfoundland it was somehow corrupted. I refuse to say something smarts, because I feel like an idiot saying it. I still resolve to saying S M U R T. It just sounds appropriate.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Light one up luh!
Years ago I got a ride home from town to Bay Roberts with my Mother's cousin and her husband. Both of them enjoy a coffee, and like many people a good hearty smoke don't go astray wit a cup a Tims! And boy did they like smoking. The 2 of em must have polished off 5 each on the way home. Lucky for me it was only an hour drive and not longer, otherwise I may have jumped out of the fuckin car.
I remember walking up to the car and opening the door to a stale smoke smell. I said hello and politely sat back and put on my seatbelt. A seatbelt which had a distinct smell, one I assume that had developed after witnessing the death of many "rollies". I didn't want the seatbelt touching my skin so all the way out I was adjusting my coat so that it cushioned me against this gross fabric restraint system. A restraint which prevents me from getting launched out the front window - which is what would have been better than what I endured on the way out.
The first cigarette was smoked as soon as we left the parking lot of the Arts and Administration Building, a full 10 seconds after me getting into the car. They took turns smoking it seemed, as in one would smoke and then the other would light one up apres the other is done. Reading that, it would make sense to assume that they only had one smoke going at one time in order to keep smoke out of the car via the widow. But this wasn't the case as they didn't roll down the window at all. They did in essense "hot box" the car with cigarette smoke.
These 2 individuals are known for having the heat up pretty high in their home, when you go in there it's like walking into a cabin where the wood stove has been stogged full all night. Their car is no exception. The heat is up on "buss" in the car which forces me to take off my coat which has been a barrier between me and the smoke infused seatbelt. This bothers me.
The feeling of overwhelming heat is very frustrating, but even more frustrating is the omnipresent smoke which has no way out of the car. One would think the owners of the car would be aware of the stench of the car due to smoking and may want to avoid it, but this too is not the case. They are infact smoking all the way out the bay with out a 3 minute break. Her then him, her then him her then him. It was like a pacifier to them, as though the car could not run unless there was a cigarette going at the same time.
Why? I think to myself are they not opening the window while smoking. This is disgusting. This smell alone chokes me, it chokes me because it's so dry but as well because as soon as it hits my throat I nearly swallow as a reflex as the smoke is so thick. I don't even want to breathe, I started holding my breath thinking it wouldn't be so bad, this wasn't the best idea because I'd get a headrush as soon as I inhaled this caustic mix. Part of me wished I would pass out and maybe they wouldn't realize until I was in my driveway.
By now I'm nearly nauseous as the dry super heated smoke circling the inside of the car entering my lungs starts to sting as all moisture which was in my nose and throat has now been exhausted. I can only assume that for the 2 in the front must have increased mucous production thickened by years of living in a dry hot house and smoking tens of thousands of cigarettes over the years. I am not so fortunate and wish I could eat the snow clumped along the shoulder of the Trans Canada Highway.
At first I was breathing through my nose figuring it would be best. Thinking I was filtering some of the smoke and the particles in the air and perhaps slightly moisturizing the air going into my lungs. I decided against it when the smell started to give me a headache. I was fit to be tied. Tied up and beat to death.
Hot smoke searing it's way into my lungs, a sensation of taste in my lungs which would remain for hours after my ordeal. A dry winter morning, a little after 9 am, stuck in a viciously hot car which alone stinks of stale smoke. This hot air tainted with a heavy gross enrapturing smoke that permeates my skin and hair and all the clothes I have on. When I finally arrive home and thank them for this delightful ride home I make love to the fresh air. Only now when I inhale through my nose there is a stale remnant left behind. Smoke has now entered my pores and has attached itself to my inner nostrils so that every breath is now mixed with a constant reminder of why I should not smoke.
I remember walking up to the car and opening the door to a stale smoke smell. I said hello and politely sat back and put on my seatbelt. A seatbelt which had a distinct smell, one I assume that had developed after witnessing the death of many "rollies". I didn't want the seatbelt touching my skin so all the way out I was adjusting my coat so that it cushioned me against this gross fabric restraint system. A restraint which prevents me from getting launched out the front window - which is what would have been better than what I endured on the way out.
The first cigarette was smoked as soon as we left the parking lot of the Arts and Administration Building, a full 10 seconds after me getting into the car. They took turns smoking it seemed, as in one would smoke and then the other would light one up apres the other is done. Reading that, it would make sense to assume that they only had one smoke going at one time in order to keep smoke out of the car via the widow. But this wasn't the case as they didn't roll down the window at all. They did in essense "hot box" the car with cigarette smoke.
These 2 individuals are known for having the heat up pretty high in their home, when you go in there it's like walking into a cabin where the wood stove has been stogged full all night. Their car is no exception. The heat is up on "buss" in the car which forces me to take off my coat which has been a barrier between me and the smoke infused seatbelt. This bothers me.
The feeling of overwhelming heat is very frustrating, but even more frustrating is the omnipresent smoke which has no way out of the car. One would think the owners of the car would be aware of the stench of the car due to smoking and may want to avoid it, but this too is not the case. They are infact smoking all the way out the bay with out a 3 minute break. Her then him, her then him her then him. It was like a pacifier to them, as though the car could not run unless there was a cigarette going at the same time.
Why? I think to myself are they not opening the window while smoking. This is disgusting. This smell alone chokes me, it chokes me because it's so dry but as well because as soon as it hits my throat I nearly swallow as a reflex as the smoke is so thick. I don't even want to breathe, I started holding my breath thinking it wouldn't be so bad, this wasn't the best idea because I'd get a headrush as soon as I inhaled this caustic mix. Part of me wished I would pass out and maybe they wouldn't realize until I was in my driveway.
By now I'm nearly nauseous as the dry super heated smoke circling the inside of the car entering my lungs starts to sting as all moisture which was in my nose and throat has now been exhausted. I can only assume that for the 2 in the front must have increased mucous production thickened by years of living in a dry hot house and smoking tens of thousands of cigarettes over the years. I am not so fortunate and wish I could eat the snow clumped along the shoulder of the Trans Canada Highway.
At first I was breathing through my nose figuring it would be best. Thinking I was filtering some of the smoke and the particles in the air and perhaps slightly moisturizing the air going into my lungs. I decided against it when the smell started to give me a headache. I was fit to be tied. Tied up and beat to death.
Hot smoke searing it's way into my lungs, a sensation of taste in my lungs which would remain for hours after my ordeal. A dry winter morning, a little after 9 am, stuck in a viciously hot car which alone stinks of stale smoke. This hot air tainted with a heavy gross enrapturing smoke that permeates my skin and hair and all the clothes I have on. When I finally arrive home and thank them for this delightful ride home I make love to the fresh air. Only now when I inhale through my nose there is a stale remnant left behind. Smoke has now entered my pores and has attached itself to my inner nostrils so that every breath is now mixed with a constant reminder of why I should not smoke.
What kind of tire
The other day I noticed something about a guy I've been around for the past week. I noticed as he exited a trailer and the trailer shifted due to his weight.
This guy had the largest love handles I've ever seen. I wouldn't even call em love handles. It was a big spare tire. But when we say spare tire what kind of tire are we referring to because I always considered it a car tire. But this guy brought it to a new level for me. An upgrade if you will.
This guy's spare tire didn't come off a car, it didn't come off a regular truck. By the looks of what what sitting on his hips he must have got his spare tire off a friggin Monster Truck.
This guy had the largest love handles I've ever seen. I wouldn't even call em love handles. It was a big spare tire. But when we say spare tire what kind of tire are we referring to because I always considered it a car tire. But this guy brought it to a new level for me. An upgrade if you will.
