I am *so* not cut out for this

Spent the day yesterday hanging out in the armpit of the Maritimes -- namely, Moncton. More specifically, Champlain Place mall. Malls are a necessary evil. I hate getting caught up in spend-crazy-ville, but a man can only go so far while he only owns two pairs of wearable jeans.

So, I jet to Moncton for the day. (I should also note that the previous night was the most uncomfortable and unrelenting pub crawl in the history of pub crawls. Get this -- I was *sober* in the morning. I just happened to sleep in.) Inordinate spending occurs. I have a reunion of sorts with Marion, who is still ever-so-indie... Except when she knows everyone at the mall. Admit it, it's OK. You still have indie cred, even if you were seen at the Gap and American Eagle. Your secret is safe with me.

The best thing about Moncton is, of course, Arby's. Still is, forever will be.

Marion also told me about this store downtown that I had to see. Spinners? Spinnakers? Skinners? Something like that. Combines the pretension of an indie music store with the unabashed geekiness of your local comic shop. There was no way I was spending any more time in that place than I had to. I was neither cool enough to appreciate obscure, 'influential' bands that brand me as uncool if I say I don't own their European-only 8" b-sides, nor was I geeky enough to appreciate the rarity and diversity of alternative print media. The best thing they had to offer me was an opened Radioactive Man and Fallout Boy. I don't even care about collecting every single thing with The Simpsons stuck on it anymore. I guess I'm growing up. Bah well, it happens to the best of us.

That being said, I think I've had enough of the Christmas shopping experience for the year. A few more things to pick up for people (who knew that I'd still be shopping for my mother this late? She's usually the first person done). Maybe I'll just hang around malls to look cool again, and totally piss off the rent-a-cops like back in the day. Or start baking. Or pick up smoking. Have to do something to pass the time between now and turkey day.

Pyrrhic

I'm sure i spelled that wrong but i don't care. I'm fcuking drunk right now. I was going to gloat over the "coming in second in trivia and wearing hats sideways on the way home," but that sort of thing is immaterial now.

Stuff happened. I only hope that itwas because people weer drunk, and not because people wanted to cause shit... Because if people wanted to cause shit, you're about to encounter a level 7 shitstorm face-first, and if you think i've got anything to lose, you're sorely mistaken.

So, for the sake of everyone involved, let us hope that alcohol was the only factor.

The sucking of a thousand vacuums

Wednesdays are the only nights that I go out on a consistent basis. I go out other nights during the week, but Wednesday is the night to go out for me.

Trivia. The Wave. Good times are had.

Last year, my team dominated just about every week. There might have been two or three weeks during the entire school year that I went away empty-handed. I have t-shirts, hats, gloves, ear muffs, schoolbags, cooler bags, shot glasses, mugs, stickers, coasters, tattoos... basically, any swag that a beer company could smack a logo on, I own.

Then the team (variously known as Team Stickman, GI Joel, Team 12f, the Bea Arthur Experience, or the Estelle Getty Phenomenon) fell apart. We had a good run in Summerside over the summer, destroying unfortunate souls at the Heritage Pub -- and winning actual bar tabs -- and we made a few successful raids at the Churchill Arms.

This year is a rebuilding year. Actually, it's a year of "e-mailing other people who I know from outside of UPEI and telling them to come."

...but they never do. You know how much it sucks to e-mail twenty people, well in advance of the event, and the only person that shows up is the person you know the least?

In short, this is my plea. I totally went to your place / party / cottage / birthday / orgy / intervention / anniversary / wedding / funeral / court hearing. Come to trivia, you heartless bastards and bitches. All I promise you is sized extra-extra-large white t-shirts and copious amounts of beer.

Otherwise I'll have to hang out with people I don't know. (Rodney? Breck? Uh, Paul?) Or join another team, and then they'll end up winning, because I'm essentially a free-agent franchise player. The teams are even enough as they are set up (with the exception of Touched by Teddy Ruxpin -- there are so many reasons I personally hate each and every one of you bastards to the point where I want to piss and puke on you until I pass out. So, essentially, add me to a team, and the team wins. Point-blank.

Happened the last three weeks in a row.

Timeline:

3 weeks ago: Me, Lois, and Melissa. Lois has to leave early; me and Melissa end up finishing second.

2 weeks ago: Joined forces with the 'Perverted Movie Guys' for society-night trivia. Won on behalf of the English Society, narrowly defeating the Education Society (ironically headed by Steve, who does trivia at Churchill).

1 week ago: Joined the Hockey Girls team. Won easily. 28/30: the highest mark in Matt & Lennie trivia history. Also, only the second perfect round ever recorded -- the first, of course, coming from team Stickman last year.

This week: Dave, Corey, and 'some other people' who said are going to show up. I actually predict that few to none will, yet I'll still end up a drunken fool with giant t-shirts and beer aplenty by midnight.

