tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44794907851089970472024-02-08T03:47:03.456-08:00The Clay PenC. Coman Yenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03189922303641142402noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479490785108997047.post-38062537444364030202012-07-04T18:01:00.000-07:002012-07-04T18:01:32.689-07:00Where The Rubber Meets The Road<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Greetings and
salutations loyal readers, it has been some time since last I posted anything.
This is mainly due to a lack of inspiration and a general malaise. But why now?
What has caused me to make an Ali like return to the blogosphere? Well today I
come to you with a news alert/warning/revelation, people are having sex on our
city streets.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Okay, maybe not
so much a revelation as a theory of mine and not just some pie-in-the-sky
theory either but the only conclusion I could come to after weighing all the evidence.
What evidence is that you ask? Well I’m basing this entirely on the relative
frequency with which I come across used condoms and empty condom wrappers while
walking the city streets.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
I would think
many of you have seen similar sights in your life and, like me, usually carry
on as you would if these discarded prophylactics were any other piece of trash.
However last week while on a long walk for the sake of walking (something I
will discuss at a later date) I spied one of those now familiar torn shiny
wrappers resting snugly up against the curb. As I had no aim in my stroll I was
able to devote my powerful intellect and imagination to this junked jimmy hat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
My first thought
as usual was “eww gross” followed by “well at least somebody is getting laid.”
It was this second thought that put me on this meandering muse. Naturally the
torn wrapper suggests someone had sex, but I began to wonder as to where they
were doing it that would result in the packaging being left on the ground.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
A simple answer
would be that this was just a byproduct left behind by a member of our
economies prominent nocturnal workforce. But this was a relatively quiet
neighbourhood far from the glamorous lights of downtown or the dimly lit street
corners of our more eccentric neighbourhoods. So as I continued to walk I
pondered further as to the source of this Durex dilemma. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
I thought
perhaps it was merely an escaped piece of garbage, spilled from a can by some
raccoons then carried away by the wind or possibly fallen off the back of a
garbage truck. This theory didn’t hold water in its reservoir tip as I’ve
encountered to many rubbished rubbers for it to be that simple.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
My next thoughts
were maybe someone had been revving it up in their car, certainly not a novel
idea. This thought also bothered me, as it would suggest a certain level of
carelessness in throwing garbage out the window. Which I guess is
understandable in the heat of the moment. Actually I suppose it would have to
be thrown out the window, because the logistics of a package tear, pinch and
roll down before getting in the car are a little confusing. Suggesting to me
either a very eager young man or a rather presumptuous one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
It also crossed
my mind this discarded baby dam was simply the result of unbridled passion
perhaps a couple stumbling home from a party too hot’n’bothered to wait for the
privacy of a closed door. Or maybe a teenage couple saddled with parents
unwilling to have such activities take place under their roof.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
There is even
the possibility that the commercials have it right. That this was truly a
Cialis moment and the time was right. Or maybe just an exhibitionist couple
enjoying the fresh air. There is also the chance that I am just not living an
adventurous enough life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Another facet of
this Trojan trivia is that I’ve seen used condoms and many a torn wrapper but
very rarely have I seen the two in close enough proximity to suggest there were
from the same event. So with all these possibilities I was unable to come up
with a solid explanation as to the source of that particular procreation
protector. The one thing I was and am pretty sure of is that somebody was
having sex near by.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
At some point
everyone has heard the expression ‘if these walls could talk.” Well I can’t
help but ask, if these Lifestyles could talk what story would they tell? No
matter what the answer is I’m sure it would be a doozy and one I would surely
like to hear.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->C. Coman Yenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03189922303641142402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479490785108997047.post-56493186843631539322012-04-23T17:27:00.001-07:002012-04-23T17:27:48.228-07:00An Instant Classic?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
It’s
the classic line, repeated now so many times as to become a joke – the old
timer telling a youngster “When I was your age…” I have vivid memories from my
childhood hearing this all the time from various sources. With that refrain
constantly rattling around my head I always looked at things with a certain
curiosity, wondering what around me would last and how the world might change. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I
always new at some point in my life I would become that old timer, prattling on
about the glories of yesteryear. But I didn’t expect it at the age of 27. The
reason I bring this up is due to a phrase I overheard the other day. A
discussion was being had over that latest <i>must
see</i> YouTube video when an older video was referenced and then referred to
as on of the <i>classic Internet videos.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Upon
hearing this phrase I had to a pause a moment. Has the web now been around long
enough that these often shameful clips of stupidity are now classics? Are the
so ingrained in the culture, so widely seen and recognized that the early examples
can be thought of as the forebears to today’s unlimited stream of viral
clutter? The video in question was “Star Wars Kid”. Is that video so
groundbreaking, so seminal in the annals of Internet videodom that it’s now the
‘Citizen Kane’ of web videos or I suppose more aptly the ‘Star Wars’ of web
videos?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
It
just seems strange to me to label a viral video a ‘classic’. In years to come
will people analyze YouTube in classrooms and lecture halls? Will some
bespectacled overeducated professor tell a room full of young minds that
“everything changed after Star Wars Kid. If it wasn’t for that we never would
have had Chocolate Rain.” Or will tomorrow’s youth have no idea about it,
because of the ever-increasing amount of new content?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
If
it is indeed a<i> </i>“classic”<i> </i>will they one day say “Oh yeah, Star
Wars Kid. I’ve heard of it, never seen it though”, as so many today refer to
Casablanca or Hitchcock or anything to do with John Wayne. That does seem
pretty unlikely if for nothing else than the fact it’ll always be on the Net
somewhere. But will people take the few minutes to view “classic viral videos”?
It’s that last notion, of people talking about the videos that were so
prominent to me as something to know <i>of </i>but
not actually know which makes me feel like that Old Timer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
I suppose some
of these feelings stem from being part of the last generation to straddle the
advent of the Internet. I can still very easily recall the days before
computers and the web, but young adults just half a dozen years my junior
aren’t so familiar with those times. Which may not be that remarkable a
concept, but it does feel weird to feel old or I should say to feel of a
different time when talking with those who are considered in my age
demographic. I never thought that I would be able to date myself so easily at
the age of 27, but when say I’m at a party and spill a drink or step on a foot
and then respond in my best Urkel voice with “did I do that?” and draw nothing
but blank stares it’s hard not to notice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
It is no secret
that today’s youth are over inundated with media from multiple sources,
altering the way they are growing up and the experiences they have. What hits
home for me are the specific encounters I’ve had that illustrate this point and
usually result in me shaking my head. On the rare occasion I find myself
talking with a teenager or more commonly having to listen to them on the bus, I
often find myself wanting to interrupt and tell them something that starts with
“Well when I was your age…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
The idea of a
‘classic’ Internet video may have got me thinking about it but that phrase is
by no means the only instance of generational shift. Not so long ago I was
strolling through a park when I was passed by a mob of 10-year olds. One of
them had come to the park with his nanny but wanted to run off with the other
kids and do whatever it is they do these days. So off he ran yelling back over
his shoulder at his nanny that he would text her when he was ready to go home.