This guy's spare tire didn't come off a car, it didn't come off a regular truck. By the looks of what what sitting on his hips he must have got his spare tire off a friggin Monster Truck.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Riff Raff
I never used the phrase "Riff Raff" I thought it was too condescending. It was a word I perferred not to use because I didn't feel people deserved to be called such.
Now I have an appreciation for the phrase. From using it colloquially in Newfoundland and in particular out the bay, it's not as condescending as I felt, or at least not the way Brigus uses it and to a greater extent the person who said it today. I realize it is a word reserved for people who aren't of the greatest moral fibre, but not necessarily those who deserve to put down because of their current situation in life.
Riff Raff are some of those whom I have witnessed since I've been coming to Alberta for work. Don't get me wrong there are "Riff Raff" everywhere.
I usually fly from St.John's to Calgary and spend a few days with friends Joe and Maya, and then travel to Grande Prairie. Being amongst friends when in a strange place eases me into being away from home.
Anyways when I travel to GP from Calgary I used to take a Grey Hound bus. This I found was very stressful, not to mention the 12 hour ride from midnight to noon and not getting any sleep. Joe drops me off outside in the freezing cold and I grab my 2 bags weighing in at just over 100 pounds and throw my napsack over my shoulder. I say goodbye to Joe and Maya give them each a hug. As I walk from the vehicle toward the door my anxiety kicks in.
The whole ordeal is rather unpleasant. It entails walking into a not so clean - fairly cold - bus station or depot as it is properly called. When there I usually go straight to the ticket window to verify the time of departure and get ready for a shitty travel experience. I sit on a hard plastic seat and notice the cold surrounding my feet like a fog. Keeping your belongings close to you is important in a place like this as you feel the threat of theft. I notice the people around me, how they're dressed, what they're carrying and their overall mood. I try to look like I belong there as my mind tells me I don't. Why? I'm not sure.
The annoucement for departure doesn't come over an intercom but rather the subtle removing of a barricade by the driver who also checks your ticket and directs you through the loading door. Carrying a large clean hockey bag and large clean duffle bag and a napsack is very awkward and inconvenient, I think to myself next time I will pack lighter. I walk into a damp, cold, wet and dirty loading area where some guy grabs your stuff and puts it on the wet dirty concrete, this increases my anxiety, especially since I'm 100% sure my baggage will arrive at my destination.
I walk onto the bus and look for a seat, walking past people who are all seated next to the window with their belongings taking up the seat - a clear sign they don't want you sitting next to them. As more people come onto the bus most of those people are obligated to let someone sit in the seat next to them. This perturbs me, because in a situation like this I really value my personal space.
So we get going and making all the stops along the way. Towns that hardly seem like towns. Places that have long gone to sleep. The sound of the brakes bleeding off air and the hum and sound of the motor changing gears is a constant. Every 20 minutes at least is permeated by a stop, they call it the milk run. Many times the driver has to drop off packages as the bus also tows a trailer. Greyhound runs a courier service and you are fully aware of this when the bus stops and no one gets on or off. It's just another interuption allow the way, worse for some who are lucky enough to catch a wink here and there.
Every couple of hours the driver stops for the "Riff Raff" to file out into the severely sub-zero sting of an Alberta winter for a - must have - cigarette. Watching from the window you can barely make out the smoke rising up into the air slightly illuminated by the paltry amount of light coming from the street lamps.
Finally we arrive in Edmonton where all must get off the bus, retrieve your luggage and sit in the Downtown Edmonton depot. Again a cold place both in temperature and atmosphere, places like these are rarely nice places to be. It's a transition place, a place of coming and going but never staying. You just simply endure.
Back on the road again and I notice some new arrivals. This one woman has obviously slept on her hair as it is terribley out of whack or at least I think it is. She has brought with her in one hand a large green garbage bag which I assume her belongings are in. In her other hand a multi task is under way. She is balancing a purse on her shoulder, holding a soiled looking pillow and a warm, flat 710ml bottle of Coca Cola Classic. Mmm I can just taste it, and that gross sensation in your mouth well after drinking your last drop. I bet her breath smells bad, I will also bet she's gonna fire up a smoke the first chance she gets. Is she Riff Raff or someone who hasn't had all the opportunities some of us have been afforded?
Now I have an appreciation for the phrase. From using it colloquially in Newfoundland and in particular out the bay, it's not as condescending as I felt, or at least not the way Brigus uses it and to a greater extent the person who said it today. I realize it is a word reserved for people who aren't of the greatest moral fibre, but not necessarily those who deserve to put down because of their current situation in life.
Riff Raff are some of those whom I have witnessed since I've been coming to Alberta for work. Don't get me wrong there are "Riff Raff" everywhere.
I usually fly from St.John's to Calgary and spend a few days with friends Joe and Maya, and then travel to Grande Prairie. Being amongst friends when in a strange place eases me into being away from home.
Anyways when I travel to GP from Calgary I used to take a Grey Hound bus. This I found was very stressful, not to mention the 12 hour ride from midnight to noon and not getting any sleep. Joe drops me off outside in the freezing cold and I grab my 2 bags weighing in at just over 100 pounds and throw my napsack over my shoulder. I say goodbye to Joe and Maya give them each a hug. As I walk from the vehicle toward the door my anxiety kicks in.
The whole ordeal is rather unpleasant. It entails walking into a not so clean - fairly cold - bus station or depot as it is properly called. When there I usually go straight to the ticket window to verify the time of departure and get ready for a shitty travel experience. I sit on a hard plastic seat and notice the cold surrounding my feet like a fog. Keeping your belongings close to you is important in a place like this as you feel the threat of theft. I notice the people around me, how they're dressed, what they're carrying and their overall mood. I try to look like I belong there as my mind tells me I don't. Why? I'm not sure.
The annoucement for departure doesn't come over an intercom but rather the subtle removing of a barricade by the driver who also checks your ticket and directs you through the loading door. Carrying a large clean hockey bag and large clean duffle bag and a napsack is very awkward and inconvenient, I think to myself next time I will pack lighter. I walk into a damp, cold, wet and dirty loading area where some guy grabs your stuff and puts it on the wet dirty concrete, this increases my anxiety, especially since I'm 100% sure my baggage will arrive at my destination.
I walk onto the bus and look for a seat, walking past people who are all seated next to the window with their belongings taking up the seat - a clear sign they don't want you sitting next to them. As more people come onto the bus most of those people are obligated to let someone sit in the seat next to them. This perturbs me, because in a situation like this I really value my personal space.
So we get going and making all the stops along the way. Towns that hardly seem like towns. Places that have long gone to sleep. The sound of the brakes bleeding off air and the hum and sound of the motor changing gears is a constant. Every 20 minutes at least is permeated by a stop, they call it the milk run. Many times the driver has to drop off packages as the bus also tows a trailer. Greyhound runs a courier service and you are fully aware of this when the bus stops and no one gets on or off. It's just another interuption allow the way, worse for some who are lucky enough to catch a wink here and there.
Every couple of hours the driver stops for the "Riff Raff" to file out into the severely sub-zero sting of an Alberta winter for a - must have - cigarette. Watching from the window you can barely make out the smoke rising up into the air slightly illuminated by the paltry amount of light coming from the street lamps.
Finally we arrive in Edmonton where all must get off the bus, retrieve your luggage and sit in the Downtown Edmonton depot. Again a cold place both in temperature and atmosphere, places like these are rarely nice places to be. It's a transition place, a place of coming and going but never staying. You just simply endure.
