Crossing busy streets looking up at billboards as pigeons scatter at my feet feeling rushed being pushed on the bus stuck in traffic heading for the park I sit reading black and white thoughts on a 100 year old bench that will be replaced with concrete and steel I am never surprised I do not give up it is caffeine that keeps me fueled even at night I cannot see the stars but it never stops honking yellow cabs let me pass by red stoplights in a city that never sleeps my stack of books sits by my bed with barking from the neighbourhood dogs and meowing from the neighbourhood homeless man it is 4:00 that's AM not PM I'm feeling pizza maybe pastrami the restaurant is crowded laughing singing it is popcorn at the cinema that lets me escape everyday life footsteps away from reality laundry left out to dry by whatever heat remains subway life puts me where I go it does not matter how far it is my pleasure to enjoy how short life may be in this city it is never boring because I am me in...
Several months ago my family owned twelve actively producing laying hens. We have since seen this number dwindle and the number of chubby neighbourhood raccoons increase exponentially.
Before the remaining birds bared witness to their friends being snatched up by a lanky raccoon perched on a low-slung branch and subsequently decapitated/devoured, life was good. So good, in fact, that we were faced with more of nature’s most perfect food than we knew what to do with. And these weren’t just any old eggs. Know that I am talking about the product of free rangegrain fed specimens here. Sometimes I’d go out back and rile them up a bit just to make sure they kept toned. These were the little George St. Pierre’s of the Langley laying hen scene.
Athletic MMA star; Equally athletic chicken
To ensure nothing would go to waste, I began slamming back absurd amounts of raw eggs per day. Before long I found myself with high cholesterol, a blackening liver, and the strength of ten men. A decision was made to share the eggs. But these eggs were special, and they couldn’t simply be passed around to ungrateful co-workers or nosey neighbours. They must be used for a greater purpose. Gandhi once proclaimed; “We must be the change we wish to see”. These eggs had the power to facilitate such a change. And I had a plan:
I SHALL THROW THE EGGS AT CARS!
Gandhi; Gandhi in egg form
Now, I know what you’re thinking and you can stop thinking it. I am in no way referring to any childish “egging” antics. This blog is far too mature for that. What I am proposing is a safe and sensible way to bring attention to a growing crisis in the Greater Vancouver Regional District. The problem, or course, is bad driving.
Those with a considerable commute to work or school understand what I mean. Those with a commute that takes them through Surrey really know what I mean. I have been making the trek out to the heart of Surrey (Kwantlen) for about the past three years or so. The area is both a cultural and generational melting pot where each faction of the population doesn’t appear to have a clue what the other is up to. This disconnect is no more apparent than on Surrey’s overcrowded streets. If you have learned any important lessons about driving, they almost certainly do not apply there. There isn’t just an abundance of bad drivers; there is an abundance of crazy drivers. Curiously, the issue appears to have no connection to the big three stereotypical predictors of poor driving; race, sex, and age. While commuting to class one eventful autumn afternoon, I observed two incidents that I hope will underscore my point.
I approach a major intersection and there are three lanes of traffic; two going straight and one for left-hand turns. I am in the middle lane and have begun to slow down as the amber warning lights are flashing. Directly to my right, a black and chrome H2 Hummer revs its engine. Okay, I think to myself, this guy is gonna run the light. I think this because years of driving experience have conditioned me to think this. In the real world, when a traffic light has gone yellow and the snarling sport utility vehicle beside you is still spewing jet black exhaust fumes out its ass, you are about to witness a dangerous maneuver. But this is not the real world. This is Surrey. All bets are off. In this situation, it is less likely that you will merely witness a dangerous maneuver, and far more likely that you will be unwillingly involved in one.
All in one continuous motion, and without signal or any warning whatsoever, the Hummer blasts out of its farmost right-hand lane and bullies its way past the grill of my Explorer, through my lane, and without pause, devours the entire left-hand turn lane before jutting into the intersection and completing the stunt just as the light flips to red. I catch a fleeting glimpse of the driver. A middle-aged Indian woman loaded up with other passengers.
A dozen of us were forced to slam on the brakes about 100 meters shy of the intersection as the action unfolded. Glancing around at the other commuters I saw a mixed bag of emotions. Obviously, there were those sitting frozen, jaw-in-lap, with utter astonishment. It must have been their first time in Surrey. Then there were others, such as myself, who were certainly jolted, but far from surprised. I nodded at an Asian dude waiting in the left turn lane as if to say, CLASSIC Surrey, huh? The guy nodded right back as if to say, Oh fuck buddy, you don’t even know!