That’s right text her. He was 10. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
There was
another time last summer I was going up the Grouse Grind. There were three or
four early teen boys ahead of me. As I caught up to and them passed them I
heard a snippet of their conversation. They were discussing so video game and
how to get to a certain level. One of them, when pressed for information,
revealed that he had beaten some wizard/giant ape/terrorist by Googling some
game codes. At the moment I so wanted to lean over and tell those kids “you
know, when I was your age we used to have to buy books that told us about the
secret codes and levels of video games.” I didn’t. In part because I was on the
Grind and not exactly full of wind to lecture some kids and also because I was
afraid of getting tangled up in a discussion about the laziness of using Google
to pass video games or having to explain what I meant by ‘books’, because that
really would have dated me.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->C. Coman Yenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03189922303641142402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479490785108997047.post-75885512127861358212012-04-11T14:45:00.000-07:002012-04-11T14:45:10.992-07:00Here We Go Again<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
It is the Playoffs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Let me start by
apologizing to all of you non-hockey fans because today is the beginning of
what will hopefully be two months of endless stories about the Vancouver
Canucks. Not just from me, but from all corners of the media world - radio,
television, newspapers, Twitter and Facebook. Not to mention conversations to
be overheard at the water cooler, on the bus, Skytrain, restaurants, elevators
and my personal favourite source – politicians.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Yes
it’s true. At some point there will be some shameless pandering via the donning
of team jerseys at various photo-ops. Because apparently the great-unwashed
electorate cannot make decisions based on political platforms or policy but a
jersey makes the difference. “Well I don’t really like some of the things her
party is doing and it seems like scandal after scandal, but she does like the
Canucks so she can’t be all bad.” Or conversely “He says he’s all about the
province and doing right by B.C. but I don’t know if I can really trust a guy
who doesn’t even support the ‘Nucks.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
There
is also the fact that thanks to the very long and slow process in prosecuting
last year’s rioters, the ghosts of playoffs past still hang over the city.
Giving strong legs and multiple sidebar stories to the news media. This means
that along with the usual stories of school children making some team art, bars
and pubs doing great business, local residents vying for most outrageous fan -
there will also be a plethora of stories concerning the city. What preparations
is the city taking? Do the police have a better plan? Will fans be more
respectful?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
So
why all the hoop-la? How come the city loses its mind over what is just a game,
right? Well for me it breaks down to the fact that people are essentially a
tribal animal. Humans have always divided themselves into groups, but as the
world or at least this part of the world becomes more diverse these division no
longer fall squarely on country, religion or colour. For whatever reason there
has always been a mentality of us against them, if you’re not with us you’re
against us. That my side is better than your side, whether it be Coke vs. Pepsi
(Coke) or Kirk vs. Picard (Picard). When you add all that to a natural desire
for competition, a want to be the victor, to be better than the other guy and
toss in a healthy dose of wanting to be entertained you get this hectic sports
mania. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Since
it is no long acceptable to join together in roving bands of looters and
warriors, to go from town to town and pillaging to satiate a thirst to be
number one – professional sports seems a great way to appease that yen. It is just a way to unite people, to
bring them together to cheer for a common cause. That’s why it doesn’t matter
whether you’re from a family of long time hockey players, sports fanatic, new
immigrant falling in love with the game or even a politician trying to curry
favour with the voters.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
It
is in the vein that I along with so many thousands of others have bent a knee
and sworn allegiance to banner Canuck. To cheer loudly for our armoured
champions as they head out to battle the enemy. To prove that our city is
better than your city because our local sports team beat your local sports
team. Which to me is a whole lot
saner than any actual war.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
So
to those non-hockey fans I mentioned earlier be warned, the playoffs are
here. Allow yourselves to be swept
up in the wave. At the least you must have a friend or two who are fans, so go
and join them for a game. Gather in a crowd at a bar or a room full of people
to share in the joy and excitement of playoff hockey. Wave a towel and lose
your voice cheering for our chosen champions as they battle these invading men who
would call themselves Kings. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Nucks
be with you.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->C. Coman Yenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03189922303641142402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479490785108997047.post-30385996437202122692012-03-30T11:48:00.000-07:002012-03-30T11:48:07.625-07:00Get On Your Bikes And Ride<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I did it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I
learned to ride a bike…thank you thank you. You’re far too kind, please take
your seats – what? Roses? For me? This is all too much to handle at one time. I
mean this was really a labour of love, something I’ve been working at for 20
years now. So to finally see it come to fruition and be greeted with such a
warm response is a little overwhelming. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Now
that I’ve ‘mastered’ the art of cycling I look back and wonder what A) took me
so long and secondly what all the fuss was about? I spent maybe an hour or so
practicing in an alley before feeling ready to hit the streets – well the side
streets, I don’t know why anyone would dare try riding in traffic. I really
don’t know if this is a lot of time or very little when compared to the average
learning time. Although I’m also not sure there is an average learning time for
27-year old adults. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Having
skipped the whole classic childhood memory thing of first getting your balance
and taking off down the street I don’t know how my experience stacks up, but I
can say for sure there was more cursing. I have to give many thanks to my
teacher Pietra for her kindness and patience. There is no doubt in my mind that
holding on to the seat of a person who outweighs you by 100 pounds is much more
difficult than steering a child. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
But her efforts
were not without reward albeit not the same as that parental pride at seeing
your child learn and grow or whatever schlock parents feel. I like to think I
provided a serious level of amusement. There has to be an entertainment value
in seeing a longhaired lout violently swivel his hips in some misguided over
compensatory attempt at keeping his balance. I also believe that amusement was
provided for any of the residents living in the houses bordering my learning
alley.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
With my newfound
skill acquired the day of my promised public ride had arrived. Although I was
able to ride I realized that my goal of riding along the Seawall was a bad
idea. I am able to stay up but the steadiness of my riding leaves something to
be desired and I figured the Seawall would be awash in too many other bodies.
So I decided to take my ride along the beach path at Jericho. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Unfortunately
the weather did not cooperate with my intended goal. The rain was pretty heavy
on my birthday limiting my public debut and when I say public I mean Pietra and
Waterman. I still managed to go for a short jaunt and I must say it was
awesome. Cruising along the path with the rain falling on my shoulders from
above and the ocean and mountains to my right I couldn’t believe how civilized
a pastime this cycling thing is.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Now,
the trick will be to not become one of the very individuals I called out in my
earlier bike riding post. That is to say now that I have this skill I cannot
let it go to waste and I have no intention to. I admit it - riding a bike is
really fun. It helps that I chose the beginning of spring to learn this new
craft. With the weather supposedly getting better I will now be oft presented
with a chance to head out and ride. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
I’m not sure how
often I will ride and I’m pretty sure I’m still a long ways away from using it
as my chief mode of transportation for any of the cross town trips I have to
make (for me the automobile is still the best way to get around). But the prospect
of taking some sunny summer leisure rides has me quite enthused. I will finish
up by yet again calling on those who learned how to ride long ago, but have
shelved that skill for years. Get out and ride.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Next up –
skating.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
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<br /></div>C. Coman Yenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03189922303641142402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479490785108997047.post-7085617376532235032012-02-27T14:41:00.003-08:002012-02-27T14:41:40.155-08:00I Want To Ride My Bicycle<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I have a confession to make. I do
not know how to ride a bicycle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Now that the gasps of shock and
mockery have subsided, allow me to explain. Yes it’s true, in my nearly 27
years on this planet I have somehow avoided learning to ride. I have traveled
by three, four and five wheels but never two. Somehow I managed to avoid that
classic childhood moment of figuring out that secret balance or whatever it is
that one needs to ride a bike. And when I say I somehow avoided it, I mean that
I might have tried once without training wheels found it very hard and so vowed
to ‘never learn this stupid thing, because who needs to ride a bike anyway.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
More
often than not when I reveal this fact to somebody I am greeted with a
wide-eyed look of bewilderment, followed with some sort of query as to how this
can be. Which I always find somewhat amusing as it doesn’t seem like that big
of a deal to me. Bikes and bike riding just never figured into my life. People
are aghast that this most basic of skills has eluded me all these years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I
suppose that I can sort of relate to this level of shock. Indeed I find myself
filled with similar feelings when someone informs me that they have never seen ‘The
Godfather’ or eaten some good slow cooked pork belly. Some of you might find
that comparison ridiculous, but for me it makes perfect sense because those are
things that to me seem like fundamentals for anyone going through life.