Back on the road again and I notice some new arrivals. This one woman has obviously slept on her hair as it is terribley out of whack or at least I think it is. She has brought with her in one hand a large green garbage bag which I assume her belongings are in. In her other hand a multi task is under way. She is balancing a purse on her shoulder, holding a soiled looking pillow and a warm, flat 710ml bottle of Coca Cola Classic. Mmm I can just taste it, and that gross sensation in your mouth well after drinking your last drop. I bet her breath smells bad, I will also bet she's gonna fire up a smoke the first chance she gets. Is she Riff Raff or someone who hasn't had all the opportunities some of us have been afforded?
Thursday, January 14, 2010
A visit from home
So I work in Alberta in the oil and gas industry. I am currently working on an oil well. During the length of these jobs many service companies come onto the site to perform work. Today we perforated a zone 1800 metres downhole. Specialists come to execute this task as it requires explosives and a great deal of technical data. In the "patch" we call them wireliners or slickliners or e-liners. They usually consist of a 3 man crew.
During our safety meeting this morning the wireline supervisor addressed all of us on site. He spoke in an accent which I recognized, it nearly brought a smile to my face. After we broke and went back to our respective office trailers I mentioned to my co-worker this accent which was familiar. I wanted to approach this a couple ways but I decided to go with the most appropriate avenue. I will tell you what I was gonna do.
The wireline truck is a large 3 axle truck that requires airbrakes. In order to get into the operating area of the truck you have to climb up 3 steps and open a door to enter the area.
I noticed the 2 other workers were outside doing work and the supervisor was inside the truck preparing to log data. I wanted to abruptly open the door and say "Where's the fuckin Newfies to?". I instead opened the door after a polite - heads up - knock and said "where exactly are you from?
"Corner Brook" he replies followed by "where you from?"
"Bay Roberts" I proudly answer.
"Two of the boys are from home too!"
"Deadly" I say, trying not to smile.
It warmed my heart to know that I would be in the presence of my fellow islanders for the next few hours. That morning I spend talking to these guys speaking proudly in my Newfoundland accent. I was treated with great respect and returned it with the politeness and kindness that was afforded me. I can honestly say nothing pleases me more than when I have to go away from my homeland and arrive at a job site where I will be in contact with other Newfoundlanders. It's almost like going home. It's a feeling that keeps me nearer when I am farther away.
When you share a common culture with people no matter where you are or what it is, it will always bring people closer together.
During our safety meeting this morning the wireline supervisor addressed all of us on site. He spoke in an accent which I recognized, it nearly brought a smile to my face. After we broke and went back to our respective office trailers I mentioned to my co-worker this accent which was familiar. I wanted to approach this a couple ways but I decided to go with the most appropriate avenue. I will tell you what I was gonna do.
The wireline truck is a large 3 axle truck that requires airbrakes. In order to get into the operating area of the truck you have to climb up 3 steps and open a door to enter the area.
I noticed the 2 other workers were outside doing work and the supervisor was inside the truck preparing to log data. I wanted to abruptly open the door and say "Where's the fuckin Newfies to?". I instead opened the door after a polite - heads up - knock and said "where exactly are you from?
"Corner Brook" he replies followed by "where you from?"
"Bay Roberts" I proudly answer.
"Two of the boys are from home too!"
"Deadly" I say, trying not to smile.
It warmed my heart to know that I would be in the presence of my fellow islanders for the next few hours. That morning I spend talking to these guys speaking proudly in my Newfoundland accent. I was treated with great respect and returned it with the politeness and kindness that was afforded me. I can honestly say nothing pleases me more than when I have to go away from my homeland and arrive at a job site where I will be in contact with other Newfoundlanders. It's almost like going home. It's a feeling that keeps me nearer when I am farther away.
When you share a common culture with people no matter where you are or what it is, it will always bring people closer together.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Did you lose your hands?
I walked into a room today just as this guy was getting ready to leave. As he is getting ready to go I notice he's doing something with his phone. He's talking but from his tone I can tell he isn't talking to another human. He is actually talking to his phone and he is giving it instructions. He says "call" followed by "home". Now what's obvious is that he's using voice command to get the phone to dial a number for him. As he exits the room he says "home" once again, repeated by "home" only seconds later. I listen as he walks through the building on his way out and again I hear him say "home".
Now 2 things have possibly happened here. Either he has forgotten his own home phone number or he's just too lazy to dial the friggin number.
Is this person really that dependant upon technology that he has found it unnecessary to train his phone number to memory? Because I gotta say this guy looked kinda stupid talking to his phone, I mean jesus it was right on his hand. It's not as though he had fallen and couldn't get up.
I know most people now take their phones with them wherever they go. A lot of people have over 100 numbers programed into their phones. I admit, I don't know the phone number to either of my brothers, but I sure as hell don't need to tell the phone to dial for me!
Now 2 things have possibly happened here. Either he has forgotten his own home phone number or he's just too lazy to dial the friggin number.
Is this person really that dependant upon technology that he has found it unnecessary to train his phone number to memory? Because I gotta say this guy looked kinda stupid talking to his phone, I mean jesus it was right on his hand. It's not as though he had fallen and couldn't get up.
I know most people now take their phones with them wherever they go. A lot of people have over 100 numbers programed into their phones. I admit, I don't know the phone number to either of my brothers, but I sure as hell don't need to tell the phone to dial for me!
Remember that scratch and sniff paper?
I remember when I was in grade 4 and we had a substitute teacher. She must not have had much time to prepare for class when they called her to come in because I'm sure she never brushed her teeth. I base this on how bad her breath smelled. It was like smelling a fousty toilet. My theory was further solidified when she started passing out these quizzes which were done off on the duplicator. The duplicator used a chemical that smelled kinda funny, which we all smelled, it was somewhere between smelling gas and a pleasant alcohol aroma. Needless to say we all smelled these papers whenever they were handed out. And of course I smelled mine. But when I smelled it, the pleasant aroma was over powered by a stink. A stink which came from when she licked her finger to get a grip of the paper as she passed them out to my classmates and I. I even seen the smudge her finger left, and from this emanated the nastiest stench I have ever smelled up until that point in my life.
With that said I'm in the first aid class and the instructor is going around distributing hand-outs. As he does he's licking his thumb to grip the paper. He doesn't lick his thumb for every piece of paper, but he does for each one that he passes to me. I watch closely at his gross mustachioed mouth and the protruding tongue that lathers his thumb. I am drawn back to my mortified days of grade 4 and that disgusting smell. I observe where on the page his thumb has been placed to make sure my skin does not come into contact with his saliva. I am further disturbed as throughout the day multiple papers are passed out and each has a fresh batch of saliva transferred from his thumb.
I'm starting to get grossed out. I don't easily get gorssed out but body fluids do it to me. I noticed yesterday on one occasion that he picked his ear as he was addressing the class. I mean everyone is watching him right? He is the instructor in front of the class. He picks his ear and he must have been successful in what he was doing because he found something in there and examined it as he was talking. Well of course all my attention shifted to where his attention shifted - which was on whatever was betwixt his fingers. He examined it, squeezed it with his nails and rolled it, surveying every surface of what was surely disgusting.
Well today he did it again. Same thing. He was addressing the class when he stuck his pinkie into his ear, rooted around and extracted another gem. His buggy eyes shifted to what was in his fingers, as did my eyes. He played with it again, examining it, prodding it, trying to decipher exactly what it was. I would have became ill if he continued any longer, but he resolved to just discard it onto the floor. Did I mention we are in our socks.
With that said I'm in the first aid class and the instructor is going around distributing hand-outs. As he does he's licking his thumb to grip the paper. He doesn't lick his thumb for every piece of paper, but he does for each one that he passes to me. I watch closely at his gross mustachioed mouth and the protruding tongue that lathers his thumb. I am drawn back to my mortified days of grade 4 and that disgusting smell. I observe where on the page his thumb has been placed to make sure my skin does not come into contact with his saliva. I am further disturbed as throughout the day multiple papers are passed out and each has a fresh batch of saliva transferred from his thumb.