Six hours later my Ford Exploder is back on the road. Stopped at another light, I spot a BLACK H2 HUMMER idling one lane to the left and two cars forward—in the front of the left-hand turn lane. This particular intersection has its own left turn signal, which as most people understand, operates independent of the main traffic light. Seconds later, this main light turns green. The left signal light remains dark. Almost expecting it to happen, I watch the black and chrome beast rumble out into the intersection to make its illegal left turn. The driver does not realize they have successfully cutoff the two oncoming lanes of traffic until the turn is about 60% complete. What follows is a befuddled mix of reevaluation articulated by abrupt taps of the brake. I have this sense that everyone around me is thinking the same thing: Good God man! Step on the damn gas and put an end to this hideous display. It is at this point that I notice, although my lane actually has a legit green light, the car in front of me has not budged an inch. They must be caught in a trance by this idiocy. They have never seen such a thing. They are not from Surrey. By now the star of our show has inexplicably kicked the H2 into reverse and is poorly executing a motorist equivalent of the walk of shame. The Hummer ends up back at the front of the left turn lane; the exact some spot they were in thirty seconds ago, but more crooked. My light is back to amber. I have yet to move but I’m totally cool with it. Well worth waiting around to get a look at the driver. It can’t be. It CAN’T be!
It’s not. The driver of this H2 is a young white male wearing a TAPOUT t-shirt and large sunglasses. At first I am disappointed. But then it all starts to make sense—in Surrey (and maybe places that aren’t Surrey, too) there are a ton of shitty drivers and no way of telling them apart. I suppose you could make the argument that this is merely a Hummer phenomenon and that these two stories speak to the aggressiveness (or asshole-ness) of those who choose pollution and petrol in exchange for, well…nothing. And you might be right. But I believe these stories (along with the countless other WTF moments I’ve witnessed) say an awful lot more about the disconnect between members of the community. Not only is Surrey highly multiracial, but the class system is out of whack compared to most cities due to, among other factors, divergent cultural values and a seemingly prevalent gang/drug problem. Any theories you’ve developed on how a person may behave in traffic due to interactions between race, sex, age, and/or type of vehicle are about as helpful to you at the Harmonized Sales Tax. Call it racism/sexism/ageism, call it whatever ism you want; the fact is most of us spend so much time on the road that we develop a set of beliefs as to what constitutes a “good match” between a person's race/sex/age and the kind of car they are driving. If you saw an elderly woman behind of the wheel of a Hummer, that would likely stand out to you as being NOT a “good match”. Well, I see a lot of grannies driving Hummers in Surrey (only sometimes literally). But perhaps Surrey’s situation can be viewed as a positive thing. Maybe the lack of predictability will go a long way in tearing down longstanding stereotypes and, in the future, maybe they’ll be better for it. Regardless, there is one thing I know for certain. At least for the time being, it would be heroic if someone with an excess of eggs could start plastering stupid Surrey drivers. Call it a temporary “band aid” solution to a larger social problem.
I even proposed the idea to a classmate of mine in a course on the philosophy of consciousness. She looked right back at me and said, “Aren’t you that guy who is always complaining about paying for parking? And now you want to egg drivers on your way to school? Take the bus!” She had clearly failed to see the beauty in my proposal. Consider this:
You are driving down the street and you ZIG with you should have ZAGGED. How stupid of you. The problem is, these days there are so many stupid things available to be done (e.g. texting, talking on the phone, driving drunk, driving sober but still driving over the now legal limit, eating a KFC double down, sexting, ect.) that there’s a good chance you have not realized just how foolish you have acted. You haven’t, but others have.
Do not text & drive; Do not eat the KFC Double Down
So how do you inform a person that they’ve done something stupid? You can honk at them. But people seem to honk about anything, good or bad, and I really think it has lost its sting—so that’s out. You could finger them. Though, as we will very soon discover, this doesn’t always work. It also doesn’t have the same effect in all cultures. Surrey is multicultural—so the finger is out. Or you could hop out of your vehicle and club the person with The Club. I admit this is often the most tempting option but, depending on the circumstances, you’ll probably be facing a stiff 8-10 year sentence –so that’s out (for now). That leaves the egg. It’s a little less ambiguous than the honk or the finger and a little less illicit than clubbing someone to death with your anti-theft device. The perfect harmony! This may sound like a joke—it’s not. I am perfectly serious.
The best part is that, performed correctly, tossing an egg is completely harmless. An egg can pack a powerful message with no lasting damage to a vehicle. However, it is important to remember to aim your egg at the body of the car, NOT at any windows as this may obstruct the driver’s vision and potentially exasperate the problem we are working to solve. Just do what the RCMP does with their tasers and ammunition; focus on center massand hope for the best. Sixty percent of the time it works for the cops, every time.
WHAT? Is that egg streaming down my hood!?! I am very mad about this!! Well…wait. You know what, he’s right. I deserved that. Good day to you, mister.
Unfortunately, the trauma our family of chickens endured has since left them incapable of, or indisposed to, producing at the same rate (think of trying to conceive a baby after watching an episode of Jersey Shore). It was an ambitious, and potentially community altering, initiative that was cut short by Mother Nature’s cruel wrath. Though, I have recently been given reason to rehash the egg agenda in a new context…
It is 9am on November 12th, 2010. My best guess is that a multitude of mommies and daddies are in a post Remembrance Day haze because the rush of school buses and mini vans is a little behind schedule this morning. It’s interesting how many of us spend our mid-week stat holiday dedicated to remembering by drinking to forget. I watch the wave of vehicles slowly subside through the kitchen window as I gear up for a bike ride.