Fundamentals may seem about strong of a word but I think that just goes to show
that everyone has a different take on life and how it should be lived. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Each
and every person leads a different life and it’s when commonalities are found
that we find connections to others. And it’s through those connections that we
are able to build a fuller and richer existence. It is with that thought in
mind that I have now determined to learn the art of the bicycle. Now and then I
do find myself thinking that ‘yes, it is a travesty that I can’t ride.’
Especially when I consider the culture of the city in which I have grown up and
live. Vancouver is striving to be a green city and is blessed with some of the
most beautiful scenery to be found. Not to mention the glory that is the
Seawall. A wonderful feature of the city that I have never been able to fully
enjoy as walking the entire length is a time consuming yet rewarding task. It
also makes perfect sense for me to take up cycling as I do not own a car and
grow weary of public transport. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Many
of you have heard me profess my intent to learn how to ride before so this
might seem like a load of hogwash. But with the warmer weather fast approaching
I think I am long overdue and I do relish the chance at proving the naysayers
wrong. I have gained a dedicated teacher who thinks it silly that I have no
riding ability and is determined to see me ride, even providing a loner
bicycle. Perhaps one of the strongest points in favor of this teacher is that
she actually rides on a regular basis. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Many
of the peanut-gallery who have expressed shock in the past over my apparent
shocking inability, do absolutely no riding of their own. This fact always
strikes me as mildly hypocritical. Being mocked and jeered for never learning a
skill that my detractors themselves never use seems unfair. Yes, they may have
already gained this skill and I have always been told that one never forgets (it’s
like riding a bike) but they never use it. I on the other hand am almost always
willing to sit down and re-watch The Godfather and am constantly on the look
out for my next chance at a decadent pork belly dinner.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I
have no idea how long the learning process will be. It might only be an
afternoon or a couple of days or perhaps weeks due to the impending falls and
subsequent scraped knees and childlike whimpering – I don’t bounce the same way
I used to. But the process starts this week.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
It
is now one month till my 27<sup>th</sup> birthday and although I have no doubt
it should not take me that long to learn, I have chosen that day (weather
depending) to make my debut. And so, loyal readers, I propose to you that on
that day you join me for a tour of the aforementioned Seawall. This call goes
out especially to those of you who in the past have scoffed at my lack of
ability and yet cannot yourselves remember the last time you went for a ride.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Finally
I will add that if indeed I am successful and do achieve my goal of a birthday
ride – of course to be followed by champagne and balloons – that those of you
out there should follow my lead and take the time to enjoy one of those things
that somebody has once expressed shock you have not done. And should it be
watching The Godfather or any other such essential cinematic work I will gladly
join you. I’ll even bring the refreshments and to me that sounds like an offer
you can’t refuse.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->C. Coman Yenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03189922303641142402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479490785108997047.post-9625229264478977482012-02-14T17:41:00.001-08:002012-02-14T17:41:56.923-08:00Valentines Shmalentines<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Love
is in the air. Romance is flowing along with plenty of wine. Couples everywhere
are rejoicing while single folks are pretending not to care while weeping in
there frozen dinners for one. Somewhere a sadistic little toddler is sniping
people with arrows and cash registers are exploding at every florist,
chocolatier and card shop. It must be Valentine’s Day. Which in my opinion is
the worst of the non-holiday event days. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Other
similar non-holiday events are St. Patrick’s Day and Halloween. The major difference
with these days is that both of them are used as excuses for unnecessary
partying and mass consumption of alcohol. Not to mention the less than
conservative attire to be worn, particularly on Halloween. Where as this day of
love is not used as an excuse to have fun, but instead is a day of forced guilt
and affection. A day when we are told how to act and what sort of mood to be in
and what to buy, all under the guise that it’s about love.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Now
I don’t want you to think that I’m am anti-love or have some sort of hate-on
for Valentine’s Day. It is indeed quite the opposite. I’m all for love and
romance, especially of the hopeless kind – you know grand gestures and magical
moments and all that other mushy stuff. It’s just that on this day it is forced
upon us. To me the idea of a romantic obligation seems like a bit of an
oxymoron. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Also
wrapped up in this notion of obliged romance is that it’s all on the men. Over
the last few days everywhere I turn I see warning signs to men not to forget
the big day. Open the funny pages and all the male characters are fretting
because they have to find the perfect gift for their
girlfriends/wives/sweethearts. All the while the women are adding more pressure
with hits and jabs, while waiting to be swept off their feet. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
It’s
not just in the comics where this idea prevails. Flip through the rest of the
paper and you can find many other articles telling guys what the perfect gift
is and what women really want for Valentine’s Day. And it’s not limited to the
print media either. I must have seen half a dozen TV ‘news’ stories in the last
week with lead-ins along the lines of
“Well Valentine’s is just around the corner and one local resident is
helping out all those guys who haven’t got a clue what to get” or “OK fellas,
not sure what to get your special lady, well here is dating advice columnist
such and such to tell you what to do and how to do it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I
just don’t see how bombarding someone with the notion that if they don’t shell
out big for V-Day they’re a lousy partner. I fail to see the romance in a man
showing up, gift in hand and saying “Here Sweetie. I got you this and I know
you’ll like it because I read all the advice columns, articles, wish lists and
even the consumer report on most popular Valentine’s gifts for women…so…sex
please”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Again
I feel I should mention that I am not anti-love or romance, I’m just not a fan
of a large build up and emphasis on a single day. I’m also not saying that you
shouldn’t do something nice for that special someone today. In fact I think you
should, but don’t let it be because you feel obliged. Do it because of the
caring and love you may have for one another. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I
also feel that by going to all the trouble of some elaborate dog and pony show
to display your love on this single day it diminishes all the other days. It’s
as if by going all out on V-day you can slack off all year. But why does it
have to be today? Why not three days from now? Or three weeks? What’s wrong
with showing up with flowers and making dinner just because it’s a Wednesday or
meeting your guy/gal at the end of a day to walk home with them or what have you?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
It
just seems to me that if you have a special someone why wait for one day to be
outlandish. Why not spread it around all the time and not force each other into
spending huge amounts of cash and effort into one day. Anyway I’ve got to go
because the stores will be closing soon and I just realized I don’t have the
perfect gift yet…Oh God, Oh God, I’m screwed what am I to do. I should have
listened more to all those advice columns. Looks like I’ll be sleeping on the
couch. Happy Valentine’s Day.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->C. Coman Yenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03189922303641142402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479490785108997047.post-41939975509013644352012-01-23T16:34:00.001-08:002012-01-23T16:34:26.102-08:00Bathroom Poetry<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
On a recent night out at the
Biltmore I noticed something on one of my visits to the facilities – and no
this has nothing to do with dicks or dick jokes. What caught my eye was the
vast amount of graffiti on the walls. I have been to the Biltmore many times
before but this is the first time I really thought about the ink that covers
the bathroom walls so completely. I guess the main query I had was, who wrote
all this stuff?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I
found myself wondering several things about these authors. The thing that stuck
out the most was my curiosity over who brings Sharpies or big fat permanent
markers to the bar? I suppose it would be the same type who carries one around
so they can mark-up mailboxes and bus stops. At least I hope it’s the same
type, it would be even stranger to me to be leaving for the bar and make sure
to grab your marker so you can tag the bathroom. That sort of action shows a
level of forethought towards bathroom artwork, which I find to be
curious/creepy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Something
else I couldn’t help but muse on was that despite so much writing on the
Biltmore walls and that of many other establishments, I’ve never seen anybody
writing on the walls. Which filled me with questions over wall writing
etiquette. Are you supposed to wait until the room is cleared before you start?