I'm starting to get grossed out. I don't easily get gorssed out but body fluids do it to me. I noticed yesterday on one occasion that he picked his ear as he was addressing the class. I mean everyone is watching him right? He is the instructor in front of the class. He picks his ear and he must have been successful in what he was doing because he found something in there and examined it as he was talking. Well of course all my attention shifted to where his attention shifted - which was on whatever was betwixt his fingers. He examined it, squeezed it with his nails and rolled it, surveying every surface of what was surely disgusting.
Well today he did it again. Same thing. He was addressing the class when he stuck his pinkie into his ear, rooted around and extracted another gem. His buggy eyes shifted to what was in his fingers, as did my eyes. He played with it again, examining it, prodding it, trying to decipher exactly what it was. I would have became ill if he continued any longer, but he resolved to just discard it onto the floor. Did I mention we are in our socks.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
I was thinking this the whole time I was there
For the next 2 days I'll be doing first aid courses. Today was very long and unnecessarily thorough. The instructor was good but he is certainly unaware of nose hair. He has eyebrows which are comedically bushy and long. How can you look in the mirror with such unkempt protruding hair hanging above your eyes and figure that it is OK to go out into public? What does his wife think? They must argue about it, there's no way they don't!
His nose is large and bulbous like that of an 80 year old Carl Malden. There are what I could count, 7 thick hairs that grew from his nose that reached a length of 1/4 inch, which I figured were trimmed to his specifications.
He has a fiercely thick mustache as well. His mustache overlaps his lip by 1/8 inch to a point where I assume he never kisses his wife. While watching him speak this mustache moves and wobbles above his lip and is just as animated as he is. His mustache is thicker than pubic hair and of a salt and pepper colour.
His nose has hair coming from inside of it too. Infact one hair that I kept noticing was well over an inch long and curled out from his honker and hung out like a cat's whisker. His nose hair was salt and pepper coloured as well, not to mention disturbingly thick. So thick I bet he can't even get his finger in there.
From a biological and evolutionary point of view I know that nose hair acts as a filter and impedes particulates and foreign debris from entering the airway of humans. The density of hair in this man's nose would suggest he breathes through dirt or lives on the dust plains of sub saharan africa.
The nose hair is so thick that it is hardly discernible from his mustache. It's really quite something to look at you know! I'm sure the nose hair is the bulk of his mustache but I can't be sure. I will be looking extra hard tomorrow.
His nose is large and bulbous like that of an 80 year old Carl Malden. There are what I could count, 7 thick hairs that grew from his nose that reached a length of 1/4 inch, which I figured were trimmed to his specifications.
He has a fiercely thick mustache as well. His mustache overlaps his lip by 1/8 inch to a point where I assume he never kisses his wife. While watching him speak this mustache moves and wobbles above his lip and is just as animated as he is. His mustache is thicker than pubic hair and of a salt and pepper colour.
His nose has hair coming from inside of it too. Infact one hair that I kept noticing was well over an inch long and curled out from his honker and hung out like a cat's whisker. His nose hair was salt and pepper coloured as well, not to mention disturbingly thick. So thick I bet he can't even get his finger in there.
From a biological and evolutionary point of view I know that nose hair acts as a filter and impedes particulates and foreign debris from entering the airway of humans. The density of hair in this man's nose would suggest he breathes through dirt or lives on the dust plains of sub saharan africa.
The nose hair is so thick that it is hardly discernible from his mustache. It's really quite something to look at you know! I'm sure the nose hair is the bulk of his mustache but I can't be sure. I will be looking extra hard tomorrow.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Pissed
I have written 2 blogs in the past. One was destroyed when I navigated away from the page I wrote it on and the other when this fucking computer crashed. I am too mad and tired to write it over. It was poetic too.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
No Title (Originally Written January 5th)
I got into Edmonton airport from Calgary yesterday and the same thought came to my mind as comes to my mind everytime I leave home to work.
I flew into Calgary New Years Eve and Joe and Maya were there waiting for me. A very welcomed sight in a far off land. It's always nice to see a familiar face in a crowd of otherwise unknowns, especially when you are away from home.
I work in Alberta and British Columbia in the oil and gas industry, it requires that I leave my precious rock. I don't like to leave. It makes me sad.
Living on an island comes with a certain sense of isolation. Not only is it a physical isolation, but as I find it a spiritual isolation. I am attached to that land as much as that land is attached to me. When I leave my land I feel it. I feel it in my stomach and in my veins. The farther I travel away from that Island the more anxious I get. The longer I stay away the more I realize I belong there.
I almost cried once in Toronto airport when I heard a Newfoundland accent for the first time in 2 months. When I am away and see how life is in other places it makes me increasingly aware of how great it is to be from Newfoundland and be a Newfoundlander.
Although I am several thousands of miles away from home, my anxiety increases when I have to travel an extra few hundred miles further from home. My isolation works in a different regard. If there was an ocean near me I'm sure it wouldn't be so bad.
My body acts as a measuring tape whenever I leave home. Newfoundland my origin. The further the tape stretches the higher the units of anxiety increases.
Everytime I get off a plane there is a time when I contemplate getting back on one to go straight back home. This occurs during each stop over on my way across Canada.
I hate having to leave home to work and yet I am proud to do so. I guess it's a rite of passage to being a Newfoundlander.
I flew into Calgary New Years Eve and Joe and Maya were there waiting for me. A very welcomed sight in a far off land. It's always nice to see a familiar face in a crowd of otherwise unknowns, especially when you are away from home.
I work in Alberta and British Columbia in the oil and gas industry, it requires that I leave my precious rock. I don't like to leave. It makes me sad.
Living on an island comes with a certain sense of isolation. Not only is it a physical isolation, but as I find it a spiritual isolation. I am attached to that land as much as that land is attached to me. When I leave my land I feel it. I feel it in my stomach and in my veins. The farther I travel away from that Island the more anxious I get. The longer I stay away the more I realize I belong there.
I almost cried once in Toronto airport when I heard a Newfoundland accent for the first time in 2 months. When I am away and see how life is in other places it makes me increasingly aware of how great it is to be from Newfoundland and be a Newfoundlander.
Although I am several thousands of miles away from home, my anxiety increases when I have to travel an extra few hundred miles further from home. My isolation works in a different regard. If there was an ocean near me I'm sure it wouldn't be so bad.
My body acts as a measuring tape whenever I leave home. Newfoundland my origin. The further the tape stretches the higher the units of anxiety increases.
Everytime I get off a plane there is a time when I contemplate getting back on one to go straight back home. This occurs during each stop over on my way across Canada.
I hate having to leave home to work and yet I am proud to do so. I guess it's a rite of passage to being a Newfoundlander.
Friday, January 1, 2010
I had to pick up my youngest Brother at the Airport for Christmas so I left the house at 2AM in the morning. My dog was home this Christmas, which has not been the case this past 3 years. So I took her along for the ride. I usually take Chippy (my dog) wherever I go - because we are in love. I want her to experience all the smells and terrain Newfoundland has to offer, so she's usually with me. She was also along for the ride because there was no one home to take care of her.
I would be in town for 2 days, all of which my shedding, soft furred, precious dog would keep me company. I love my dog so much.
