In light of the maddening frustration and illogical pettiness found in a certain North American sport of late, leaving me with an awkward mixture of emptiness and ambivalence, ive gone deep into my bag of tricks to avert my attention to things more happy. Deep introspection lead to boredom unfortunately, and with nothing on TV, and my thumbs hurting from playing too much XBox, I went to the gym to worked out. And there, while on the seated row pull, listening to my bestfriend iPod, it dawned on me that Mr. Mister has two of the most defining music beginnings of the 80s, if not ever. Like, arent the beginnings of Kyrie or Broken Wings just the awesomest ever? Somehow in the years upon years, Ive forgotten. Damn shame, my attention span. With those two songs, all you need is that bait and that hook of hearing the very beginning and you brain gets perky nipples, it cant help it. So well done; so well done; its Pavolvian trigger. Listen to them... and if you are over 27 years old youll know what I mean. Throw in West End Girls into that pool too, Pet Shop Boys. So good.
Other random iPod workout related thoughts:
It Takes Two- Fatman Scoop version, is like spinach; as soon as this song came on, I was able to squeeze out ten more push ups, raising my total to 12. thats like 600% improvement.
Somehow I found myself closing my eyes and lipsyncing to Dont Stop Believing by Journey on the treadmill. Geez, I hope I was lipsyncing.
Maybe its just me, but when any Ursher song is on, and Im in front the big ass mirror found in any gym, I have to hold back hard to not start dancing. Very hard.
Im going to kill Jill for downloading Josh Groban onto my iBook, which automatically updates to iPod. I almost fell off the spin bike trying the skip song.
I think all old people and overweight people wearing shorts are obligated to wear black socks and pull them up high as possible.
Yoga is awesome.
My flexibility is embarassing but yoga girls...................
Friday, February 18, 2005
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Gastroenteritis
The bane of my existence. Raw Oysters. So good though, with lemon. Or even better, with vinegar and tabasco hot sauce. But they are the reason that ive been curled up in the fetal position for the past two days. Saturday night, after kicking Irish ass with my 132 in bowling, I made the choice of ordering 6 oysters as appetizers at an Italian restaurant. Big mistake. Big. Huge.
I came down with a fever. I got intestinals pains. I got nausea. I got debilitating abdominal cramps so fierce that I cant even stand up straight, and I need to walk around with a old man's posture, bent over at the waist. I got put-puuuu-ruts so bad my ass hurts. Its the worst ever. I even looked it up on the net, googling raw oysters, and found my new friends, the reason for my missing work, bacterium Vibrio parahaemolyticus. And I NEED to get rid of this vibrio parawhatthefawkus before tomorrow because Im heading to the Ireland vs Portugal Soccer friendly in Dublin. Good seats, we are in the front row on the touch line; I could be on TV and this close to Christiano Ronaldo's sweeping and flashing wizardry with the ball. If I miss out on this, or if Im forced to run to the toilets every two seconds, Id be supremely pissed out.
At least I havent eaten in 2 days, except for OJ. This could very well be the best diet ever.
Lesson is... never eat raw oysters. In Ireland. From the Dundalk.
I came down with a fever. I got intestinals pains. I got nausea. I got debilitating abdominal cramps so fierce that I cant even stand up straight, and I need to walk around with a old man's posture, bent over at the waist. I got put-puuuu-ruts so bad my ass hurts. Its the worst ever. I even looked it up on the net, googling raw oysters, and found my new friends, the reason for my missing work, bacterium Vibrio parahaemolyticus. And I NEED to get rid of this vibrio parawhatthefawkus before tomorrow because Im heading to the Ireland vs Portugal Soccer friendly in Dublin. Good seats, we are in the front row on the touch line; I could be on TV and this close to Christiano Ronaldo's sweeping and flashing wizardry with the ball. If I miss out on this, or if Im forced to run to the toilets every two seconds, Id be supremely pissed out.
At least I havent eaten in 2 days, except for OJ. This could very well be the best diet ever.
Lesson is... never eat raw oysters. In Ireland. From the Dundalk.