Look for me. I'll be the guy in the checkered shirt and leather jacket who gets mocked mercilessly by Matt. I'm not hard to spot. Especially when I end up selling beer at below cost when I'm wrecked.

Stand On Guard

I'm driving to work this afternoon -- late, as usual -- and instead of listening to some random CD I burned while drunk, I turn on Big Dog. (I'm not intellectual enough to listen to CBC radio, and anyone that listens to Magic 93 should gargle bleach.) After the news that means nothing to me because I live in a different province, they air "Don Cherry's Grapeline," a sixty-second blurb chopped up every fifteen seconds by more ads. Seriously, the segments might be fifteen seconds long, but they can get away with it, because people will listen to Don Cherry, and they'll listen to the ads in between. CBC does it all the time.

The first 15 seconds of today's 'episode'... or... segment... or... whatever it's called involved the Grey Cup and the way the Toronto media kept talking about Michael Clemons, Mr. Clemons, when everyone in Canada knows him as "Pinball Clemons." This ticked Grapes off to no end. He said "Pinball isn't some formal guy. He's a good guy, a good fella, and he does so much stuff that you don't hear about. Listen, I've got a story about him..."

But first, commercial break.

Every time I think of Don Cherry now, I think about his inclusion on CBC's The Greatest Canadian. When I first heard of the show, I thought to myself "Oh, wow, Canadian content wrapped in pop-history soundbites. Kinda sounds like something VH1 or MuchMoreMusic would do to fill up airtime during the day." But no, this was no one-time shot: it was an on-going series, with each of the top ten vote-getters earning a one-hour documentary trumpeting their causes. Much was said about the people considered 'great' in Canada -- somehow, Avril Lavigne was #40, Mike Myers was #20, and Shania Twain was #18. It was noted that sports, politics, actors and musicians accounted for most of the list. There was a mention of "There are no authors in the list," happily skipping over heavyweights Pierre Berton, Peter Gzowski and Leonard Cohen.

The kicker: each 'documentary' would be hosted by a Canadian 'celebrity.' To let you know how the celebrity system works in Canada, I'm a C-list celebrity, and I haven't done jack shit. However, due to the fact that some people have heard of me, I could have my own TV show, assuming that Master T passed on the project. (If you think I'm kidding, Mike Bullard, I'm looking in your direction.)

Impressively, Don Cherry made the top ten, meaning that he had an outside chance at being known as "The Greatest Canadian^TM," a title he would most likely have to defend in a pay-per-view event held in the Skydome every Victoria Day in front of 20,000 drunken guys wearing Toronto Maple Leafs jerseys. His documentary was hosted by Bret "The Hitman" Hart, and provided all the subtlety that a sweaty man in pink whose job was to pretend to hold other sweaty and nearly naked men down could.

A few weeks ago, Tammie, a friend of mine, jumped on Don Cherry like no abandon. "There is no way that he deserves to be in the top ten. He doesn't deserve to be in the top five hundred!" I remember holding my tongue and drinking my martini at a faux-chic bar on a cold October night. Don Cherry has done nothing for Canada, she said, since he encourages violence and fighting, is virulently misogynistic, promotes homophobia, and generally appeals to a beer-drinking crowd.

I drink beer.

I'm not going to defend all of Grapes' mis-steps. (Should he have compared Russians to ballerinas? Should he paint every Swede with the same brush? No, of course not. That doesn't mean that Alexei Kovalev isn't a wuss, and Ulf Samuelsson should be allowed to ever come near a rink again.) Grapes is good at what he does: he tells stories.

He's loud, he's occasionally wrong, he goes over the line now and then, and he's constantly at risk of pissing off the powers that be. And that is a bad thing? For a country that purports to espouse free expression uber alles, the most striking thing about Don Cherry is that there is only one Don Cherry type in Canada.

Look south for people who pass screaming hystrionics as opinions: Ann Coulter, Sean Hannity, Michael Moore, Al Franken, Rush Limbaugh, Howard Stern, Bill O'Reilly, Jim Carville. That's just off the top of my head, and I don't even get American TV stations or radio. Now, think about Canadians famous for being loud, abrasive, presenting alternative viewpoints, and not caring what the other side has to say.

Still thinking?

If you wanted to stretch the definition, include Rex Murphy and his pointy head, Rick Mercer and his smugness, John Crosbie and his tequila, Sheila Copps and her shrieks. I can't think of any more.

This leaves a lot of room for someone like Cherry. He's not an unintelligent man. Does he appeal to the masses? Yes, of course he does. Is that a crime? No, of course not.

He's instrumental to Canadiana as The Tragically Hip. On first listen, they're crowd-pleasing, straight-ahead, rockers looking to stick up for the little guy. But listen to the subtleties. Don wasn't upset that the Toronto media weren't using Pinball's nickname -- he was upset that people who don't know the sport, the culture, or the lingo are mis-representing and mis-interpreting someone. Michael Clemons is a professional football coach who is a serious expert on the subject. Pinball Clemons is "one of us." Don was more concerned that "one of the guys" was being elevated over someone else just because they have a title.