My old roommate Terry used to make fun of me because when I called home from Alberta I used to ask to speak to her over the phone. This was accompanied by my mother's play by play of what the dog was doing. I imagined her looking into the phone and turning her head to the side as all dogs tend to do. This is always cute. But my dog didn't really give a fuck that there was noise coming out of the phone
We get in the car after she does her thing before the 1 hour journey into St. John's. Chippy loves going for rides in the car and tonight was no exception. She sat excitingly, watching through the window all the way. I looked back at her many times as she looked back at me in a posture that said "what the fuck do you keep looking at me for?", she must of thought I was retarded. I just love her.
We get to l'aeroport and of course I take her out for her business. She's deaf now, so for all she knows this could be the destination, but she sniffs around in anticipation. She leads me around looking for a good place to defile the parking lot. I'm happy to see that no one is around to watch her. I usually laugh my ass off when I take her for a deuce, because people are very aware of what's going on. But hey all dogs do it!
Anyways I go get my brother and walk back to the car. He opens the back door to utter excitement as he sees chippy for the 1st time in 14 months. We are both very happy to have Chippy with us.
I take us all back to mine and Stephs place where Chippy and I will stay for a couple days. This is her 2nd time at my place and I purposely open the door to my room so that she can smell it and acknowledge that I live here hopefully making her comfortable. I also do this because Chippy has a penchant for pooping in other people's places.
I tell Peter (Brother) to keep an eye on Chippy as I put away mine and Peter's stuff. I continue my way to the kitchen where I see my dog squatting down in a fashion that suggests something sinister is about to happen. I promptly run toward my deaf dog who is obviously getting ready to let every other dog in this house know that this is her territory. She senses me coming and briskly walks whilst still in a crouch toward the end of island in the kitchen. By the time I get near her I see the treat she has left on the floor. I continue after her to get her to stop, but by the time I reach her she has made her second deposit. She goes around the island as her attempt to ward off other dogs is now hanging freely from her bum. I now look in horror as I am powerless and watch these "deposits" actually roll along the floor as I chase after her. She must have tried her best under that stress, and was very successful by the tune of 6 when she was finished.
If she wasn't deaf I could have told her she was the only dog living there and she didn't have to mark her territory.
She could have at least peed.
And silly me I thought she was done pooing when we were at the l'aeroport.
I would be in town for 2 days, all of which my shedding, soft furred, precious dog would keep me company. I love my dog so much.
My old roommate Terry used to make fun of me because when I called home from Alberta I used to ask to speak to her over the phone. This was accompanied by my mother's play by play of what the dog was doing. I imagined her looking into the phone and turning her head to the side as all dogs tend to do. This is always cute. But my dog didn't really give a fuck that there was noise coming out of the phone
We get in the car after she does her thing before the 1 hour journey into St. John's. Chippy loves going for rides in the car and tonight was no exception. She sat excitingly, watching through the window all the way. I looked back at her many times as she looked back at me in a posture that said "what the fuck do you keep looking at me for?", she must of thought I was retarded. I just love her.
We get to l'aeroport and of course I take her out for her business. She's deaf now, so for all she knows this could be the destination, but she sniffs around in anticipation. She leads me around looking for a good place to defile the parking lot. I'm happy to see that no one is around to watch her. I usually laugh my ass off when I take her for a deuce, because people are very aware of what's going on. But hey all dogs do it!
Anyways I go get my brother and walk back to the car. He opens the back door to utter excitement as he sees chippy for the 1st time in 14 months. We are both very happy to have Chippy with us.
I take us all back to mine and Stephs place where Chippy and I will stay for a couple days. This is her 2nd time at my place and I purposely open the door to my room so that she can smell it and acknowledge that I live here hopefully making her comfortable. I also do this because Chippy has a penchant for pooping in other people's places.
I tell Peter (Brother) to keep an eye on Chippy as I put away mine and Peter's stuff. I continue my way to the kitchen where I see my dog squatting down in a fashion that suggests something sinister is about to happen. I promptly run toward my deaf dog who is obviously getting ready to let every other dog in this house know that this is her territory. She senses me coming and briskly walks whilst still in a crouch toward the end of island in the kitchen. By the time I get near her I see the treat she has left on the floor. I continue after her to get her to stop, but by the time I reach her she has made her second deposit. She goes around the island as her attempt to ward off other dogs is now hanging freely from her bum. I now look in horror as I am powerless and watch these "deposits" actually roll along the floor as I chase after her. She must have tried her best under that stress, and was very successful by the tune of 6 when she was finished.
If she wasn't deaf I could have told her she was the only dog living there and she didn't have to mark her territory.
She could have at least peed.
And silly me I thought she was done pooing when we were at the l'aeroport.
The Departure (Originally Written January 1st)
So here I am watching Joe play Super Mario Bros on wii. I am now in Calgary and heading back to work in the gratious oil and gas fields of Western Canada. It's with great trepidation that I am here away from home. This is the 4th winter I have worked in Alberta in the oilfield.
My trepidation comes from leaving Stephanie - she has become my home. Her loving arms have been my solace for sometime now and I left them again. My feeling of emptiness the days leading up to my departure was so overwhelming that I couldn't eat, I had no appetite, I only wanted to be next to her. My physical self exhibited the mental anguish I was enduring, my stomach felt cold and empty. I was huffing and puffing several times a minute. I had never felt this stress before, it was alien to me. I can only say I have come close to what I assume someone feels after killing another person, that is what it felt like.
My only relief came when I slept and I therefore slept as much as I could. On the plane up I exhausted my self watching movies in an effort to pacify my mind. My mind was my enemy. I have never been this bad before.
It is good to be amongst great friends and in an atmosphere of comfort right now. I slept well after a very very taxing day of separation and travel. Joe, Maya and myself went out for Vietnamese (tradition) last night which acted almost as soulfood. We had the same meal as usual and it put me at ease for sure. We came back to Joe and Maya's and basically flaked out as the last few hours of 2009 dwindled away. We ended up hitting the sack before the New Year.
We awoke this morning at the same time and after a quick chat with Steph went downstairs to prepare breakfast with some of my bestfriends.
I have proper nutrients in my body now and am ready. My stress level had decreased somewhat and as soon as I get back into the groove of things at work all will be well.
My trepidation comes from leaving Stephanie - she has become my home. Her loving arms have been my solace for sometime now and I left them again. My feeling of emptiness the days leading up to my departure was so overwhelming that I couldn't eat, I had no appetite, I only wanted to be next to her. My physical self exhibited the mental anguish I was enduring, my stomach felt cold and empty. I was huffing and puffing several times a minute. I had never felt this stress before, it was alien to me. I can only say I have come close to what I assume someone feels after killing another person, that is what it felt like.
My only relief came when I slept and I therefore slept as much as I could. On the plane up I exhausted my self watching movies in an effort to pacify my mind. My mind was my enemy. I have never been this bad before.
It is good to be amongst great friends and in an atmosphere of comfort right now. I slept well after a very very taxing day of separation and travel. Joe, Maya and myself went out for Vietnamese (tradition) last night which acted almost as soulfood. We had the same meal as usual and it put me at ease for sure. We came back to Joe and Maya's and basically flaked out as the last few hours of 2009 dwindled away. We ended up hitting the sack before the New Year.
We awoke this morning at the same time and after a quick chat with Steph went downstairs to prepare breakfast with some of my bestfriends.
I have proper nutrients in my body now and am ready. My stress level had decreased somewhat and as soon as I get back into the groove of things at work all will be well.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
I waited until the car passed by to open the door of our house in hopes that the noise of the car wouldn't wake Stephanie (girlfriend) who laid in the bed sound asleep.
I drove home tonight from Parsons' "close friends" bachelor party. We ended up going down town - something I hadn't anticipated. We did however meet up with the corresponding bachelorette party. Then we went back to the hotel we had rented that night.