Monday, January 31, 2005
Foolin
Today I wrote an email. A work email, for ABB, one of many. It was addressed to a company called Norpac Controls, who provides Wah-wah-wanng-wanng-waah-wanng-wang (Charlie Brown Adult gibberish; I could go into it, but its too technical, uninteresting and as an audience, you probably wouldnt care anyways.) So, this email was to confirm some product specifications I asked for. Nothing big. Just "following up"... "touching base" etc, all that "mission-critical"-type useless business jargon. Nothing out of the ordinary when in business mode. Except at the end of the email, as a Post Script... I felt like being a little silly, for fun I randomly sneaked into the very end of my signature "PS. Errbudy in da club gettin Tipsey".
The dude I was emailing, his name was Jeff Quan. J. Quan. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. So stupid, I never even met this guy... and worse than that, he doesnt even spell it right.
(Honestly this is what I do at work. After writing it, and passing the point of no return, the send button, I giggled to myself for the rest of the day)
If Im fired tomorrow, youll know why, homey.
The dude I was emailing, his name was Jeff Quan. J. Quan. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. So stupid, I never even met this guy... and worse than that, he doesnt even spell it right.
(Honestly this is what I do at work. After writing it, and passing the point of no return, the send button, I giggled to myself for the rest of the day)
If Im fired tomorrow, youll know why, homey.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Sports Guy
Ive been religiously reading Bill Simmon's Sports Guy column on ESPN Page 2 for almost 5 years, easily the best commentary site known in the whole ever-expanding universe, in my lowly humble opinion. Bill has been a magician at molding pop culture and sports and humor into one of the best and most consistent reads ever. He does it by keeping it pretty random yet simple, using every pop culture reference you cant even think off and also referencing a cast of reaccuring characters that bring us closer into his world; like his Dad, his Mom, his Wife and his various close-buddys. And it just works so well, I adore what this guy does. Its so good.
I have cut and paste a little bit of it below, from a recent column. This one made me laugh hard. Peashhh out:
----------------
Funniest Phone Call: My Mom
She called me during the weekend to ask why Randy Johnson was called "The Big Unit," saying, "I don't get it; why would somebody be nicknamed after the size of their penis? Why is this allowed? I'm not going to be able to watch him pitch now, I'm going to be frightened that something will fly out." When I responded that it was just a nickname and probably had nothing to do with his locker room prowess, she said, "Well, why would you want a nickname that makes you sound like a penis? Who would do that to themselves?"
(You know it's a good weekend when you get to hear your mom say the word "penis" two times without wanting to light yourself on fire.)
I have cut and paste a little bit of it below, from a recent column. This one made me laugh hard. Peashhh out:
----------------
Funniest Phone Call: My Mom
She called me during the weekend to ask why Randy Johnson was called "The Big Unit," saying, "I don't get it; why would somebody be nicknamed after the size of their penis? Why is this allowed? I'm not going to be able to watch him pitch now, I'm going to be frightened that something will fly out." When I responded that it was just a nickname and probably had nothing to do with his locker room prowess, she said, "Well, why would you want a nickname that makes you sound like a penis? Who would do that to themselves?"
(You know it's a good weekend when you get to hear your mom say the word "penis" two times without wanting to light yourself on fire.)
Thursday, January 06, 2005
NYC
So here I am arriving at JFK Terminal 7, After midnight. Whenever I arrive at any new non-previously-visited airport, (or bus stop or port or train station for that matter), and I don’t have any prearranged plans for what I will be doing once I walk through that last door, I tend to get a little anxious/nervous. There is a tendency for things to race through my head when I get no love, and nobody is there to pick me up. Don’t know exactly where to go or what to do; have no idea where the taxi rank is, where bus is, which bus takes you where you want to go, where the train or light rapid transit is, or how to even pay for said ticket with complicated ticket dispensing machinery. And hell most times you don’t even know which way is bloody North. Arriving in JFK, and it being past midnight, its not a reach to say I had preoccupying thoughts. Usually, when backpacking and arriving at weird times in a unknown place, I try and look for the next lone cutie girl with a matching backpack, play dumb and try to team up. Strength in numbers, confidence builds, you get a new bestfriend, even if it only lasts 2-24 hours. This time I have luggage though. And no girl. Wont work this time. The only option left was employing my emergency “Act like I know what Im doing even though I dont” mode, but honestly I was way too tired for that. The plan was very loose in its interpretation, and all I had to do was get to my hotel. I was taking a blind leap. Luckily, nice Mr. East Indian man was right at the gate and personally asking everyone if they needed a Taxi. I was tired, so without even thinking I went with him.