It isn't Donald Cherry -- it's Grapes.

Don Cherry deserves to be on the list. Is he the greatest Canadian in the our history? No, not by a long shot. But he's earned his place more than a lot of people give him credit for, and he got my vote.

Whoa

Who knew that Billy Corgan would go from looking like Nosferatu to looking like Lenin?

Retarded

Weird weekend. Went to work for four hours on Saturday, and didn't speak to a single person. Went Christmas shopping (hint: you're all getting books. Get over it.) and grocery shopping. Went into Wal-Mart for the first time in about two years, and I feel stupider and dirtier for it. Good God, people, do some sit-ups and stop wearing fucking stretch stirrup pants.

Then the weirdness kicks in. I was half-sleeping in my room 'till rather late, half-talking to people on MSN, and then Nevski is all like "Hey bitch, look at this!" and he shows me him and his girlfriend on his webcam. I should note that I haven't seen Nevski since he quit working here three months ago. And he's all "Come over, bitch, I'm havin' a party!" Since everyone else disappeared (some Christmas prom for people that didn't get enough pseudo-pomp in high school or something at the Wave, I think, maybe, who knows), I'm like "Sure, I'll be right there."

So... it's him, and his girlfriend, and two other people, who I think were going out. I'm not even sure of their names. Or if they're related, or how they're related to Nev. And they're all getting drunk and gropey and loud, and I'm like "Hokay, I gotta get out of here, 'cause I barely know Nevski, and he had his hands up his girl's shirt since I got here." But then I'm like "OK, what am I missing? I'll stick around for a bit." Listened to some 2Pac. Generic 2Pac. I can't tell any of his songs apart, so I guess I'm not as urban as I thought.

About 2 o'clock comes, and they were looking for food, because Nevski spilled a bottle of vinegar in the fries. They were about to call a cab to drive them to McD's, but I was sober, and said "Hey, do a good turn for once, you retard." And I drove four drunken strangers to McD's. To thank me for it, they drew swastikas on my back window.

I don't get home 'till 2:30. I ended up going to Subway with Aims, Clare, and Ryan until like 3:30 AM. Not because I was hungry, not because I craved the company (I don't think I even spoke a word, except to say "Can I have a large milk"), not for any reason I can even think of. I just went. I was there. I existed. I didn't have a good time. I didn't have a bad time. I had a time. I passed time. I killed time. I didn't get jokes, I didn't make jokes. I existed. That's it.

I don't want to just exist. After that night -- that night of just being there, that average guy, that guy that either evens out a trio or adds nothing to a quartet -- I realized that I have to do something else. Something bigger.

I slept in until noon the next day out of spite. Did nothing all day Sunday. Should have gone to Moncton, but I didn't feel up to it. The only noteworthy thing about Sunday is that 28 Days Later is as terrifying to overhear as it is to see. Fortunately, I was able to get to sleep by 3 AM. Goddamn evil, infected monkeys coming out of my closet...

Fuck I've got a lot to say. Fuck this better not come out as some gay-assed whiney punk who's all like "Boo-fuckin'-hoo, I don't know what I'm doing with my life!" I know what I'm doing with my life. This is just the ramp-up to the real stuff.

I'm going to update the hell out of this shit. Just watch me.

I hate blogs

I hate blogs and I hate bloggers and I hate livejournal and people who have livejournals. I hate a lot of people. I might hate you for one reason or another. That doesn't mean that we're not friends -- it just means you piss me off sometimes.

I hate when people refer to livejournals as "LJ." It's a fucking diary, morans, it's not a look into the depths of your soul.

I used to have a blog, like, three years ago, and I did all the HTML-ing by hand. Back then it was cool. It used to be all made-up stuff too, but people couldn't tell that I was making stuff up, and everyone was like "Why are you so sad all the time?" I was like "Yeah, shut up and read it, and then talk to me, idiot. Do you see my name on that shit anywhere? No? Good. Now shut up and finish making my sub."

Now blogs and livejournals are piles of crap because every monkey has their own crap-assed blog that explains how "they're really a sensitive soul" or says cheap crap like "I don't want to say too much about this, but last night was good" and then make in-jokes to idiots using initials.

Fuck that noise.

I'm going to use names. I'm going to post while drunk. I'm going to say things I regret. I'm going to post pictures of stuff (assuming my camera still works). I'm not going to hide beside some lame pseudonym to give me a degree of anonymity. I'm Joel, dammit. Joelg is the closest thing to a nickname you'll get out of me. Or maybe Devastator, but that's just because it shows how much I rule, and how I'm going to devastate people that get in my way.