In order for us to maintain a good time I bought 2 dozen beer and stashed them in a snow bank on the way downtown - to pick up later. I did threaten the cab driver who brought us not to tell where the beer was stashed. To which he said "I don't give a fuck" so that pretty much guaranteed the secrecy of my loot.
We came back from an uneventful excursion downtown and proceeded to carry on the previous festivities.
Well that didn't quite happen. Most of the boys passed out, which left Glenn and I to take advantage of our friends.
We did the usual "put your finger in the warm cup" to see if our friends would pee in their clothes. But that didn't happen.
Glenn and I, after hushed laughter - playing pranks on the boys - decided to go to sleep. Being 4AM and all.
Me being me, I couldn't sleep so I decided to drive home. I wasn't under the influence one bit, I had a long day and even longer night and figured it would be best to go home to sleep - which leads me to this point.
Listening to esoterical banter about classical composers on CBC Radio 1, I was pensive all the way home. During the voyage I drove in slush that started to thicken as I drove to a higher altitude as I ventured along Prince Phillip Drive. I passed a guy carrying a shopping bag - who I pitied - wondering all the way until Mundy Pond Road, what the hell was so important for him to be out so late.
Going down Shaw's Lane I put the car in neutral. I usually let the car drift until she hit's 100KM going down the hill. Being slushy and all I decided against it and just settled for 80KM. Then made my way home.
I assume the guys left in the hotel room will figure I left early, but in fact I left premature. We're supposed to be going out for breakfast tomorrow - the whole bridal party.
Well that was my idea, and I've got response to the point that, that may not happen, but I know for sure us guys will be meeting up, as we have to do a final fitting for our tuxes tomorrow. I'm gonna have a feed of toutons and molasses at breakfast.
Anyhoo, I'm gonna go BBQ some Bologna before I go to bed. I will most likely eat it with mustard pickles and a lot of green olives avec pimento.
.
Joe will get a kick out of this - on account of the name!
I drove home tonight from Parsons' "close friends" bachelor party. We ended up going down town - something I hadn't anticipated. We did however meet up with the corresponding bachelorette party. Then we went back to the hotel we had rented that night.
In order for us to maintain a good time I bought 2 dozen beer and stashed them in a snow bank on the way downtown - to pick up later. I did threaten the cab driver who brought us not to tell where the beer was stashed. To which he said "I don't give a fuck" so that pretty much guaranteed the secrecy of my loot.
We came back from an uneventful excursion downtown and proceeded to carry on the previous festivities.
Well that didn't quite happen. Most of the boys passed out, which left Glenn and I to take advantage of our friends.
We did the usual "put your finger in the warm cup" to see if our friends would pee in their clothes. But that didn't happen.
Glenn and I, after hushed laughter - playing pranks on the boys - decided to go to sleep. Being 4AM and all.
Me being me, I couldn't sleep so I decided to drive home. I wasn't under the influence one bit, I had a long day and even longer night and figured it would be best to go home to sleep - which leads me to this point.
Listening to esoterical banter about classical composers on CBC Radio 1, I was pensive all the way home. During the voyage I drove in slush that started to thicken as I drove to a higher altitude as I ventured along Prince Phillip Drive. I passed a guy carrying a shopping bag - who I pitied - wondering all the way until Mundy Pond Road, what the hell was so important for him to be out so late.
Going down Shaw's Lane I put the car in neutral. I usually let the car drift until she hit's 100KM going down the hill. Being slushy and all I decided against it and just settled for 80KM. Then made my way home.
I assume the guys left in the hotel room will figure I left early, but in fact I left premature. We're supposed to be going out for breakfast tomorrow - the whole bridal party.
Well that was my idea, and I've got response to the point that, that may not happen, but I know for sure us guys will be meeting up, as we have to do a final fitting for our tuxes tomorrow. I'm gonna have a feed of toutons and molasses at breakfast.
Anyhoo, I'm gonna go BBQ some Bologna before I go to bed. I will most likely eat it with mustard pickles and a lot of green olives avec pimento.
.
Joe will get a kick out of this - on account of the name!
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Cause nothing says "cool" like a fanny pack
You may find it funny but my well-meaning mother. . .
(Godbless her heart) has done some inadvertently funny things over the years.
Very innocent things that yielded great laughter from her children. But it's the naivitae that is the funny part -the good intention met with reality.
Let me explain.
I'll start by saying that the 80's were a memorable time for many. It was a hip and happening time. Michael Jackson's coat was a big item on the "got to have it" list. People were wearing bright colours, girls were wearing their dad's long sleeve shirts with the collars popped and fanny packs were ubiquitous.
Jump ahead roughly 20 years and it's Christmas time at the Samways household. Mom has spent the past 2 months carefully noticing/keeping an eye out for potential gifts for family and friends.
My Cousin Kim who is 20 something at the time as well as my girlfriend are pretty savy ladies when it comes to the high fashion. I would say they are high maintenance, but it's not entirely true.
They do however know what exactly is in style and are certainly a good representation of it. They are always seen wearing the cool sunglasses and wearing the latest accessories. They are stylish to say the very least. As to whether or not my Mother is aware of this is another thing.
My mother isn't interested in what's going on in Paris or Milan, nor does she care to be fitted in the latest couture garb. She doesn't follow the fashion magazines and why the hell would she? She my Mom and shes good at it!
I did expect her to be stylish when I was a silly pretentious little brat of 10 or 11. But certainly now I only expect her to be her. So when she gets gifts on Christmas, it involves thought and care and comes from the heart. She thinks about functionality and practicality - as do I - when she's seeking gifts for people.
She did however blow my mind when she told me what she had bought for my girlfriend and cousin.
I bust out laughing in front of my Mom, to her amazement. She was bewildered as to why I was dying from laughter right in front of her. And to her dismay I wouldn't tell her what was so funny.
I waited until my girlfriend came later that day and I told her. She had the same reaction, she immediately took with a fit of laughter. There was an airborne contagion because my Mom started to laugh as well - must be the pheromones.
Unfortunately she didn't know what was so funny, just simply that something was. Which was exacerbated by my laughing even harder at my Mother's innocence.
I guess all the years following the 80's and the fun we all made of ourselves and the styles we wore never occurred to my Mom. And definitely the fact that our fun making was concentrated on one item of the 80's in particular.
My sweet, sweet Mother in all her glory, practicality and wisdom had chosen a gift she was sure my girlfriend and cousin would cherish (I picked the word"cherish" purposely beacuse it was sung by Madonna in the 80's early 90's).
She had picked out a gift that had been very popular at one time, only this one was much better. It was made of pleather too which makes it even funnier. She had got them Fanny Packs.
(Godbless her heart) has done some inadvertently funny things over the years.
Very innocent things that yielded great laughter from her children. But it's the naivitae that is the funny part -the good intention met with reality.
Let me explain.
I'll start by saying that the 80's were a memorable time for many. It was a hip and happening time. Michael Jackson's coat was a big item on the "got to have it" list. People were wearing bright colours, girls were wearing their dad's long sleeve shirts with the collars popped and fanny packs were ubiquitous.
Jump ahead roughly 20 years and it's Christmas time at the Samways household. Mom has spent the past 2 months carefully noticing/keeping an eye out for potential gifts for family and friends.
My Cousin Kim who is 20 something at the time as well as my girlfriend are pretty savy ladies when it comes to the high fashion. I would say they are high maintenance, but it's not entirely true.
They do however know what exactly is in style and are certainly a good representation of it. They are always seen wearing the cool sunglasses and wearing the latest accessories. They are stylish to say the very least. As to whether or not my Mother is aware of this is another thing.
My mother isn't interested in what's going on in Paris or Milan, nor does she care to be fitted in the latest couture garb. She doesn't follow the fashion magazines and why the hell would she? She my Mom and shes good at it!
