Baboon Palace

I feel pretty ambivalent about the Vancouver 2010 mascots:

Hey wait, that’s not it! That’s just what came up first when I did a google image search for ‘vancouver olympics mascot’. Silly me. Here they are:

At first I felt like they succeeded at creating a design that was just fine thank you, something I can easily ignore because it’s just sort of cute and nothingy and fades into the background of lame bullshit that is constantly in our faces. At least it wasn’t a totally offensive boondoggle like the London 2012 logo, which really is just awful and hard to look at. With the precedent of the fibreglass Spirit Bears that plagued Vancouver for years, my hopes were minimal to begin with, and were met satisfactorily.

My next thought was that I’m not so big on the whole co-opting native symbols to promote an ubercorporate sporting event thing. I agree with Only, it’s distasteful. The designers had a tough job, though, satisfying the goals of both being marketable to a diverse global consumership, and also appeasing the Canadian anxiety about our shared identity (or lack thereof) as an immigrant nation, with our own unique baggage of colonial slash genocidal shenanigans to live down. So that’s a lot of pressure, and I think the results are basically passable. And hey, the kids love ‘em, so that’s a big win.

I really think they should have just gone with the marmot though. Marmots are cool. When I was looking for a job a few years ago, browsing a government job database I found a posting for employment as a marmot watcher. You see, Vancouver Island’s golden marmot is endangered, there was only about 200 left in the wild, and they were being predated by bald eagles, which were also endangered, meaning you couldn’t shoot the eagles. So the solution they devised was to hire someone to camp out with the marmots for the summer to scare away the eagles. And I thought that would be a pretty good summer job. You know, just hanging out with the marmots. I don’t really have qualifications or experience in that field (a literal field), and I can’t remember what the listed qualifications were, but if one of them was “must think marmots are cool” then I would have been a shoo-in, because I think marmots are totally cool. Also, last July bald eagles were removed from the endangered species list, so they better watch their backs, is all I’m saying.

That’s what Stalin said, anyway. I’m paraphrasing of course.

You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, but you catch the most flies with a whole bunch of dead people all piled up on top of one another. Henry Kissinger came out with that bon mot while putting pepper on his baby-seal steak, during a strategy session with Dick Cheney, who smirked and thought it was quite clever indeed.

Not my chair, not my problem. That’s what I say.

When I got into Paris I got ripped off by the cab driver. He was one of those guys who stands in the airports asking dumb foreigners (like moi) if they need a taxi. He charged me eighty euros for the ride from the airport, which should have been more like thirty or forty, tops. Don’t get me wrong, he was friendly and all, and made conversation to the extent that his English and my French allowed (not very far at all). So, being a clueless North American, I tipped him! Because that’s just the kind of fish I am.

It wasn’t a huge deal, I mean I’ll just expense it to the company anyway so no big whoop. The problem is that these fake-o taxis aren’t insured as taxis, so if we’d gotten into an accident I’d've been fucked. Lesson: learned. My co-worker fell for the same scam I guess, because she’d emailed me before I left Vancouver saying that I should expect to pay around 85 euros for the cab from the airport. So that was was that.

I also got here right when the Tour de France was going on, and i had to cross the Champ Elysees to get from the place where I picked up my apartment key to the apartment, carrying all my luggage through crazy nutty tourist craziness. It took me ages to figure out how to get into my apartment because the directions I was given were completely wrong and I spent half an hour trying to open the wrong apartment door, until I was able to convince myself that No, objectively none of these keys fit in this door, I’m not just stupid. After I had the brainstorm of matching the name on the keys to the name on the door, it worked — eventually. A sticky locking mechanism nearly reduced me to tears.

Anyways, not to go into all the dull touristy details, Paris is a nice place to walk around. But of course, I always want to see the seedy areas because those are the places that are the most fun to people-watch, so I liked going down to Pigalle and having a beer on a terrace in the evenings. Pigalle was called “Pig Alley” by the American soldiers in the second World War, because that’s where all the prostitutes hung out. Nowadays it’s mostly sex shops. I only went there once or twice, until I was warned off by a resident co-worker, but I have to say that the dodginess had nothing on Vancouver. No hordes of cracked-out zombies like we have. Mostly a lot of this:

I’m heading back to Vancouver on Sunday, and I’ll be glad to be home in my own apartment and bed and routine. One thing that bugs me about Paris is that I can’t get a big fat-ass honking cuppa joe in the morning to bring to work, as is my custom. They only serve these gay little espresso drinks. Maybe that’s why the French are never in a big hurry.