Nice Mr. East Indian Man: “Hey man, hows it going man? What a nice night. What a NICE night.”
Me: “yeah… pretty Good”
Nice Mr. East Indian Man: “How was your flight? Where you going man? Follow me, I got a GREAT car for you”
Me: “Great”
Nice Mr. East Indian Man: “So where are you going, where do you want to go man?”
Me: “Im going to the Park Central Hotel. On 7th Ave”.
I mustered up enough energy to say this in my ‘act like I know what Im doing even though I dont’ voice.
Nice Mr. East Indian Man: “That’s cool man. Okay not a problem. Yeah yeah yeah, I know where that is, brutha. Follow me this way, man.”
He started leading me towards the parking lot, the opposite direction of the taxi-rank. At this moment I realize that this is an unofficial mini-cab / private-cab. Or it could be a predator, picking up plunker tourists. Its quite possible Im going to be murdered.
Me: “How much is it into Manhattan?”
Nice Mr. East Indian Man: “$67”
Phew. This is my out. I don’t feel like being murdered later. Me in full-on ‘act like I know what Im doing even though I dont’ mode now: “Woh. Dude… that’s too much. Im grabbing a taxi”
Startled Mr. East Indian Man: “Woh woh woh… wait wait wait man. Its late at night! You wont get a cab… there’s not that many cabs anymore”
Me: Actually I don’t say anything, I just keep on walking to the taxi rank.
Desperate Mr. East Indian Man: “Okay okay okay… you pay $60. Lets go.”
Me: “That’s still too much” I keep on keeping on.
Desperate Mr. East Indian Man: “Okay okay okay… how much you wanna pay? How much?”
Me: “$45”
NMEIM: “$45?”
Me: “Hey that’s a good price.” I keep on walking.
NMEIM: “Okay. Lets go.”
Me: I turn around and start following him. Stupid stupid stupid.
NMEIM: “Alright, alright. Comeon this way. Its not much money. I got a nice car you see, you understand why. And its very late, very late man.”
Me: “Well Im just a student you know. Don’t got much money, gotta save for beer”
Man do I ever love misrepresenting (not the same as lying. I don’t lie. I never lie), especially misreping as a student. Its such a reflex reaction when Im bargaining for anything. Who cares though, this guy is going to slit my throat later anyways.
We get to his car, and it ends up being a big ass SUV exactly like the one Tony Soprano has. Ohmygod… hes definitely driving me to New Jersey and burying me in the forest now. Surprising Im still putting my luggage in the back. Stupid stupid stupid-head. Who am I right now?
NMEIM: “Okay man… relax sit in the back. How about this though. Help me out… $45 is not much money, and its late. How about you wait here for just a moment, Ill be real quick, and get someone to join us?”
Im soooo going to be on a milk carton.
NMEIM: “I just want to pick up another fare. You will be first, I promise but I just want someone else to pay another $45, to help me out… there is a lot of space… whaddya say man? $45 is low for late night”
Me: “Whatever.. go ahead” Who the hell is speaking for me?
NMEIM: “OhhKAY! Great… Ill be really quick man, really quick. Ill be back in no time”
I must be insanely tired because despite the slightly sketchy situation, Im being pretty aloof. Its like someone slipped roofies into my Gatorade. Im realizing bad things can come of this, I know it in my head, I am in New York after all, but its I got no senses left. I just wanted to get to my hotel.
Surprisingly though, and luckily, a real fare did come back with him, not Jeffrey Dahlmer, his sicko cohort.
NMEIM: “Alrigh. Alrigh.. Im back… I got another student to come ride with us… Alrigh… guys lets go… lets roll”
It was a young latino dude with a Wall Street accent who looked even more tired than me. I never actually found out what my cab-mate’s name was, so on this blog lets call him Pedro. Pedro was nice enough, it turns out hes a recent grad from Rutgers, now working for some investment firm in New York. And he just was coming back from New Years in Vegas. There was plenty to talk about here. Nice Mr. East Indian Man then started off, and started blasting his Punjabi MC music. Gorto dance music… I couldn’t help it, I quickly started doing my dangly wrists Indian music moves in my head. At least I think it was in my head. Anyways… continued talking with Pedro… things were going good.