It is not raining, but it has been. The road is slick and water splashes across my exposed legs with each rotation of the front wheel. This gives me the chills. Serious road riders shave their legs, but right now I’m wishing I had more hair on mine. The first few minutes are the worst part of these damp and dreary efforts. I am cold, and stiff, and home is still only a u-turn away. Fortunately, my decision to wait out the morning commuters has left me with the roads almost entirely to myself. When the odd car does pass, the lull of mid-morning allows for the drivers to drift completely into the oncoming lane as they proceed. At a busier time of day, or in a more populated part of town, this courtesy gap inevitably narrows. But on these quiet Langley avenues it is common practice to move the hell over. I begin to warm up and the reality of the ride sinks in. I am relaxed.
A few minutes later I can hear the grumble of a large vehicle at my back. I am riding on the white line that distinguishes the road from the shoulder. Should I have been fully off the road? Perhaps. But there are rocks over there and I’m trying to keep things smooth. Besides, I am operating a vehicle just as these motorists are and can ride wherever I please as long as I abide by the rules of the road. But none of this matters right now because everyone is giving me space. I am relaxed…AHHH (girlish scream)!
A large truck roars past my left shoulder. It not only denies me of space, but brushes so close to me that I feel a gust of wind surge against my left torso and a smattering of road water slap my limbs. Did that ______ ________ just try to clip me!?! This truly catches me off guard. Realistically, I probably wasn’t in any real danger and though it would be impossible to tell unless you were directly behind me, I’m sure there was still several feet between the truck and I. However, I have NEVER been brushed that close while riding and I decide immediately that this douchebag had intentionally given me a scare. I suppose it was the cycling equivalent to a slap in the face or a slew foot in hockey—maybe it’s not that dangerous, but it will really piss you off.
The truck driver’s plan worked. I am spooked and I am angry (beat per minute data from my heart rate monitor reviewed later was off the charts). I quickly weigh my options: no horn, no eggs, and no club. I sit up in my seat, take one hand off the handlebars, and finger the truck. I don’t even know if they can see me, but it feels glorious. I continue riding.
A few hundred meters down the road I can see the truck waiting at a stop sign. I can also see that there is absolutely no traffic moving in either direction of the adjacent road. So maybe they did catch the finger. Just in case this guy is actually waiting on me, I try to recall everything I know about fighting in the next thirty seconds as the distance between the truck and I slowly but surely closes. Bas Rutten is the first person who comes to mind:
Outside of Bas’ advice on how to kill a man, a quick review of my personal history in physical combat reveals that I am far from a fighter. I would like to say that I am a lover, not a fighter (except I’m not really a “lover” either):
1) I have spent some time working as a casino security guard. During this time, I somehow became involved with in a fight clubthat took place in a co-worker’s garage. This is not as barbaric as it sounds; but it’s close. The head of this operation had a wealth of experience in martial arts and I hardly ever feared for my life. I punched people and I kicked people. But mostly I was punched and kicked by people. Once I was kicked so hard in my leg that the next day at work my boss asked if I’d been in a car accident.
2) Basketball is the sport with the most contact (out of all the “non contact sports”). Throughout my career I found myself in a handful of near “tilts” with opposing players. Looking back on it now, nearly all of these instances share one common instigator—I was fouled when I thought I had a dunk. Nothing is cooler than intercepting a pass and running the length of the court for a breakaway slam dunk. And nothing is less cool than intentionally fouling a player who is in this process. Chicks dig the dunk. So if you can see one in your very near future and that possibility is suddenly stripped from you, it can be quite upsetting.
I pull up at the stop sign right beside the truck, unclip one foot from its pedal, and glance into the cab for some answers. There is no one inside the truck because the driver has already stepped out of the vehicle and is rounding his way to my side of the street for what I can only assume will be, at best, a spirited debate and, at worst, a violent assault. Before I even get into this, allow me to paint you a picture of this person by illustrating a few facts about them that I believe to be very telling as to why the encounter took place:
1) The driver was male.
2) He was in his mid-to-late twenties.
3) As previously stated, he drove a truck (a red Dodge Ram to be specific). Although this wasn’t the kind of truck that most twenty-something’s roll around in. To me, there are only two types of pick-up truck; those purchased in pursuit of girls and those purchased for getting shit done—this was the latter. The truck was dirty and dented and there was a heap of stuff piled in the box.