I made a faux pas (that’s French!) the other day by ordering some cheese after my meal and an espresso at the same time. The waiter was like You want espresso with your cheese??? And I was like Is that not done? He said A French person would not do zis, but you are not French so ees ok. (Another odd thing is that as soon as I would say Bonjour to a waiter, they would immediately start in with the English. My pronunciation must be terrible.)

Ok, that’s all. Here are my pictures.

Went to see Busdriver on Saturday night. Totally great show, but unfortunately it seems like he’s kind of a jerk. I went to buy some merch and he was there looking tired and grumpy. After picking out a CD, I noticed he was reading Confederacy of Dunces, which I’d just finished reading a couple weeks ago. So I was like, “Hey I just read that book a couple weeks ago, it’s awesome huh?” and he was like, “that’s twelve bucks.” (The CD, not the book.) I was a little put off, but whatever, his show was super energetic with a nice diverse set list and massive electro backup.

He was opening for CocoRosie, but I didn’t stay to see them. I read on Pitchfork that they were arrested the next day, probably for bringing some Vancouver souvenirs back across the border.

The first opener was pretty rad though, a French beat-box guy named Tez. Here’s a youtube video, for your viewing pleasure. Note that he’s not using any instrumentation, it’s all mic.

Apologies for the lack of updates lately. More delicious content coming soon, I promise!

Friday night was the Vague Undertakings opening at the Chapel, featuring music from The Clips, Bend Sinister and Panurge, and art from various artists, including: Gabe Deerman, Adam Dodd, Wendy Dyk, Neal Everett Nolan, Chloe Gammon, Sally Hutcheon, Robert Mearns, Melissa Pavlovic, Evan Shandler, Ed Spence, Terra Varey, and Contexture Design Workshop.

The Chapel was a funeral home now converted into an artist-run space, and it’s an absolutely incredible venue. The main chapel room acoustics are wonderful, with a good sized space for dancing, and there are plenty of other hallways and rooms for mingling and looking at art, and even a pool table upstairs. I arrived late and missed the Clips, which was a little disappointing, since of the three bands playing I enjoyed their myspace tracks the most, but Bend Sinister and Panurge both brought solid, energetic sets that really got the hipsters moving.

The art is up at the Chapel (on Dunlevy near Hastings, around the corner from Pat’s Pub) until April 15th; do yourself a solid and go take a look. I’m really looking forward to seeing more events there.

Saturday night I had a dream that I was in a classroom writing an exam. It was in a large lecture hall, and I was supposed to write an essay about nihilism. I wasn’t worried at first, confident that I knew quite a bit about the subject, but then I realized that I hadn’t been to class all term and didn’t have the text books that everyone else was referring to (it was an open book exam I guess). Also, I had to write it on blue construction paper with a white crayon. I started to get angry and frustrated — why didn’t I study or go to class? I tried asking the prof for clarification about the topic, but he was mumbling and I couldn’t understand what he was saying. I ended up just drawing a big white circle on my paper and handing it in in a fit of pique.

And then Sunday was the much-anticipated Man Man at Richards on Richards. I had high expectations for this show, all of which were surpassed. The sheer quantity of gear on the stage was staggering, with all manner of objects to crash and smash and shake in a seamless frenzy. Unfortunately the opening band, Victoria Victoria, was boring boring. The best thing about them was the drummer’s mustache, but it could not make up for shitty lyrics and weak melodies. They were fine at the Lamplighter a few weeks ago, opening for other local bar bands, but they had absolutely no place opening for Man Man.