Was the stuff written above the urinal done whilst peeing? Does that ever
result in awkward moments with other patrons? See, now I kind of want to catch
somebody in the act. I think I would get a modest chuckle walking into the loo
to see a guy, junk in one hand and Sharpie in the other leaving his mark.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I
suppose a large part of my interest also goes to the mentality of bathroom
tagging and I guess tagging in general. I fail to see the drive behind it. If,
indeed it is some sort of turf thing or an ‘I was here’ feeling, then wouldn’t
– if caught in the act – the writer turn to me and pump his fist with a little
‘Fuck yeah and shit!’ so I knew it was him. So I knew that I was in the
presences of greatness, that I actually saw ‘Stumpy’ or ‘Togsoner’ or
‘FilthBomb’ in person.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
This
phenomenon of bathroom tagging is not contained solely within the lavatory of
the Biltmore. It is something I have seen at dozens if not hundreds of
establishments, as I suspect you have as well. Which means you should be
familiar with the two basic types of privy prose. The first being the simple
‘tag’, which when I think about it is most fitting for the bathroom as ‘tags’
tend to be heaping piles of shit. The second form encountered is the small poem
or comment – things such as ‘Becky Winston is a bitch’ or ‘for a good time call
778-995-5789’ - at least in the men’s room, not so sure about the other side.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
It’s
actually what is written in the ladies room that caused me to dwell so much on
the washroom scripture. A day or two before that I was with a friend who told
me of some truly great conversations she read written on the stall door of the
washroom. They sound very much different than what I am used to reading in the
men’s room. This particular conversation started with a girl complaining how
fat and ugly she thought she was or something to that effect. As it turned out
the response was all positive, several comments left behind reassuring this
initial girl that she was wrong and that she was beautiful and other such comforts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
My
friends informed me that this sort of thing is not uncommon, that girls will
often write nice things to each other and try and be helpful to the strangers
who had previously popped a squat in that particular stall. Again something I
found fascinating. This concept opened up a whole new dimension to the bathroom
writing mentality that just leaves me with more questions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
So,
I will put those questions to you. If you, loyal reader, can shed any light on
the practice of bathroom tagging, poetry, conversations and any form of stall
messaging please do. If you have engaged in this practice yourself then help me
understand why? If you have ever caught somebody in the act of writing on the
walls/stalls of a bathroom please share. Lastly, if you for some reason can
recall a particularly memorable piece of writing you’ve read then share that
story.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->C. Coman Yenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03189922303641142402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479490785108997047.post-26317072025695409242012-01-17T11:25:00.000-08:002012-01-17T11:25:36.237-08:00The Driver's Bubble 2<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
As I mentioned previously in ‘The
Driving Bubble’ I have not done much driving in the last year. This is due to
my steady lack of employment, which has made it somewhat difficult to afford
the upkeep of an automobile. So over the last couple of months I have been
trying to sell my car – a gorgeous ’97 Corolla if anyone is interested. A small
problem with my attempted sale is that because the car has sat idle for so long
the battery is pretty low. So for the last few days I have been taking my ride
for little spins around the neighbourhood to keep it in running order. Nothing
to far afield, just aimless circles through the surrounding blocks. It was on
one of these short jaunts I was struck with a realization – I miss driving.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I
know that sounds similar to the original ‘Driver’s Bubble’, but this time it
had nothing to do with the special zone for unfettered singing. It was simply
the joy of being behind the wheel and going for a cruise. It was at some point
when I cracked the window to get a little breeze going that I had a flashback.
I was instantly transported back to the early days of having my driver’s
license and the ensuing feelings of freedom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I
couldn’t help but remember what a big deal it was to acquire a license, that
ability to no longer rely on a parent or bus to take you somewhere - An
instant feeling of being older, of reaching some sort of milestone. It’s been
ten years since I started driving and over those many days and thousands of
kilometers covered on the road, I lost that feeling of excitement when getting
behind the wheel. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Over
those last ten years so much of my time at the wheel felt like a chore. Gone
was that spark of giddiness when turning the key and hearing the rumble of the
engine. All too often driving became a headache, with the traffic jams, bad
drivers and ever ballooning gas prices. Don’t get me wrong; I do not miss any
of those aspects of being a motorist. It’s just than when I think back to those
first few months of driving in that first car, I miss it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Back
then I used to drive just for the hell of it. It’s kind of funny how enjoyable
it was to load up the old 626 with a few friends on a Friday night and just
cruise around. Throwing on some good tunes (well they seemed good at the time)
and driving around looking for other young people to interact with. Maybe stop
for a slurpee then jump back in the whip to roll around and talk about nonsense
and girls and stupid school and girls and sports stuff and girls and tell crude
jokes and yell out the window at strangers and punch each other in the arm, all
the while thinking we were swinging dicks. But in truth we were just another
rowdy car full of awful awful teenagers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
It
wasn’t just weekend nights either. There was the first summer of driving and
cruising with the windows down on a hot day. All the days of what seemed like
the best choice, cranking a little Fog Hat and slowly rolling past the beach to
gawk at the ladies and continue to yell crude comments out the window and punch
each other in the arm and generally be dreadful human beings. But every so
often things would work out and we’d spot a bevy of beauties. Convince them to
hop in the car and head off somewheres. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
And
then there were some nights when I would just hop in the car by myself and
drive around, simply for the pleasure of driving. It’s that simplest of
pleasures that was lost and which I miss. Also, now that adulthood has happened
and people have grown into their bodies I have no idea how I ever fit eight
bodies into the 626 for a cruise. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
So
I say to you, if you are fortunate enough to have a car, on your next day of
idleness – go for a drive. Damn the gas prices, damn the traffic and damn the
environment. Get behind the wheel with no plan and take yourself for a spin. If
you’re sick of the city get out of it. If you prefer staying local, then do
some rubbernecking along some unfamiliar side streets. Either way, I say pick
out your best road tunes, strap yourself into the bubble and relish the ability
to drive a car. A tool that doesn’t have to simply be a utility, but a luxury.</div>C. Coman Yenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03189922303641142402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479490785108997047.post-18712072084819362012012-01-02T15:03:00.000-08:002012-01-02T15:03:15.198-08:00A View To Die For: a short story<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Morgan Connoly
inhaled deeply. The feeling of the breeze on her face had a calming effect.
There was a strange sweetness to the salty ocean air. Part of that was due to
the bottle of champagne she’d almost finished and partly because she had
succeeded. Morgan sat atop a cliff over looking the Pacific. Casually dressed
in her comfiest jeans, rolled up to just below the knee and a loose cotton
blouse that billowed slightly when the wind gusted. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
She closed her
eyes and slowly drew another long breath, her fiery red hair dancing lightly in
the wind. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so content. The empty
bottle of champagne lying by her side, the last of it filling the flute she
loosely held in one hand, resting on her knee. Normally not much of a drinker
she felt justified in this heavy indulgence, after all she was celebrating. The
last month had been a grind. She had never worked so hard in her life, but
today it had all paid off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
She laughed a
little to herself over how nervous she had been that morning. It was her big
chance to stun all the senior members of the company and she didn’t disappoint.
She absolutely killed at her presentation. She had left the board speechless.
Morgan was especially proud of how blown away Evan had been; he was the one she
most wanted to surprise.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Morgan thought
back to when she was first hired. How everyone had told her she wouldn’t cut
it. That the corporate world she was entering was a man’s world. That she
wasn’t tough enough for it, that she couldn’t handle the cutthroat nature of
the business. These types of things Morgan had heard her whole life and she was
determined to prove her doubters wrong. It was a struggle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Being the only
female employee not working as a secretary or assistant Morgan had expected to
be slightly resented, but she was totally unprepared for the abuse she
received. The constant whistles and catcalls from the male department heads.