4) He wore a beard. Not just any beard, though. This was the kind of unkempt scruff that starts in sporadic clusters on the cheek and continues down around the Adam’s apple. If the beard could talk it would have said, “It’s damn near huntin’ season”. I also have a beard, but ten minutes with a Gillette Fusion Power Glide every morning makes it far more trustworthy:
Our great divide only increased when the bearded man got a closer look at my getup. I am dressed in skin-tight black and yellow spandex with neon green sunglasses whose tinted lenses have been replaced with bright yellow daytime substitutes. None of this helps. With my long lanky limbs I most closely resemble a daddy-longlegs spider:
This is not my cycling gear but the similarity is clear
Bearded Man takes note of this, but would have likely described me as a gay daddy-longlegs spider because he wastes no time in breaking out the homophobic slurs. This guy is holding a large mug in one hand and, at first, the angry talk is purely one sided. I sit there, resting on my bike seat and leaning slightly toward the man; left foot on the pavement, right foot still clipped in. I am mostly just hoping if I keep quiet he’ll shut up and leave, but I’m also hoping he doesn’t pour any hot liquids all over me. I don’t get the sense that Bearded Man is going to punch me in the teeth, although I am also becoming increasingly aware that he is not satisfied with the rise (or lack thereof) that he is getting out of me. He grabs the left handlebar of my bike with his one free hand. This jars me because all my weight is on my left foot and, with my right foot still attached to the bike, I am extremely vulnerable to being toppled over. I don’t like the sensation so I respond with a hard shove to the guy’s chest. He steps back and, for a moment, I think he’s going to climb inside the truck. Instead, he sets his mug atop the passenger side door and turns back towards me. It is then I realize that his mug must contain caffeine because Bearded Man is fired up! Again, he doesn’t come directly at me like he wants to start the fight, but he quite clearly is itching for some action. We exchange expletive-deletives. Then Bearded Man turns it up a notch and starts bobbing around like an NFL linebacker storming out of the tunnel on Sunday:
This is getting out of hand! I restate my feelings to Bearded Man on him as a driver and him as a person. Then I clip back in and make a left turn to continue with my ride. Seconds later I hear the same unmistakable grumble in my ear. I look to my left to see the red pick-up truck coasting right along beside me. Windows down, sinister remarks up.
I hear: “You ain’t ridin’ away from this, faggot!”
I hear: “THIS IS SOME PUSSY SHIT!”
I hear: ‘Ohio’ by Neil Young?
Kent State - May 4, 1970
That’s right. This guy has chosen a soundtrack to his scurrilous behaviour and that soundtrack just so happens to be one of my favourite Neil Young tunes. And, from my brief encounter with him, it is a surprisingly mellow choice for Bearded Man.
Neil wrote the song in reply to the Kent State massacre of May 4 1970. Four college kids were shot and killed by the Ohio National Guard, Neil wrote a song calling out President Nixon, and the song become a hit—all in the span of just one month. That kind of quick turnover just doesn’t happen in the primarily over-polished mainstream rock ‘n’ roll of today. And up until now, I didn’t think this stuff happened anymore either! Do people still solve disputes with a duel in the streets?
In the early 1940s, a young Abraham Lincoln was making a habit of shit-talking people. He would compose scathing letters of ridicule directed toward whom he saw as lesser men. Abe would then leave these letters around town in locations where they were sure to be found. The notes were left anonymous and the townsfolk would all enjoy a hearty laugh at someone else’s expense. However, honest Abe had gone too far. He took shots at an Irish politician called James Shield and the message was not received well by the target. Shields was pissed and wanted to throw down with whoever wrote the critique. He discovered the source of the material, rode up to Lincoln’s pad on his horse, and challenged Abe to a fight to the death. Straight up. Mr. Lincoln told Mr. Shields that he was opposed to dueling but Mr. Shields told Mr. Lincoln to go fuck himself. Abe was choked but managed to at least secure the choice of weapon—broad swords! After some work on his swordsmanship, the lanky Lincoln met James Shields on a sandbar in the Mississippi river and was ready to rumble.
Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately—depending how you look at it), Abe and James’ lady friends stepped in and put a stop to the madness before any blood was shed. Lincoln was forever a changed man and, until two weeks ago, this was the last duel I knew of. Fittingly, ours was also diffused before it really began as I elected to pull into an elementary school parking lot to avoid going head to head with a 5000+ pound Ram. The brute growled off down the road with authority but something tells me (due to the close proximity to my house in which this all took place) that we shall meet again.
Now, before you start wrapping your knuckles before every bike ride, let’s remember Fight Club. In this 1999 moviethere is a moment where the club leader requests that, as homework, each member go seek out a fight and intentionally lose. What follows are some hilarious scenes of eager antagonists provoking would-be combatants with notably frustrating (to them) results. You spray a guy with a hose as he walks past your driveway and as much as he looks like he wants to fuck you up, he’d much rather go home and tell his buddies about how he would have fucked you up if it weren’t for excuses (a), (b), (c), ect., ect. But seriously though, the Bearded Man… I TOTALLY could have taken that guy. No contest.