I bought a chin-up bar and installed it in my hallway doorframe. I saw it when I was at Sport Chek, cheking out tennis rackets, and thought it would be a handy little piece of exercise equipment. There’s a gym at my office, and before I was full time I always thought it would be a good thing to make use of, but I’ve never been. I’ve decided that I don’t like gyms, they’re stinky and gross.

So I figured that a chin-up bar is a simple and private way to help cultivate a physique — along with my Ripped Berry smoothie from Booster Juice. “I’ll have a Ripped Berry,” is what I say to the completely bored girl behind the counter, “because I’m ripped.” And then I do a little flex pose for her. She pretends not to notice or hear me, but I can tell she’s pretty impressed.

And then I go home and do three chin-ups… that’s right, IN A ROW!

Well, it’s spring again. The time when the cherry blossoms bloom, the snow begins to climb back up the peaks, and a young man’s fancy turns to all the awesome shows that are coming up!

Man Man - April 1

What can I say? It’s Man Man, it’ll rule.

The Neins Circa w/ Abernethy and Fanshaw - April 6

I just discovered The Neins Circa recently, and really dig their melodic, poppy, retro sound. They’re also playing this Saturday (March 24) at the Lamplighter, but if you’re reading this blog then chances are you’re going to see This Week in History at the Pic that night!

Cocorosie w/ Busdriver - May 5

Busdriver is my favorite indie hiphop guy, but I was a little disappointed with his new album, Roadkillovercoat, when I first heard it; the opening track is killer, but as a whole I found it weaker than Fear of a Black Tangent or Temporary Forever, less varied in subject matter and styles than the latter, less consistent than former, and in general more serious and political. After a few more listens I’m coming around to it, now that the lyrics have resolved for me. I don’t know about anyone else, but when I listen to a new album, it takes about five or six times through before the words really pop out. With Busdrive, it’s always worth the time.

Cocorosie aren’t that great, but who cares.

Girl Talk w/ Circlesquare - June 9

I saw Girl Talk at the New Forms Festival a few years ago and he put on the most incredible show ever. For one dude with a laptop, that’s not bad. Running around dancing like a lunatic, stripping his clothes off, pouring drinks all over himself, and closing with a massive, unstoppable cover of Nirvana’s “Scentless Apprentice”. He’s so dreamy. Here’s what I wrote about it at the time:

This show cannot be described adequately in words. His show was like freebasing the pure white essence of the most rocking parties of the last decade. It was the audio equivalent of doing speedballs with David Lee Roth and Puff Daddy, and then trashing a hotel room while making highly inappropriate sexual advances on the staff. His cover of Scentless Apprentice was very possibly the highlight of my life. A++++++ WOULD SEE AGAIN

I always do my laundry on Sunday morning. Outside of work, it’s one of the few true regularities in my routine. It’s not that I look forward to it exactly, but I do like having my whole wardrobe clean and readily at hand. There are two laundromats within a block of my house, one of them is run by an old, deaf recovering alcoholic. He’s a nice guy, but he moves very slowly and it’s a bit difficult making yourself understood and so I always feel bad about asking for change, because he’s usually outside smoking and it really seems like a lot of effort for him to parse the request and fish through his pockets for the correct denominations. So I usually just go to the other one. It’s cleaner and brighter, and it’s serviced by two friendly asian teenagers who spend all day instant-messaging.

Today, however, when I returned from the coffee shop to put my clothes in the dryer, a homeless man was stripping down his layers and stuffing them in a washer about fifteen feet away from me. The tang of rancid body odour and stale cigarettes, comingled with an undeniably fecal effluvium, was truly overpowering. It was inescapable, and I actually literally threw up a little bit in my mouth. Tossing my clothes in the nearest dryer as quickly as I could, gagging and choking uncontrollably, eyes watering, I ran out gasping. It was so pungent and foul that I’m afraid it’s permanently tainted my olfactory sense.

Now, I’ve been to the Computer Science Club at the University of Waterloo, so I’m no stranger to offensive-smelling humans. I’ve been around gamers. (A friend of mine used to work in a game store — Warhammer, D&D, Magic:The Gathering and all that — and he told me once his least favorite part of the job was having to pull the particularly unwashed roleplayers aside and give them the talk about hygiene.) But Jesus, this was in an entirely different realm altogether. If apartheid had a smell, this would be it. That’s the only way I can decribe it: it smelt like racist oppression; its pungency was positively hegemonic, and deeply unjust.