The steady stream of lewd remarks and suggestions she’d be happier at home in
the kitchen or on her back in the bedroom. At first she tried to convince
herself they were intimidated by her presence and this was all some sort of
hazing because she was new. Morgan believed once she showed that she belonged
it would all ease up. So she worked hard and her work was top notch, outshining
many of the longer serving male employees. But it only got worse.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
The remarks only
got dirtier with time and the abuse slowly crossed the line from verbal to
physical. Suffering the occasional “accidental” collision resulting in a hand
on the breast or a pat on the rear end after a meeting followed by a sarcastic
“good job, sweet cheeks.” The problems reached their climax when Morgan started
being late for meetings or missing them altogether, because she didn’t receive
a memo or meeting times were changed at the last minute. This was the worst as
it was her work that was now suffering, but she was determined. Morgan was
tough. She could handle the taunts and slurs, she worked hard and late to catch
up, she could cope with all that. What made it unbearable was all the while
Evan watched and did nothing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Evan was a
senior vice-president and her college boyfriend and almost fiancé, Morgan would
have accepted his proposal if it weren’t for his demand that she give up her
“silly” career plans. He told her with his Dad’s connections he’d soon be
making more than enough money, so she could stay home and take care of their
children and not worry her pretty head with finance markets, mergers and
acquisitions. When she told him she couldn’t live that life, that she had to
work for herself and have a career, but loved him and wanted both – he left.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
None of that
mattered anymore, because after today she would never again suffer the
merciless abuse of her co-workers. Her presentation was flawless, her execution
perfect. Morgan raised her glass to toast herself. The setting sun giving the
champagne the look of liquid fire and as she stared into the golden bubbles she
noticed a strange flicker of blue and red.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
“I thought they
would have found me sooner.” She uttered. “It was awfully nice of them to wait
for me to finish my champagne.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Morgan slowly
got to her feet, wobbling slightly due to the effects of the champagne. She
turned to face the dozen police vehicles speeding towards her. She was
impressed by how many they sent for her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
“Maybe they
thought I had help.” She mused. “I guess they didn’t believe one little woman
could murder a boardroom full of men by herself.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Morgan raised
her glass in salute to the large group of officers now facing her, guns drawn.
Draining the last of her glass Morgan held her arms wide, her blouse fluttering
in the wind, her hair swirling about her head. Morgan let the glass slip gently
from her hand as she took three steady steps backwards, which was one too many.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->C. Coman Yenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03189922303641142402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479490785108997047.post-60749901755815490102011-12-01T22:18:00.001-08:002011-12-01T22:19:43.936-08:00That's ASSinine<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Two nights ago, I along with
countless other 20-something’s longing for a little extra spice, teenage boys
dreaming of the future and middle-aged men dreaming of the past watched the
Victoria Secret Fashion Show. And I suppose a few women doing some sort of window-shopping.
Not a program I’m overly proud about viewing, but I figure I’m allowed, as I
watch neither Jersey Shore nor any of the Real Housewives train wrecks. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
There
were many aspects of this program that I was shocked/disturbed/surprised about and
none of them had to do with women walking around in barely enough material to
make me a toque (granted I do have a pretty big head). The first of which is
that through absolutely no effort of mine I have matured slightly…slightly. You
see I have watched this show in the past, but this year I found myself saying
‘This is stupid’. I was actually more interested in the musical performances
than the noodle thin prosti…uh Angels on stage and I’m talking linguini here,
not fettuccini. Yes I seem to have grown slightly or the Internet has just
corrupted me to the point where this sort of thing seems insignificant.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Second
on my list of irritants was the behind the scenes aspects in which the models
were being interviewed. I guess this also showed some sort of aging or
maturation, as my most common reaction to the models was ‘no, no, no. What
terrible examples you’re setting.’ Upon listening to these women I found myself
with a level of concern for any young girls who may be watching. There were two
thoughts expressed that struck me the hardest as dangerous messages. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
The
first came from a young and first time Angel who noted ‘I feel like I’m living
the American dream.’ Which in some ways may be true as I’ve always perceived
that dream to be along the lines of anybody can make it big if they work hard
and strive to achieve. But that is not really how this women’s message came
across and I fear for the young girls that what was heard was ‘I’ve made it.
I’m beautiful, famous and rich’. Which I guess is the new dream. The other
message delivered came from two Angels talking about their own childhood and
dreams of being a model. They said they hoped and believed that somewhere a
young girl was watching who could dream big enough and like them one day walk
around in their underwear and skip meals for money. And to me that is just not
the right thing to promote to children. I can’t really say there is anything
morally wrong with modeling, I just feel like aspiring to be wank-fodder for
12-year old boys whose parents have good internet locks is aiming a little low.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Finally
the thing that stuck out to me the most and I found to be the most peculiar
happened after an Angel made her turn at the end of the runway. As she was
walking off stage my eyes followed her so as to see the design features on the
back of her outfit when I noticed that her backside had been blurred out. This
was particularly noticeable as none of the preceding models had this happen, so
I can only assume she was wearing a thong or a g-string or some other cool new
thing I’ve never heard of.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
This
struck me as pretty gosh darn hypocritical, because the entire show is based
around titillation and cheap thrills. Yet seeing an ass crosses the line? There
didn’t seem to be any need to blur out any of the women wearing lacy
see-through bras, where nipples were as blatant as a fly in one’s soup. And it
certainly didn’t take a Sherlockian eye to notice all off the dromedary dactyls
on display. Aside from the obvious reason of my penchant for hindquarters, I
think this censoring bothered me so much because it speaks to a larger issue in
TV censorship.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
It
is the censoring of sex and sexual content that I find somewhat ridiculous.
It’s not that I need to see t’n’a all over the small screen, but that sex is
still considered taboo on network TV and violence is so commonplace. I mean sex
is about as natural as it gets, pretty much everybody I know has experienced it
in some form, probably even some priests. Yet I can’t think of any acquaintances
who have shot, stabbed, blown up, or candlesticked someone to death. Any of
which can be witnessed thousands of times a day on any number of shows, but try
and find a nip on prime time and you’re plum out of luck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
A
couple weeks ago while watching the premiere episode of Hell on Wheels I saw
(spoiler alert) a man getting a hole blown through his head and a throat cut
wide open – if you haven’t watched the show I suggest you do. All that’s fine,
it doesn’t bother me in the slightest, but I know there is no hope of seeing
any tits-a-poppin. At best I might catch a little side-boob, which admittedly
if shot well can be mighty fine but you know…its not the real deal. And I fail
to see how seeing a breast is more inappropriate than a fairly realistic shot
of a man losing his scalp under a native blade.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I
guess the thing that bothers me is how much work goes into covering up all the
smut. Watch any episode of CSI and you’ll see a dead woman in a hotel who has
been murdered and left in her own blood and despite the killer going to great
lengths to brutalize his victim he was very careful to tastefully drape a sheet
across her naughty bits, I guess so the police won’t find her in a state of
indecency.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I’m
not saying I have a desperate need for more nudity on TV, because I don’t. Sure
in certain situations it can lend an air of realism, but who watches TV for
realism. I guess what it really boils down to is, coommmeee ooonnn – it’s the
Victoria Secret show for Pete’s sake.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->C. Coman Yenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03189922303641142402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479490785108997047.post-91449951534449816452011-11-29T18:22:00.001-08:002011-11-29T18:22:59.512-08:00The Driver's Bubble<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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As I alluded to in my previous post
I am now a regular and constant fixture on the cities’ public transportation.
That’s all well and good, but today I witnessed something that made me long for
the days of driving. As I was crossing the street a car pulled up to the stop
sign, as I looked inside to gauge whether or not the driver would roll through
or allow me to pass, I saw her singing and doing a little head bobbing. She
stopped upon seeing me notice her and I couldn’t help but smile a little.