I think the same holds true for real life. At the end of the day, there are far more people who like the idea of getting into a fight than will actually come to blows (I am strictly speaking of sober people here). Let’s just hope that a similar truth exists for running cyclists off the road. Just in case, I am now considering a change in wardrobe to ward off any potential assailants:
I haven’t posted recently but I promise you that I am hard at work on a real doozy of an article about fighting and eggs and Abraham Lincoln. It’s moving shit. Usually when I write/study/read I like to have some sort of sound going on in the background. Sometimes this is just the hum of my fan or the sound of nature (and by “sound of nature” I don’t mean the clatter outside my window, I mean my alarm clock that only plays nature sounds—I prefer the summer night setting), but most of the time it’s the sound of music. I once read a study that claimed if you’re going to do homework set to music it should be tunes which you are unfamiliar with. The theory being that if you don’t know the song you will be less likely to get distracted by mouthing along or consumed with memories of that song’s interaction with your life. The researchers found support for this hypothesis, but I tend to disagree. Personally, when I hear something new I become completely preoccupied with dissecting it lyrically (that is, if I can understand the lyrics, which I often can’t, which leads to a Google search, which leads to a Gmail check, which leads to A NEW FACEBOOK MESSAGE OMG!, ect., ect.). This is opposed to hearing something I have already mastered the meaning of (or so I think). Therefore, when this DOUBLE RAINBOW video went viral, I empathized with the guy. It may as well have been me getting thrown off by a new and exciting song while studying. Woooah, that's new Pearl Jam! What does this mean??
Some say stick with classical music while studying, but I’m not cultured enough for that. And now they are telling us to keep it fresh? Well, I don’t know if I can do that either. So in an effort to cover all bases, I am in the process of experimenting with non-classical non-lyrical study soundtracks. Here are my top five, in no particular order (except The XX is obviously #1). Allow them to digest. Results may vary.
I think people are going to have a problem with Kanye West’s new “movie”. Mainly because it’s pretty much half an hour of classic Kanye pretentiousness, and a little bit because he bullied that poor Taylor Swift girl. However, I also think that if we hadn’t been subjected to Kanye’s antics for the past six years, and this were the first we had heard of him, it would be hailed as innovative and spectacular.
“Think about your life. Think about the greatest thing you have ever done, and think about the worst thing you have ever done. Try to remember what motivated you to do the former, and try to remember what motivated you to do the latter...
How similar are these two motives?”
Chuck Klosterman
The above is, in my opinion, an extremely fascinating query from Chuck Klosterman’s book, “IV: A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas”. Klosterman (pronouncedKloh-ster-man) is a writer/journalist who has authored six books (both fiction and non-fiction) and countless articles. He loves pop culture and seems to write with the notion that people enjoy reading about topics which they already have an inherent understanding of, as opposed to more fringe-like subjects. Why learn about some obscure movie when you can weigh in on that juicy reality TV show you watch every Monday night? Critics have labeled Chuck Klosterman as everything from “the voice of a generation” to “a sloppy literary pothead”. But the word most thrown around when discussing his work is “curious”. That word will also serve as the basis for this blog post. Of greater interest to me than his books or essays is Klosterman’s extensive array of hypothetical situations. You can actually buy a set of cards containing crazy Klosterman questions called, “HYPERtheticals: 50 Questions for Insane Conversations”. Below are four of Chuck’s HYPERthetical scenarios, one link to the author reading a HYPERthetical himself, and one hypothetical of my own. If you can get past the absurdity of these things, some (like the one above) have pretty important questions at their core (others, not so much).
ONE) Think of someone who is your friend (do not select your best friend, but make sure the person is someone you would classify as “considerably more then an acquaintance”). This friend is going to be attacked by a grizzly bear. Now this person will survive the attack; that is guaranteed. There is a 100 percent chance that your friend will live. However, the extent of his injuries is unknown; he might receive nothing but a few superficial scratches, but he also might lose a limb (or multiple limbs). He might recover completely in twenty-four hours with nothing but a great story, or he might spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. Somehow you have the ability to stop this attack from happening. You can magically save your friend from the bear. But his (or her) salvation will come at a peculiar price: if you choose to stop the bear, it will always rain. For the rest of your life, wherever you go, it will be raining. Sometimes it will pour and sometimes it will drizzle—but it will never not be raining. But it won’t rain over the totality of the earth, nor will the hydrological cycle be disrupted; these storm clouds will be isolated, and they will focus entirely on your specific whereabouts. You will also never see the sun again.
Do you stop the bear, accepting the lifetime of rain?