And that, friends, the story of the worst thing I ever smelled, thanks for reading. :(

Hey are you doing anything Saturday night? You should come to the Only Magazine website launch party and benefit at the Emergency Room in Strathcona. I’ve been a big fan of Only since their first issue. Great coverage of local events, music, and art helps me pretend that I’m hip, with-it, or otherwise in-the-know; reliably funny and interesting essays by Amil Niazi, Chuck Ansbacher, Alan Hindle and others reliably keep my condescending hipster smirk firmly in place. It’s seriously the only (hurhur) free mag I’d go out of my way to find, and my only (teehee) complaint is not enough columns by Rhek.

So, who wants to be a rapper? Too many people. There’s far too many rappers today. We need more rap fans and less kids who freestyle at me. More White kids need to start playing guitar again – that’s a real skill to have. You can entertain at campfires and you can grow your hair long and your mom can say “… and no guitar for a week!” when you get grounded. Being able to go, “I’m flipping the shit and ripping the shit and dipping the shit and taking a shit – straight off the dome, yo!” while imitating a rapper you saw on a SMACK DVD is not a real practical skill. Seriously. And anyway, if you wanna be a real rapper now you gotta pay your dues as a crack dealer. Crack dealers are the new rap superstars.
Crack and rap go together like tiny old Chinese ladys who’s language you can’t understand and empty beer cans worth a nickel. And if you 13 and you live with your two Dads who still take you to soccer camp, then technically you’re not a “hustler” yet.

Oh, and they launched their new website and it’s marvelous.
Anyways, come out on Saturday and see some bands I’ve never heard of.

Not sure if there’s actually a secret band, or if it’s a band called “A Secret Band.”.

On my way back from the grocery store on Saturday there was a hippie bus parked on the street outside my building. This was unexceptional. Outside the bus were a man and a woman, he was tall and thin with a short beard and long black hair tied back, she wore a long printed dress like you’d see in Amish country; he was playing guitar and they were both singing what I assumed were religious songs, judging solely based on their blank, earnest stares. This was also unexceptional. What struck me as unusual, however, was that they didn’t sound terrible. On the folding table next to them was a stack of pamphlets. A pale, skinny young kid got right in my face with a huge smile, handed me one and said “Here! It’s really good reading material!”

“Ok! Thanks!” I said, and left it on my kitchen table for two days. It’s titled We Need A Radical CHANGE, and on the cover is a black-and-white illustrated collage featuring: a race riot; the word HATE; pills; a man grimacing with his eyes tightly clenched and fingers grasping at his temples; an angry black preacher. Turns out they were from the Twelve Tribes community out in Nelson, which, from the sounds of it, is a group on the model of the (mythological) early Christian church, who live according to primitive biblical commandments, particularly those that relate to the position of women.

The first essay, entitled “When the foundations are DESTROYED,” discusses the breakdown of social norms and the foundations of family life. The first instance of rampant moral decay brought to the reader’s attention begins: “Not long ago it would not have been allowed to show a woman with nothing on but her underwear. The town would have boycotted such a store or perhaps the police would have even put a stop to it.” Ah yes, the glorious Godly days of the morality police. “A woman with nothing on but her underwear,” the author huffs, “right there in front of everyone.” Other societal ills include women working outside the home and women taking pain-killers during labour. (The pain bonds them to the child, you see, and the husband is bonded to the wife by empathizing with her suffering. The intelligent designer sure did think of everything!) In fact, the only instances of moral turpitude in which women (as such) are not specifically implicated are high divorce rates (which should really maybe count for half) and our lack of a death penalty for murder.

Needless to say, I was disappointed. I thought I’d finally found the agrarian end-times cult for me, but guess I’ll just have to start my own. In my cult, women will not only be allowed but encouraged to take drugs while only wearing underwear, and even also to have sex with other women, to whom they may or may not be married. My cult will rule! It’ll be just like the sixties, but without the hope.