I did expect her to be stylish when I was a silly pretentious little brat of 10 or 11. But certainly now I only expect her to be her. So when she gets gifts on Christmas, it involves thought and care and comes from the heart. She thinks about functionality and practicality - as do I - when she's seeking gifts for people.
She did however blow my mind when she told me what she had bought for my girlfriend and cousin.
I bust out laughing in front of my Mom, to her amazement. She was bewildered as to why I was dying from laughter right in front of her. And to her dismay I wouldn't tell her what was so funny.
I waited until my girlfriend came later that day and I told her. She had the same reaction, she immediately took with a fit of laughter. There was an airborne contagion because my Mom started to laugh as well - must be the pheromones.
Unfortunately she didn't know what was so funny, just simply that something was. Which was exacerbated by my laughing even harder at my Mother's innocence.
I guess all the years following the 80's and the fun we all made of ourselves and the styles we wore never occurred to my Mom. And definitely the fact that our fun making was concentrated on one item of the 80's in particular.
My sweet, sweet Mother in all her glory, practicality and wisdom had chosen a gift she was sure my girlfriend and cousin would cherish (I picked the word"cherish" purposely beacuse it was sung by Madonna in the 80's early 90's).
She had picked out a gift that had been very popular at one time, only this one was much better. It was made of pleather too which makes it even funnier. She had got them Fanny Packs.
Oh me Darlin Clementine
It used to be that here in Newfoundland Clementines were a Christmas thing and only available during that time.
Well now things have changed.
And one of those things is that there's friggin seeds in those damn things. It didn't happen when I was a child! I bet you I didn't bite into a single Moroccan Maroc clementine seed until I was 19. And I ate a lot of those fuckers.
So what happened? Did they get unsophisticated and say the hell with making all of them seedless? "Oh yeah we'll just make some of them seedless, just to fuck around with people"
I just bought a box the other day and there are a lot of seeds in them bad boys.
To the point where I'm holding the sections up to the light to see if there are any in it. Because God knows - and so do I - that theres nothing worse than biting into a seed. It just ruins your whole chewing experience. If my neighbours saw me holding my clementine sections up to the light - well I just don't know what they'd think. Maybe they'd say "I bet he's checking his Moroccan Maroc clementines for seeds" not fuckin likely!
I once bit into a bone whilst eating a chicken salad sandwich at Tim Hortons. I didn't get another for 3 years. I eat them on croissants, better texture.
Then the first 3 were OK and then another bone. Then another 4 years and I didn't eat those things. The last time I had one the whole recipe had changed. They have chunks of chicken now.
I'm not fussy
You get some seedless clementines and then you get ones with seeds all in the same box. What's going on? Don't they have quality control in Morocco?
Get your shit in order fellas because this inconsistency is killing me!
Well now things have changed.
And one of those things is that there's friggin seeds in those damn things. It didn't happen when I was a child! I bet you I didn't bite into a single Moroccan Maroc clementine seed until I was 19. And I ate a lot of those fuckers.
So what happened? Did they get unsophisticated and say the hell with making all of them seedless? "Oh yeah we'll just make some of them seedless, just to fuck around with people"
I just bought a box the other day and there are a lot of seeds in them bad boys.
To the point where I'm holding the sections up to the light to see if there are any in it. Because God knows - and so do I - that theres nothing worse than biting into a seed. It just ruins your whole chewing experience. If my neighbours saw me holding my clementine sections up to the light - well I just don't know what they'd think. Maybe they'd say "I bet he's checking his Moroccan Maroc clementines for seeds" not fuckin likely!
I once bit into a bone whilst eating a chicken salad sandwich at Tim Hortons. I didn't get another for 3 years. I eat them on croissants, better texture.
Then the first 3 were OK and then another bone. Then another 4 years and I didn't eat those things. The last time I had one the whole recipe had changed. They have chunks of chicken now.
I'm not fussy
You get some seedless clementines and then you get ones with seeds all in the same box. What's going on? Don't they have quality control in Morocco?
Get your shit in order fellas because this inconsistency is killing me!
A wolf in sheep's clothing
There was a time when I was into the whole brand name thing.
My Cousin Tanya had all the brand name clothing: Roots, Esprit, Beaver Canoe, AuCoton, United Colours of Benneton, Northern Reflections, Club Monaco all that jazz. I kinda got into it, because I looked up to her and thought she was cool. Plus all her cute friends wore that stuff too. They were kinda cool in Gander back then.
My classmates (notice how I didn't say friends?) also started wearing brand names. I didn't have a stitch of Brand name stuff. I was still wearing excalibur sneakerboots for Christ's sake and fuckin Bi-way brand shit. I wanted the Far West jackets the Vuarnet and Chip'n'Pepper shirts the OP shorts/trunks, I wanted it all.
Whenever my Parents travelled I would always make sure they brought back something brand name, even the fucking bag from the store would do. I seen Tanya do it!
One year when I was in grade 4 my Mom bought me 2 Northern Reflections sweaters. As I remember it was the first of my "Brand Name" clothing and I wore it proudly. I even have pictures home with me wearing one - over a turtleneck no less - which was very much in style at the time.
Now I couldn't really be bothered with the whole brand name shit. I go for style and comfort now. Cashmere and nothing less than merino, maybe the odd lambswool when it comes to sweaters - not that I have trouble sweating.
I do favour Gap. They have quality clothing and Nan concurrs. I don't buy the stuff with "GAP" written on it, I'm not like that anymore, I've grown conservative in my years.
I did have a girlfriend once who couldn't understand the point in buying GAP clothing if it didn't have GAP advertised on it somewhere. I guess she hadn't advanced to my point in her retail efforts. That was Christmas 2001, when she made the comment and before the year was through she had gone and bought a baby blue fleece GAP hoodie - which was all the rave at the time. I was just happy she bought something from one of my favourite clothing stores. I felt a sense of accomplishment, although it was obvious I had failed.
Years after I hit puberty I would often wander through the Northern Reflections store at the Avalon Mall in search of clothes. I would always feel uncomfortable and out of place there as a kid. I attributed it to my lack of self confidence and self esteem.
It wasn't until I was in my Twenties that I realized that Northern Reflections is wholly a women's store!
I was kinda coming to that conclusion when my Mother and her Mother would always make a special trip to Northern Reflections whenever they hit the mall. They love that stuff. My Mom is not afraid of the vests either.
My Cousin Tanya had all the brand name clothing: Roots, Esprit, Beaver Canoe, AuCoton, United Colours of Benneton, Northern Reflections, Club Monaco all that jazz. I kinda got into it, because I looked up to her and thought she was cool. Plus all her cute friends wore that stuff too. They were kinda cool in Gander back then.
My classmates (notice how I didn't say friends?) also started wearing brand names. I didn't have a stitch of Brand name stuff. I was still wearing excalibur sneakerboots for Christ's sake and fuckin Bi-way brand shit. I wanted the Far West jackets the Vuarnet and Chip'n'Pepper shirts the OP shorts/trunks, I wanted it all.
Whenever my Parents travelled I would always make sure they brought back something brand name, even the fucking bag from the store would do. I seen Tanya do it!
One year when I was in grade 4 my Mom bought me 2 Northern Reflections sweaters. As I remember it was the first of my "Brand Name" clothing and I wore it proudly. I even have pictures home with me wearing one - over a turtleneck no less - which was very much in style at the time.
Now I couldn't really be bothered with the whole brand name shit. I go for style and comfort now. Cashmere and nothing less than merino, maybe the odd lambswool when it comes to sweaters - not that I have trouble sweating.