TWO) At the age of thirty, you suffer a blow to the skull. The head trauma leaves you with a rare form of partial amnesia—though otherwise fine, you’re completely missing five years from your life. You have no memory of anything that happened between the ages of twenty-three and twenty-eight. That period of your life is completely gone; you have no recollection of anything that occurred during that five year gap. You are told by friends and family that—when you were 25—you (supposedly) became close friends with someone you met on the street. You possess numerous photos of you and this person, and everyone in your life insists that you and this individual were best friends for over two years. You were (allegedly) inseparable. In fact, you find several old letters and e-mails from this person that vaguely indicate you may have even shared a brief romantic relationship. But something happened between you and this individual when you were 27, and the friendship abruptly ended (and apparently you never told anyone what caused this schism, so it remains a mystery to all). The friend moved away soon after the incident, wholly disappearing from your day-to-day life. But you have no memory of any of this. Within the context of your own mind, this person never existed. There is tangible proof that you deeply loved this friend, but whenever you look at their photograph all you see is a stranger. Six weeks after your accident, you are informed this person suddenly died.
How sad do you feel?
THREE) You are offered a Brain Pill. If you swallow this pill, you will become 10 percent more intelligent than you currently are; you will be more adept at reading comprehension, logic, and critical thinking. However, to all other people you know (and to all future people you meet), you will seem 20 percent less intelligent. In other words, you will immediately become smarter, but the rest of the world will perceive you as dumber (and there is now way you can ever alter the universality of this perception).
Do you take this pill?
FOUR) While traveling on business, your spouse (whom you love) is involved in a plane crash over the Pacific Ocean. It is assumed that everyone on board has died. For the next seven months, you quietly mourn. But then the unbelievable happens: it turns out your spouse has survived. He/She managed to swim to a desert island, where he/she lived in relative comfort with one other survivor (they miraculously located most of the aircraft’s supplies on the beach, and the island itself was filed with ample food sources). Against all odds, they have just been discovered by a Fijian fishing boat. The two survivors return home via helicopter, greeted by the public as media sensations. Immediately upon their arrival, there is an international press conference. And during this press conference, you cannot help but notice how sexy the other survivor is; physically, he/she perfectly embodies the type of person your mate is normally attracted to. Moreover, the intensity of the event has clearly galvanized a relationship between the two crash victims: they spend most of the interview explaining how they could not have survived without the other person’s presence. They explain how they passed the time by telling anecdotes from their respective lives, and both admit to having virtually given up on the possibility of a tearful good-bye hug. It’s extremely emotional. After the press conference you are finally reunited with your spouse. He/She embraces you warmly and kisses you deeply.
How long do you wait before asking if he/she was ever unfaithful to you on this island? Do you never ask? And if your mate’s answer is “yes,” would that (under these specific circumstances) be acceptable?
SIX) Howie Mandel arrives at your doorstep, gives you a fist pound because he’s a germaphobe, and offers you a deal. If accepted, a tiny computer chip will be planted inside ten heads of your choosing. These heads can be attached to any body, even people whom you’ve never met. There are two different types of computer chips and you may only choose one. The first is placed in the optic nerve and will permit you to see (but only see) anything and everything each of these ten people do, at your leisure. The second type of chip will tap into the auditory nerve and allow you to hear (but only hear) anything and everything that is uttered by, or uttered to, each of these ten individuals. The chosen computer chip will be implanted painlessly, and without consequence, while each subject is asleep. These people will never be made aware of object’s existence nor will the device be detected when passing through airport security. However, if you take the deal, both forms of computer chip will be lodged inside your own head and ten members of your innermost circle of family and friends will be chosen at random and afforded the ability to watch anything and everything you do at their convenience.
Deal or no deal? If deal, which option do you choose?
Even though I am technically a graduate of Kwantlen Polytechnic University, I still find myself at the Surrey campus a couple days per week. Two of my six part-time jobs are based out of those halls and I’m also taking/enduring one course this semester. In Thailand they say, “same same, but different”. This applies here.
One thing that is “different” about this semester, however, is that I’ve been doing heaps of writing. Technical report writing, facebook inbox messages, but mostly just writing for fun (sorta like this). At Kwantlen there are two school newspapers that I’m aware of. One is called the Kwantlen Chronicle and the other is called The Runner. I am hardly a religious reader of either rag. However, The Chronicle has left a bad taste in my mouth from my bball “daze” at Kwantlen. They would interview members of our team and always end up writing some strange shit about them. Or maybe it was what they DIDN’T write that bothers me—student journalist requests interview, athlete accepts, student meets athlete at pub, information is exchanged, beers, impromptu photo shoot takes place in athlete’s front yard. The story is never published. Strange shit.
On the other hand, The Runner seems to be taking things a bit more seriously and their issues have been consistently good for a few laughs while on break from class. So, late last week when something noteworthy went down in the Kwantlen parking lot, The Runner was who I turned to.
Something happened. I wrote about it and submitted it to The Runner on the very same day. The Runner asked me if I’m single. I said yes. The Runner said that, not only are they going to “run” my article, but they are not going to rest until “Cute Girl” and I have been reunited. I told them that wasn’t really the point of the piece, but whatever. It is going to be included in next month’s Runner with an angle similar to “missed encounters” on craigslist.com or the “I saw you” section of the Georgia Straight. I find the whole thing hilarious, and silly, and I’m in! Here’s the article:
PAY IT FORWARD (or don’t pay it at all)
I hate paying for parking at Kwantlen and so do you. There, at a university as diverse as ours, we already have something in common. So what do we do about it?