UNTIL that is, while during a short lull in the conversation, and Nice Mr. East Indian Man grooving to his tunes, I noticed NMEIM snort from a vial of Coke!!!! What the fuck? Did I just see what I saw… maybe Im just tired. But there he did it again. And again! And again still. Everytime speeding up faster and faster. Somommabitch. I spoke too soon, Im still going to die, but this time from flying off the Brooklyn Bridge in a out of control speeding truck. Im in New York, its after midnight, and I have a coke head East Indian driver driving 100 mph to my hotel which I haven’t the faintest clue where (even though I pretend I do), in Tony Soprano's SUV no less, with Pedro, who just admitted he succumbed to hookers at Ghost Bar. I rule!
Suffice to say I made it to the hotel eventually… although the Soprano-mobile had to come to a screeching skid, when I pointed out to coke-boy that we had just past a building that said “Park Central Hotel” on the front. Good times.
Other random Notes about New York:
- I love this town. No other place I can think off, except maybe London, where you can just walk and walk at random and constantly come upon landmark after landmark or infamous places that you recognize from TV or movies. And you can do this alone for days on end and never get tired of. Like one time, I was walking across the street from the Ed Sullivan Theatre on Broadway, home of the Late Show with David Letterman, when I just noticed I had walked right in front of BAD BOY INTERNATIONAL. Dude, Making the Band 2! Its P Diddy’s headquarters, and get this, this was timed exactly when Biggie’s Hypnotize came on iPod. Surreal.
- Speaking of iPod, everyone in New York has an iPod. Everyone! Not once did I not see white ear buds on someone listening to music as they gallivanted about, its was just as common as North Face puff jackets and stupid Ugs boots. Well, I exaggerate, I did see one CD Player, but she looked like a loser anyways.
- Central Park is funny. At night, nobody goes in. In one of the busiest town in the world, one that remains relatively lively all through the night, they have a park that no one enters its borders after dark. Its like the forest from the Village. I walked to its outer rim one night, and all around Central Park there was pedestrian traffic. Inside though? It was dead still, with only bums and hiding rapists, apparently. I said fuck it, Im walking from Central Park West to Central Park East alone in the dark, I dont give a shit. So I did it. Although my hoodlum radar was working overtime, and it was a spirited speed walk. Again, I rule.
- Time Square is freakishly neon and electrics… just awesome. But also full of picture snapping tourists. And I had to try this: go to the middle island and play “Two Become 1” Spice Girls on iPod, the whole song. Think the video. Had to be done, had to be done. I smiled like a retard during this.
- Because I was comparing to Dublin prices, shopping on Fifth Ave. was actually affordable, and in some cases quite a bargain. Almost bought a pair of PaperClothDenim jeans… almost.
- Usually I pride myself on my sense of direction in department stores… but in Macys NY, it was so unbelievably big, I got lost in that mo fo. I couldn’t get out of womens clothing and lingerie… just couldn’t find a way out it kept going and going. ARGH!!
- A two hour lineup is never worth it for anything, even if it’s the Empire State building.
- Ive always wanted to skate at Rockefeller Center in front of the big Xmas tree. Until I found out its was $17 for half a hour. Plus $8 dollars for rentals. Plus all the rentals are figure skating skates only. Hells NO Im putting on figure skating skates. Straight blades and toe picks, no thanks.
- For all its grand cachet, Wall Street is surprisingly short and narrow. Its like a European style road.
- The SNL stage area is PUNY. Size of my kitchen, almost. So is the Dateline set, with Stone Phillips, and the NBC Newsdesk with Brian Williams.
- No matter who you are or how long ago it was, visiting ground zero for the first time is eerily sobering. You just don’t realize it until you get there.
Nice Mr. East Indian Man: “Hey man, hows it going man? What a nice night. What a NICE night.”
Me: “yeah… pretty Good”
Nice Mr. East Indian Man: “How was your flight? Where you going man? Follow me, I got a GREAT car for you”
Me: “Great”
Nice Mr. East Indian Man: “So where are you going, where do you want to go man?”
Me: “Im going to the Park Central Hotel. On 7th Ave”.
I mustered up enough energy to say this in my ‘act like I know what Im doing even though I dont’ voice.