Seeing this made me miss the days of the car-rock-out.</div>
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There
is something about driving along and listening to some catchy beats that I
sorely miss. I think it has to do with being in that special zone, that
driver’s bubble. A time when despite the fact you are surrounded by windows,
you feel as though you’re alone. I always hear horror stories of long commutes
to and from work, but I always enjoyed those moments (admittedly I always had
relatively short drives, if I was say coming in from Surrey everyday I would probably
want to ram my face through a plate glass window).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
When
I was driving I always felt a certain calm, I enjoyed that time as a little me
time. A few minutes when I could think about whatever and hopefully get in some
solid car-dancing and it really didn’t matter what I was rocking out to. That
is the great thing about a solid driving bubble rock-out. I could through down
a wicked drum solo on the dashboard while listening to the Chili Peppers or
belt out to the world how much of a Firework I am. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
For
whatever reason as soon as I was in that little imagined world of privacy I was
a rock star. Sure, every once and a while I would get busted and feel a little
sheepish, but there is usually very little judgment from other motorists. And one
of my favourite things to do when busted was to try and get whoever saw me to
sing along. I know when I see someone having a drive-time dance party and
they’re really getting into it, I’m a little jealous. I’m curious as to what
they’re listening to and hardly ever think less of them, actually I usually
think more – except that one time a couple months ago when I saw a guy in a
honkin big pickup cranking Hootie, come on? Hootie?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I’m
not sure what it is, but there is some strange magical force that takes over
when sitting behind the steering wheel. I don’t for a second think about what
I’m singing or how ridiculous I might look doing the Sprinkler at a red light.
But this only seems to happen in the car. I no longer drive but I still listen
to music all the time. My Ipod is a steady accessory, but I rarely have a
walking-down-the-street rock-out. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I
came close the other day while crossing the street at Broadway and Macdonald. I
was mid crosswalk and listening to a song called Livin’ In The Future by the
Boss, when the late great Clarence Clemons chimed in with a bad-ass sax solo. I
had a hard time suppressing my urge to give a Michael Jackson inspired leg kick
and air-sax my way across the street. If you’re familiar with the work of
Clemons you’ll understand, if not I strongly suggest you give him a listen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I
suppose there would have been nothing wrong with a little dancing in the
streets, but I felt restrained. As though my actions would have been viewed as
those of a spacey weirdo instead of a dope guy having a blast, which is how I
think I may have been received had I been driving. Which I guess again speaks
to that magic force that arises when sitting at the wheel. Strangers seem to
recognize that special zone, a common bond amongst those who need a few moments
of spontaneous jamming. When otherwise normal folk feel the right to be
completely silly and good for them. If only there were more times when it was
acceptable to cut loose and act the complete fool the world might be a better
place. However, that might diminish the specialness of the driver’s bubble.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->C. Coman Yenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03189922303641142402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479490785108997047.post-9441027945760444212011-11-22T19:37:00.001-08:002011-11-22T19:38:54.482-08:00Loser Cruiser Beefs<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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For the last year or so I have
become a regular user of public transportation and like most people I have my
gripes about the system. Now as a resident of the city of Vancouver I never
have to travel very far. Because of this my complaints seldom are about the
operation of the transit system. I find it very easy to get almost anywhere I
need to with little or no hassle. At times it can be somewhat slow, but that is
usually due to the need to take two or more different buses. This is rare as
three different transfers means I must be going to some extremely remote place
that I am to lazy to add 15 minutes of walking.</div>
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My
complaints almost always lean towards my distaste for the other riders and
their poor bus etiquette. There are many regular occurrences that I see, but
there is one in particular that happened the other day, which is why I now am
writing this. You see I always try my best to take the B-line or any other
express bus, as I do not like having to stop every couple of blocks. That
probably stems from my long life as an automobile driver/passenger. It just
makes the trip seem so slow and as anyone who knows me can attest, I’m just
that much more important than the rest of the riffraff on the bus. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Anyway,
a couple days back I had to take a regular old bus as it was late at night and
I was not in the mood to wait another 20 minutes for the B-line. I along with
maybe 15 other people was waiting patiently and boarded at Commercial Drive.
Then as so often happens two blocks away someone who just got on rang the bell
to get off. Now you might ask yourself ‘isn’t that what they are supposed to
do?’ and the answer would be yes, but my complaint arises from this. Why the
shit are these people and their ilk waiting for ten minutes to get on a bus to
take them three blocks?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
It
might seem like a trivial complaint, but it really gets my goat. I’m not sure
if these people are aware of it, well clearly they’re not, but I’m kind of a
big deal and don’t have time to waste on stupid ritards who can’t walk three
blocks. These nincompoops who are too lazy to take a short walk end up slowing
the process for all of us. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
You
might be wondering how I know for sure the exiting passenger got on the same
stop as me. Well it is simply due to my ever-present sense of voyeurism. If I
am going to stand around for several minutes waiting for the bus, I am most
certainly going to scout out all those around me. Searching for possible
problems, ugmos, well fitting lulu pants or possible terrorists. I like to know
who is going to be on the bus with me. There is also an aspect of determining
potential seat competitors. Some people like to stand, others rush for a seat,
I almost always prefer the seat option as I usually take lengthy bus trips –
otherwise I’d be walking. I’m a seat rusher, especially if there is say some
elderly or feeble person at the same stop. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I
know that sounds horrible and it is. My motives for beating the cripples to
seats are two fold. The first being that if there are indeed several seats
available and I am fortunate enough to grab one early then more often or not it
will put a later seat grabber in the bind of having to give up his chair for
the old woman/pregnant lady/ super fatty. The second motive is that if there
are only one or two seats and I grab one then I will no doubt end up having to
give it up to the feebs, thereby looking like the gentlemen too all those not
to brain hampered to notice my good (albeit secretly dastardly) deed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Another
reason I really like to sit on the bus, especially on a non-express bus, is
because of all those quick stop passengers. If I am going to half to endure a
constant stop/start trip I’d like to sit. Maybe the most common quick stop
snafu I encounter is the Clark Drive stop on the B-line. I take this bus quite
a lot and almost every time there are those who wait at Commercial (the first
stop) then get off at Clark (the second). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I
do make a couple small allowances for certain people. I fully am understanding
of the need for a three block bus ride if you are carrying a huge load of
groceries or the aforementioned pregnant lady and of course to the elderly
individual who takes those small painful looking steps. You know the type, the
ones who can never make it across the street before the light changes, painful
to watch. </div>
<span style="font-family: Cambria;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span>It’s
at this time of year when I find it particularly awful to be stuck on a slow
moving bus. It’s always raining so nobody wants to walk, school is in session
so there is a constant stream to UBC. And also due to the cold the drivers
crank the heat despite everyone wearing their winter coats and rain gear, which
always results in an awful mix of stuffy, damp, cramped conditions as well as
the constant fear of being frottaged. I suppose I could try and learn to relax,
take a Zen approach. Think of that time on the bus as a chance for quiet
reflection in an otherwise loud and bustling day. Nah.</span><!--EndFragment-->C. Coman Yenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03189922303641142402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479490785108997047.post-38149386433359228482011-11-17T13:12:00.001-08:002011-11-17T13:16:10.586-08:00The Guy Waiter<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
This is
something that if you’re a friend of mine we may have discussed in the past.