At the Surrey campus I park, almost exclusively, in what has come to be known as the “gravel pit” (if you’ve been there, you know). The other day, as I attempted to navigate my aging Ford Explorer around traffic controllers and through the treacherous crater-like potholes that mark the entrance to “the pit”, I noticed a dark sedan rumbling out in the opposite direction. The driver of the sedan was a cute young brunette—quite cute, actually. Just as we are about to pass each other, she reaches onto the dash, grabs her full-day parking stub, and dangles it out the window at me. The move is so nonchalant that it takes me a moment to comprehend her gesture. It almost appears routine for her, like she has done this a thousand times before. I snatch up her permit, thank her enthusiastically, and life goes on.
Approximate elapsed time of the entire transfer? Three seconds. That’s less time than it takes you to pump your palm under one of those sanitary sauce dispensers after using the old creepy bathroom with the shower in it on the first floor of Fir (formerly known as ‘D’) building. It is my fourth year at Kwantlen and this is the first time such a thing has happening to me. I suppose it was her act of kindness (or perhaps her aforementioned cuteness) that was responsible for the smile on my face. It couldn’t have been the five dollars she saved me—I had not planned on paying anyway.
I no longer pay for parking at Kwantlen. Not because I think it’s grossly overpriced (which it is), or that IMPARK makes up to $15 per stall per day (which they do, do the math), or because I’m a badass (which I am not). The reason I don’t pay for parking is because history has shown that whether I pay or I stray…I get ticketed anyway.
I used to purchase official IMPARK (Imperial Parking Canada Corporation) “e-permits”. These are the electronic parking passes that you buy online and, in theory, offer reasonable weekly rates all while reducing your carbon footprint. Because there is no physical pass or paperwork involved, there is nothing to display on your dash. When the parking police notice you are permit-less and plug in your license plate number to issue a violation, their little machines are supposed to inform them that you are, in fact, exempt from punishment (for now). However, this system did not work so smoothly in my case.
When I parked without a weekly e-permit, I got a fine. When I parked with a weekly e-permit – same story. The tipping point was when I came out to the parking lot after a tough midterm exam to find my vehicle missing. It had been unjustly towed. University life is often one of two things: (a) stressful, or (b) very stressful. I could no longer tolerate sitting in class not knowing if I’d have a ride home. I had to make a change. I decided that, if my Kwantlen education has taught me anything, it is that I should not pay to be ticketed and towed while inside receiving said education. I stopped paying altogether. I felt great. I also called IMPARK to complain (and to tell them to stop towing my vehicle). They were quick to remind me of my numerous parking infractions (some legit, some not). But I was even quicker to establish that they would not be receiving another cent from me. We haven’t spoken since.
Now, I understand that my situation may not be commonplace. Though if you sit next to a perfect stranger in class and try to break the ice by saying something like, “That parking lot made of gravel sure is a crazy fuckin’ place, huh?” They will invariably respond with some near-death (or at least near-inconvenient) IMPARK experience of their own.
Ultimately, we as students, along with the KSA, should get organized and propose bill, sign a treaty, or maybe even start a revolt; anything to get a handle on this parking crisis! But until such a bill is passed, why don’t we follow Cute Girl’s lead and start with some passing of our own. If you possess a validated parking permit, pay it forward on your way out of the gravel pit. Too classy for the pit? This concept extends to even the most luxurious of Kwantlen lots. If pulling out of a numbered slot in one of the paved sections, roll down your window and tell one of the dozen-or-so stall scavengers impatiently waiting for your spot that it is paid for (only if it actually is). It will make their day. It will make your day.
I think Bob Marley even wrote a song about passing on your left hand side. I’m not sure if the man was referring to Kwantlen parking permits or not, but Bob Marley was rarely wrong. Oh, you like Bob too? Well I guess that’s two things we have in common.
Falling out of touch with all my
friends are somewhere getting wasted,
hope they’re staying glued together,
I have arms for them.
Take another sip of them,
it floats around and takes me over
like a little drop of ink in a glass of water
Get inside their clothes
with my green gloves
watch their videos, in their chairs.
Get inside their beds
with my green gloves
Get inside their heads, love their loves.
Cinderella through the room
I glide and swan cause I’m the best slow dancer
in the universe
Falling out of touch with all my
friends are somewhere getting wasted,
hope they’re staying glued together,
I have arms for them.
Get inside their clothes
with my green gloves
watch their videos, in their chairs.
Get inside their beds
with my green gloves
Get inside their heads, love their loves.
Now I hardly know them
and I’ll take my time
I’ll carry them over, and I’ll make them mine.
Get inside their clothes
with my green gloves
watch their videos, in their chairs.
Get inside their beds
with my green gloves
Get inside their heads, love their loves.