I do favour Gap. They have quality clothing and Nan concurrs. I don't buy the stuff with "GAP" written on it, I'm not like that anymore, I've grown conservative in my years.
I did have a girlfriend once who couldn't understand the point in buying GAP clothing if it didn't have GAP advertised on it somewhere. I guess she hadn't advanced to my point in her retail efforts. That was Christmas 2001, when she made the comment and before the year was through she had gone and bought a baby blue fleece GAP hoodie - which was all the rave at the time. I was just happy she bought something from one of my favourite clothing stores. I felt a sense of accomplishment, although it was obvious I had failed.
Years after I hit puberty I would often wander through the Northern Reflections store at the Avalon Mall in search of clothes. I would always feel uncomfortable and out of place there as a kid. I attributed it to my lack of self confidence and self esteem.
It wasn't until I was in my Twenties that I realized that Northern Reflections is wholly a women's store!
I was kinda coming to that conclusion when my Mother and her Mother would always make a special trip to Northern Reflections whenever they hit the mall. They love that stuff. My Mom is not afraid of the vests either.
Attention Shoppers, Aeropostale has opened a new store in St. John's Newfoundland
Aeropostale. You start a clothing line that isn't available in every province and all of a sudden everyone has to have it. It was like that with American Eagle, until it came to town. It's still like it with Bath & Body Works.
If it's out of reach or exclusive people want it.
I'm not sure it's to be pretentious anymore.
I've gone to the West Edmonton Mall with a fucking shopping list to pick-up shit for friends of mine that want Bath & Body Works stuff. While I was there I decided to pick up some of the damn stuff - it just smells so good. And we all know nothing smells as good as something no one else has.
Aeropostale even has the allure of people not knowing how to pronounce it, I know I've heard four versions. The first by my Cousin Jeremy - he's a sucker for that shit. The fourth by my Cousin Lee. Tonight
I was at the 24 hour Sobeys late last night and the girl ahead of me with 2 items is rifling through her purse trying to find her debit card. Her ordeal was not helped by the phone stuck to her ear, which was held in place by her shrugged shoulder - enabling her to be unable to rummage efficiently. It's all about efficiency.
It was at that point that I wondered if I should go to the vacant cash just up 3 cashes. Only thing about that was . . . there was no one at it. I would probably have to summon someone to it. I have no problem doing the sort as I love to hear myself speak in public. If only for my witty banter.
Back to the girl. I'm serious when I say it was a minute before she found her good sense to put the phone down. Another 20 seconds after that to fetch the card. It was one of those moments when the woman at the cash is looking at the purse and tilts her hip, then looks at the girl, the purse, me, the girl, the purse, me, the girl, her co-workers, the girl again - I guess to see if the girl seen her look at her co-workers with a look of impatience and disdain.
There was a lot of time.
I had a lot of time on my hands during the search and I take a visual account of the scene. I notice that this young woman ahead of me was wearing a pair of Aeropostale Jogging pants as well as a shirt from said company which was peaking out from under a hoodie from the same place. Well surely this woman who must be a skeet - evidenced by her over abundance of brand name clothing (quite the same way women when they go out to a dance wear every fucking piece of jewelery she has, especially the rings which on one finger may count 4 or 5) - should be able to pronounce "Aeropostale" and she did. It was the third variant of pronunciation I have ever heard.
If it's out of reach or exclusive people want it.
I'm not sure it's to be pretentious anymore.
I've gone to the West Edmonton Mall with a fucking shopping list to pick-up shit for friends of mine that want Bath & Body Works stuff. While I was there I decided to pick up some of the damn stuff - it just smells so good. And we all know nothing smells as good as something no one else has.
Aeropostale even has the allure of people not knowing how to pronounce it, I know I've heard four versions. The first by my Cousin Jeremy - he's a sucker for that shit. The fourth by my Cousin Lee. Tonight
I was at the 24 hour Sobeys late last night and the girl ahead of me with 2 items is rifling through her purse trying to find her debit card. Her ordeal was not helped by the phone stuck to her ear, which was held in place by her shrugged shoulder - enabling her to be unable to rummage efficiently. It's all about efficiency.
It was at that point that I wondered if I should go to the vacant cash just up 3 cashes. Only thing about that was . . . there was no one at it. I would probably have to summon someone to it. I have no problem doing the sort as I love to hear myself speak in public. If only for my witty banter.
Back to the girl. I'm serious when I say it was a minute before she found her good sense to put the phone down. Another 20 seconds after that to fetch the card. It was one of those moments when the woman at the cash is looking at the purse and tilts her hip, then looks at the girl, the purse, me, the girl, the purse, me, the girl, her co-workers, the girl again - I guess to see if the girl seen her look at her co-workers with a look of impatience and disdain.
There was a lot of time.
I had a lot of time on my hands during the search and I take a visual account of the scene. I notice that this young woman ahead of me was wearing a pair of Aeropostale Jogging pants as well as a shirt from said company which was peaking out from under a hoodie from the same place. Well surely this woman who must be a skeet - evidenced by her over abundance of brand name clothing (quite the same way women when they go out to a dance wear every fucking piece of jewelery she has, especially the rings which on one finger may count 4 or 5) - should be able to pronounce "Aeropostale" and she did. It was the third variant of pronunciation I have ever heard.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Best Dude
Here's a picture of Parsons and I playing fooseball in Kemptville Ontario.
He is the cat I have to toast on friday at his wedding. He's my best friend. I've written a lot of stuff - funny stuff. My girlfriend doesn't think it's that funny, in fact she thinks it's insulting. What I say is that everyone fails to realize it's going to be like a roast, like they do on "the mainland". Coming from Newfoundland all the speeches at a wedding are endearing and kind, but I want to make my speech funny and burn him a little. You know like it happens in most places. I'm afraid my audience won't get it. My audience - the whole time I was writing this shit were my buddies who are standing at the wedding as well. I know they'd get a kick out of it. In fact today I read most of it to Glenn, he thought it was funny but more sour than sweet and not in keeping with the "norm" as I like to put it.
This is Parsons and Glenn - both funny people.By the way that picture happened like that, it's not what you think.
These guys would totally get the whole thing. I even googled "bestman speeches" and all of them were of the bestman poking fun at the groom. I enjoyed them and wanted to follow in this long standing tradition. I usually do anything for the sake of being funny - as though my life were being documented - and this moment of comic genius had to come out.
But again I must stress that in Newfoundland we don't do those kind of toasts, and far be it than for me to be the trailblazer - the pioneer of Newfie Bestman Roast Toasts.
Do you know how many people I would offend? Generations of people. Especially the, lets say the exlax users or the cane walking crowd. To them that shit is just bad manners - and I agree. But it kills me not to go on with the speech the way I wanted to. Because it's hilarious. I love my culture just the way it is, I have enough trouble when someone doesn't know what a touton is!
I'm going to do a great toast, but I just wanted more laughter. Perhaps I will have to preface the whole speech by telling the audience what my vision was and how bestman speeches are done according to the internet.
I was never a Snowboarder
I picked this colour scheme for my blog because it reminded me of snowboarding clothing. I also have a shirt that Smitty's brother once owned in the seventies with nearly the same colours, it's one of my favourites. I cut the collars off and my Nan made it look real Pro-Fessional. She's good like that - quite the seamstress I must say!
I always liked the clothing worn by snowboarders it looked awesome. I even felt like I was in Whistler or Banff or somewhere like that when I wore the clothes. It gave me confidence in my skiing ability and social skills - that's how I lie to myself.
I always liked the clothing worn by snowboarders it looked awesome. I even felt like I was in Whistler or Banff or somewhere like that when I wore the clothes. It gave me confidence in my skiing ability and social skills - that's how I lie to myself.
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