It’s something that I almost want to put into my Maligned Maneuvers category,
but doesn’t quite cut it. This is more of a situation than a maneuver and the
best examples occur when dining at a certain type of chain restaurant. Eateries
such as Cactus Club, Earls, Milestones, Joeys, Moxies and of course The Shark
Club. The situation being when you are seated in the section of the one guy
waiter. I understand that this particular gripe is somewhat gender specific but
I’m going make it anyway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
The main reason
I don’t like getting the guy waiter is pretty obvious, I’d prefer a buxom young
filly in tight clothes to bring my food and drink instead of some Brad. Lets be
honest I’m not there for the quality board of fare, not that I oft frequent
these establishments but when I do it’s usually with three or four of my
buddies for a little chow and a lot of drinks. So having an attractive staff is
a strong selling point. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
On top of that,
being the sophisticated young men my friends and I are it’s nice to make lewd
comments amongst each other when our server is away from the table. So when we
do get seated at a table by one of the bevy of hot hostesses and are informed,
“Andrew will be along shortly to take your order” it’s a bit of a let down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
I think it’s
also fair to say tips won’t be as much for a man as when the food is placed on
the table by an attractive young woman who has to stretch out to reach the far
end of the booth. It should come as no surprise that men are easily susceptible
to long eyelashes and a full bust. Sure it’s a less than classy admission, but
meh.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
I think this notion is probably not lost
on the male servers either. Sure it isn’t a fair practice but good service
being equal, I’m more likely to loosen my purse strings for a tight fitting
dress than some shmuck trying to be my buddy. Oh yes, the buddy-buddy approach.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
If you’re not
familiar with the buddy-buddy approach, be thankful. The classic intro in this
approach usually sounds something like,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
“How we doin’
boys? Cool cool. Can I get you some drinks to get the night started? Alright,
alright. Are you eating full meals or just some appies and drinks before
hitting the town? Nice, well I’ll get those right out for you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
Occasionally
there is one final part to this approach that pushes it over the top and that
is the tableside crouch. When the waiter sits down on his haunches and maybe
lowers his voice to see about the night’s plans, for the purpose, I guess, of being
one of the gang. The absolute capper is the rare but brutal knuckle rap on the
table as he departs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
This tactic
occurs, I believe, when the waiter knows he’s up against some tough critics –
in a group of young men – so tries a little too hard to be friends with the
customers. I have friends, evidenced by the table of fellow patrons. So I don’t
need a new one, particularly one who is there to bring me my food. It’s not
personal, just part of being a greazzy twenty-something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
As a final note
I’ll say it’s been a while since I’ve experienced this situation, mainly
because I don’t sup at these restaurants that often anymore. In part due to the
vast array of quality food available in the is fair city and because when you
start pushing 40 bucks after tax and tip for a couple beers and a mediocre
burger, it sucks. So considering
how rare I visit these chow halls combined with the less than stellar pricing,
it is particularly shitty when you get the guy waiter.</div>
<br />C. Coman Yenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03189922303641142402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479490785108997047.post-53950818657832254112011-11-16T16:39:00.000-08:002011-11-16T16:39:33.242-08:00Hope She Has VD<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Yesterday I found myself visiting the doctor’s office. As I am like thousands of other people I do not have a family doctor so I went to the walk-in clinic. While there I was able to witness something that is not all that uncommon to doctor’s office’s, actually not that uncommon in general, whether it be a dentist, post office, passport office or really any place that has a waiting room. So I was obviously waiting, the less than cheery receptionist told me it would be an hour or so, which was fine. I know that coming to a walk-in means waiting and I had a book, so no biggie. As the wait time dragged on I noticed several perspective patients approach the desk to check and see how much longer the wait would be. A reasonable thing to do I suppose, especially as how this clinic will allow you to leave without losing your place. So if the wait is still going to be another 45 mins, why not walk across the street for a coffee or what have you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Everything was going fine, the wait was a little tedious but that is to be expected, I can deal with it. What I had a harder time dealing with was the young woman who took the lengthy wait time as an affront to her person, some sort of personal attack on her precious time. I was sitting right in front of reception so I could not help but overhear/watch the entire interaction she had with the staff. Like many others before her she went up to ask how much longer the wait, but the answer she got wasn’t good enough for her. “Yeah well you said it would be an hour and it’s been an hour and a half.” The tone she chose was one of aggravated annoyance. It’s a tone I’ve heard hundreds of times from those who feel that somehow an unexpected delay to their day has been perpetrated on purpose.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> The nurse/receptionist/medical assistant responded to her with a smile and an apology and did her best to inform the patient of the remaining wait time. She said that this girl was fourth on the list, but that two of the people had already been called and not responded, so she was probably in the next two people to be called. This was still not good enough. This impatient patient again reverted to her “do you know who I am tone”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “What does that mean? How long will it be?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “Ahh there’s just one more person in front of you, so you’ll be called after them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “I don’t know what that means. How long is that? Why is it taking so long? I don’t understand what you mean by two more people, how long is that?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> This exchange went back and forth for a couple minutes, with the girl demanding to know how long two other patients will be and what the receptionist meant. I had a brief internal struggle over telling the girl two more people means, “ to sit the fuck down and wait.” Luckily my small sense of politeness won that debate.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Like I said before the wait really wasn’t that bad for me until this girl had to be such a sucky bitch face. Maybe part of it was my general taste for her whole aura. She wore grey tights on a cold November day and not the good grey either, it was that light grey that if you saw someone in the gym wearing that colour you’d cringe. Up top was a pseudo army canvas jacket, a large loose knit scarf wrapped itself around her neck (as I imagined my hands could be) and on her head was a similarly knit toque, thrown on only halfway so that her dyed red bangs could protrude from underneath. She really had a solid hipster hobo-chic thing going. I think the main irksome factor came from the tone of voice and body language. Her head tilted to the side and her jaw slightly ajar. Not slack, but a little open with the muscles promoting the chin, her tongue slightly pushing on her lower lip resulting in an expression of shocked disbelief over this horrible injustice happening to her. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Realizing she was only going to have the same answers repeated to her she finally decided to return to her seat, making sure to give an insincere and sarcastic “thank you” once her back was turned and she was already several feet from the desk. A “thank you” spoken more to the room at large than the actual staff and said with enough volume so everyone knows she still has manners despite the shockingly shabby treatment she just received. After watching this display I couldn’t help but feel as though this girl would also take a discourteous tone when dealing with the pimply-faced kid working for minimum wage at the customer service desk at one store of thousands in a mega-corporation chain or flight attendants. Making sure to let them know she wasn’t happy the flight was delayed and confused by how someone who serves drinks and headphones has not yet gotten the plane off the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> So she went back to her seat and it couldn’t have been more than five minutes before she was called upon to see the doc. Again my inner sense of jerkiness took over, watching her walk into the back I couldn’t help but think to myself,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “I hope whatever she’s got its fatal, bitch. Whoa whoa whoa, too far Clay, too far. Hopefully its just the Herpes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Funny thing was she was back there for all of two minutes before she came storming back out. Not sure went wrong but if possible she seemed even more hard-done by than when she was made to wait. Her head was again tilted, with the mouth hanging slightly open, jaw forward. Only this time she added aggressive blinking to the look, not rapid blinking but really hard, pronounced blinks. Like she could blink away the unfairness she felt. Seeing that look made me feel better about my wait time, the fact that her day was so ruined took away the poor feelings she had earlier made me to feel. It was nice watching her storm out of the clinic with an expression that said,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “I can’t believe how awful this has been and now I’m going to be late for Derrick’s show opening on German Nihilism. Not that he’ll even care, ugh, what’s with him, it seems like he just doesn’t care about anything. Fuck it, I won’t go. I just want to go home smoke from my hookah and enjoy a nice cold PBR.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> But hopefully she just looked that way because of the Herp.<o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->C. Coman Yenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03189922303641142402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479490785108997047.post-20347395256021768162011-11-12T10:29:00.000-08:002011-11-12T10:29:14.856-08:00The Intersection Crosswalk Interception Stop'n'Talk<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">In this piece of writing I would like to introduce the first of what will no doubt be many similar musings. I put them all in the category of my Most Maligned Maneuvers.