Amadou Diallo is 22 years old and has just relocated from Guinea to the 1100 block of Wheeler Avenue in the South Bronx. It is 1999 and the drug trade in this poor working-class neighbourhood is bustling. Though dangerous, Wheeler Avenue is exactly the kind of place an immigrant in New York City is looking for—cheap and close to a subway. Minutes before midnight on February 3, 1999, Amadou Diallo perches himself on the steps outside his building and soaks up the night. It has likely been a long day for Diallo. He works as a peddler but a mild stutter and far from perfect English make selling videotapes on the sidewalk difficult. Furthermore, a good friend of Diallo’s has recently been mugged by a group of armed men. In this quiet moment to himself perhaps the short and unassuming man envisions himself overcoming the odds to find success in the big city. Then again, maybe he is simply contemplating what to pack for lunch tomorrow.
A group of four plainclothes police officers pull onto Wheeler Avenue in an unmarked car. They comprise a fragment of the NYPD’s Street Crime Unit and each carries a semiautomatic handgun. This unit is dedicated to patrolling certain crime “hot spots”. Amadou Diallo happens to be standing in one of those hot spots.
He’s out here alone? At midnight? In this lousy neighbourhood? ALONE? A black guy? He’s got a gun; otherwise he wouldn’t be here. And he’s little, to boot. Where’s he getting the balls to stand out there in the middle of the night? He must have a gun.
The four large men approach Diallo. One calls out, “May we have a word?” Diallo pauses and then flees into the building’s vestibule. A chase ensues. Cornered in the vestibule, Diallo turns his body sideways and digs at something in his pocket. “Show me your hands!” The cops scream. Everything is dark but one officer sees Diallo grasping something black—like a gun. “GUN!” The officer yells. Diallo continues pulling on the object in his pocket and raises it in the direction of the policemen. All four cops begin frantically shooting, aiming for “center mass”. A total of 41 shot are fired. Amadou Diallo is killed. As the cement dust settles the men approach the body. Diallo’s arm is out and his right palm open. Where there should be a gun, there is…a wallet. A snap judgment gone fatally wrong. The four large men sit down on the steps, next to Diallo’s bullet-ridden body, and cry. Bruce Springsteen writes a song:
The 2010 Terry Fox run took place a couple weeks back. This run is not competitive—no winners, no awards, just people coming together to raise cash for cancer research.
I recently read a book called “Terry”. It was written by a Vancouver novelist and visual artist named Douglas Coupland. The more I learn about Terry the more I wish I could have been around while his Marathon of Hope was in motion. Here is an excerpt from Coupland’s book on one of Terry’s public speeches:
“Terry was now mobbed by fans of all ages, and on stage, his presence was electric. Listeners were spellbound by the honesty and realism of his words, spoken in a deep voice—along with his pauses and errors. In 1980 Canada’s economy and political future were both on rocky courses. Never before had Canadians been so cynical and jaded about society. And suddenly, there was this young guy in front of a microphone who was everything you wanted the world to be.”
In other words; the squares were freaking!
Now consider this…
On September 1st, 1980 Terry Fox was forced to end his Marathon of Hope due to severe pains in his upper chest. X-rays revealed that he had a lump in his right lung the size of a golf ball and a growth in his left lung the size of a lemon. These lumps were not lung cancer. Rather, they were actually patches of bone cancer than had spread into his lungs through the bloodstream. The lemon lump was too close to Terry’s heart to make an attempt at removal. Below is a photo of a lemon at actual size. Bring your chest toward the computer screen and just think about that for a moment.
NOTE: If Terry’s saga were to begin today, science would have an answer for his diagnosis. This is thanks, in part, to the millions of dollars raised by The Terry Fox Foundation.
During his final photo shoot, a pale Terry looked to the photographer and said, “Even though I die of cancer my spirit didn’t die and that should influence a lot of people.”
On September 30th, at both 11am and 1pm, CTV will air a documentary on Terry Fox titled, “Into the Wind”. The film is co-directed by another Canadian legend, Steve Nash. Set your PVR’s.
How many of these friends would you sit down and have a drink with if you bumped into them at the bar? Anthropologist Robin Dunbar suggests that the number of people you are comfortable enough to share a pint with is around one hundred and fifty. This “Rule of 150” is based upon the capacity of our brain’s neocortex; the part of the cerebral cortex associated with higher functions like sensory perception, spatial reasoning, language, and therefore – friendship maintenance. To truly know someone is to not only know them individually, but to also understand their relationship with every other member of your social network. Consequently, exceeding Dunbar’s Rule of 150 meaningful social ties typically results in neocortical processing overload. It is interesting to note that the statistics page on facebook claims that its average user has 130 friends. Although a quick browse through my own list yielded far more inflated results. So, how many facebook “friends” do you really have? Regardless of your personal opinion of these people (frienemies), I’ll bet that cognitive limitation scales your list back by the hundreds.