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Close reading of the title of this entry should give you a pretty good idea of what it is. This particular move happens when a person “the defender” finds themselves crossing the street - best examples will occur at large intersections - about halfway across the road said pedestrian comes into contact with an acquaintance “the attacker” who for some reason feels it necessary to start a conversation. Thus creating an awkward moment in which the defender has to do some very quick decision-making.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">“Do I keep this very brief, just say hi and keep moving? Do I stand in the middle of the crosswalk and create a tableau for motorists to watch? Do I backtrack to my side of the street and continue the conversation on land? Do I try for the power play and make this fool backtrack and follow me? Or do I simply snub this useless schmuck of the poorly timed gab and get on with my day?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">I think you’d agree that these are a lot of choices to be made in the short time it takes to walk across the road. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Now you might be asking yourself why I deem conversing with a friend so unpleasant. It is because in my experience such a person is usually not a very good friend, if a friend at all or even worse a Facebook friend. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">This fact of pseudo friendship is what sticks in my craw the most. I, at the best of times can be described as grouchy and am not one who ever finds himself in the mood to chit-chat with a casual acquaintance. If this person were actually a good friend of mine they would know this. So I always do my best to avoid having to talk at all or if I can get away with it even acknowledging this windbag exists and here’s how.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Thanks to technology the ability to completely ignore someone is becoming easier all the time. So for those of you like me who don’t care to waste words with some yokel in the middle of the road, I suggest always walking with an iPod or equivalent music device. This electronic shield is the first and best line of defense, it allows you to either ignore them entirely or give just a simple head bob as you pass by. It will deter all but the most insistent of twits. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">Should you encounter a more persistent conversationalist and find yourself stuck in a roadway repartee there are other options. My favourite is the PowerPlay. In this maneuver you’ll have to feign interest in this schmuck and convince him/her that if the conversation is to go on it needs to take place on the safety of the sidewalk. Here is where the power move comes in. Using either sly hints or sheer will power you have to force the ‘attacker’ to turn around and return to their original side of the street.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">I like this move because after ending the exchange you are free to continue on your way all the while having forced them to once again wait for the light to change. A subtle (and petty) but rewarding punishment for the inconsiderateness of an asinine exchange of pleasantries. The PowerPlay doesn’t always work and sometimes the ‘attacker’ will realize the folly in a mid-stream discussion and keep moving, which is just as good an outcome.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">There is still one more scenario that is even worse than having to engage in some small talk with your crosswalk competitor. I speak of the time when you are standing on the corner waiting for the light to change and you see this person across the street and they see you. And you know that very shortly you’ll be faced with all the dilemmas described above.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">In that moment you can usually see it in their eyes. A little spark of fecklessness as they quickly scan their brains for some useless banter. Should this happen there is no real escape. It’s the eye contact that was your ruin. They know you saw them, you know they saw you seeing them and they know you know they saw you seeing them. You’re hooped.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">One last note in that all of this goes out the window if the person you encounter is a dear friend or say a family member. This poses an entirely different set of challenges, as it is hard for even the curmudgeonliest of us to shut down ones own mother. In that case you’ll just have to endure and hear about how the cats are doing or cousin Freddy’s trip to Mexico. Which just may be the absolute worst case of the Intersection Crosswalk Interception Stop’n’Talk.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><!--EndFragment-->C. Coman Yenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03189922303641142402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479490785108997047.post-7524544738344603482011-11-11T16:57:00.000-08:002011-11-11T16:57:04.187-08:00Occupy This<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"> In recent weeks and particularly in recent days there has been a lot of press devoted to the OccupyVancouver movement. There have been many arguments for both sides filling up the newspaper, TV news, radio call-in shows and I can only assume the Twitterverse (I say assume because I have yet to join. The blog is enough, baby steps). Anyway, with all the coverage the movement has received I’d be remiss to not comment at all. Instead of rehashing the many pros and cons of the current riff-raff filling up the Art Gallery lawn I shall talk of a specific incident I witnessed the other day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> A couple of days ago, as I had not yet visited the freak show, I thought I should check out the circus before it is removed. So I wandered downtown, all excited to cruise around the tent city with a critical eye and make snap judgments about all the crusty members of this so called political movement for change. And I did. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> The main conclusion I drew from my visit was that these people had no real agenda, plan or rational thought. I’m not sure how this so called 99% is going to get anything changed by sitting on the VAG steps smoking cigarettes or listening to some sort of trance music whilst spinning some ropes with lights on the end rave dance thingies.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> I did find it interesting that there was a library. It seems to me that if these unwashed ragamuffins really wanted to make some changes they might start by reading some books about the root causes of the world’s great financial/political/social ills. Or perhaps reading up on some of the new laws being debated, however briefly, in Ottawa. Or instead of protesting the civic mayoral debate, engaging in it. Not likely. I assume there aren’t a lot of voters amongst this group who doesn’t like the way the system works. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> Moving on, as none of that pertains to the incident I referred to. As I was leaving the camp, walking south on Howe, I passed four young persons heading the opposite direction, two men (boys) and two women. As I became level with the foursome one of the guys hocked a loogie on a police cruiser parked at the curb. Seeing this really bothered me, I mean really. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> When it comes down to it I don’t really mind if someone feels the need to spit on a cop car, but there was something about this fellow that made it not okay with me. It wasn’t the act of spitting that irked me, but rather the overwhelming sense that this clown really had no idea why he was doing it. I thought about stopping him to ask about his motivations, but I didn’t. Although I have a pretty good idea about his response – “because fuck the police and shit”.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> With that response I ‘d imagine you can somewhat picture the type. Both of the guys walked with the sort of waddle that only comes from pants worn not just low, but below the ass low. To the point where six inches of boxers are visible. The spitter was wearing huge sweatpants and an equally oversized hoodie. His friend had jeans and a winter coat with a large hood and what I only assume was a wife-beater and a silver chain underneath. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> The girls matched up perfectly. Both sporting a variation of dangly earrings, too much eye make-up, really light blue jeans underneath calf length black boots and a waist length winter coat that if not, certainly should have had a faux fur collar. I’m certain that if this jacket were removed one could get a large eyeful of midriff due to a too short shirt and then after passing by, some variation of thorn or butterfly tramp-stamp.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> So I guess it wasn’t really the spitting that bugged me so much as who was providing the salvia dart. To me this guy represented everything wrong about a large segment of uninformed, misguided and poorly educated young people of my generation. Often the type to have a very negative impression of the police as though they are all bad guys out to wield power to screw citizens.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> Yes it is true that there are plenty of bad cops and it does seem like there is always some story in the news about police misdeeds. That doesn’t mean the institution of police is a bad thing that needs to be spat upon. And that’s what I really wanted to ask this guy. Why do you think the police are the bad guys? Is it because they arrive at the scene of car accidents to investigate what happened? Or spend their time tracking down major drug dealers and murderers? Is it because they responded to a 911 call to a household in time to stop a man from further beating on his wife or kids?</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> Or is because the concept of authority ruins your notion of how the system should work? Because your beer was poured out? Because they might move you off of public lands which you have decided to squat on and pretend you have a political agenda? Or because almost always when there is a story about the police it’s about misconduct or abuse of power? I guess that’s it. For this particular young douche bag the negatives outweigh the positives and the Po-nine are always the bad guys. So might as well discharge any excess phlegm on one of their cars, because fuck the police and shit.</div><!--EndFragment-->C. Coman Yenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03189922303641142402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479490785108997047.post-67042253491734313682011-11-09T11:59:00.000-08:002011-11-09T11:59:06.293-08:00It Starts<div style="text-align: left;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 16px;">Hello and welcome to The Clay Pen. The premier place to go to read all the wonderful, weird and wacky thoughts emanating from the mind of Clay Yen, that’s me. Posted on this blog will be all the rants, rambles and sometimes even the short stories that are constantly swirling around my head. I aim to provide a place for readers to come for the occasional laugh as well as a haven for some insightful intelligent and thought provoking material. If you’re reading this I assume these are things you crave. I make this assumption because your judgment seems to be of the utmost quality, signaled by the fact you have visited this page in the first place.</span></div><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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