Nice Mr. East Indian Man: “That’s cool man. Okay not a problem. Yeah yeah yeah, I know where that is, brutha. Follow me this way, man.”
He started leading me towards the parking lot, the opposite direction of the taxi-rank. At this moment I realize that this is an unofficial mini-cab / private-cab. Or it could be a predator, picking up plunker tourists. Its quite possible Im going to be murdered.
Me: “How much is it into Manhattan?”
Nice Mr. East Indian Man: “$67”
Phew. This is my out. I don’t feel like being murdered later. Me in full-on ‘act like I know what Im doing even though I dont’ mode now: “Woh. Dude… that’s too much. Im grabbing a taxi”
Startled Mr. East Indian Man: “Woh woh woh… wait wait wait man. Its late at night! You wont get a cab… there’s not that many cabs anymore”
Me: Actually I don’t say anything, I just keep on walking to the taxi rank.
Desperate Mr. East Indian Man: “Okay okay okay… you pay $60. Lets go.”
Me: “That’s still too much” I keep on keeping on.
Desperate Mr. East Indian Man: “Okay okay okay… how much you wanna pay? How much?”
Me: “$45”
NMEIM: “$45?”
Me: “Hey that’s a good price.” I keep on walking.
NMEIM: “Okay. Lets go.”
Me: I turn around and start following him. Stupid stupid stupid.
NMEIM: “Alright, alright. Comeon this way. Its not much money. I got a nice car you see, you understand why. And its very late, very late man.”
Me: “Well Im just a student you know. Don’t got much money, gotta save for beer”
Man do I ever love misrepresenting (not the same as lying. I don’t lie. I never lie), especially misreping as a student. Its such a reflex reaction when Im bargaining for anything. Who cares though, this guy is going to slit my throat later anyways.
We get to his car, and it ends up being a big ass SUV exactly like the one Tony Soprano has. Ohmygod… hes definitely driving me to New Jersey and burying me in the forest now. Surprising Im still putting my luggage in the back. Stupid stupid stupid-head. Who am I right now?
NMEIM: “Okay man… relax sit in the back. How about this though. Help me out… $45 is not much money, and its late. How about you wait here for just a moment, Ill be real quick, and get someone to join us?”
Im soooo going to be on a milk carton.
NMEIM: “I just want to pick up another fare. You will be first, I promise but I just want someone else to pay another $45, to help me out… there is a lot of space… whaddya say man? $45 is low for late night”
Me: “Whatever.. go ahead” Who the hell is speaking for me?
NMEIM: “OhhKAY! Great… Ill be really quick man, really quick. Ill be back in no time”
I must be insanely tired because despite the slightly sketchy situation, Im being pretty aloof. Its like someone slipped roofies into my Gatorade. Im realizing bad things can come of this, I know it in my head, I am in New York after all, but its I got no senses left. I just wanted to get to my hotel.
Surprisingly though, and luckily, a real fare did come back with him, not Jeffrey Dahlmer, his sicko cohort.
NMEIM: “Alrigh. Alrigh.. Im back… I got another student to come ride with us… Alrigh… guys lets go… lets roll”
It was a young latino dude with a Wall Street accent who looked even more tired than me. I never actually found out what my cab-mate’s name was, so on this blog lets call him Pedro. Pedro was nice enough, it turns out hes a recent grad from Rutgers, now working for some investment firm in New York. And he just was coming back from New Years in Vegas. There was plenty to talk about here. Nice Mr. East Indian Man then started off, and started blasting his Punjabi MC music. Gorto dance music… I couldn’t help it, I quickly started doing my dangly wrists Indian music moves in my head. At least I think it was in my head. Anyways… continued talking with Pedro… things were going good.
UNTIL that is, while during a short lull in the conversation, and Nice Mr. East Indian Man grooving to his tunes, I noticed NMEIM snort from a vial of Coke!!!! What the fuck? Did I just see what I saw… maybe Im just tired. But there he did it again. And again! And again still. Everytime speeding up faster and faster. Somommabitch. I spoke too soon, Im still going to die, but this time from flying off the Brooklyn Bridge in a out of control speeding truck. Im in New York, its after midnight, and I have a coke head East Indian driver driving 100 mph to my hotel which I haven’t the faintest clue where (even though I pretend I do), in Tony Soprano's SUV no less, with Pedro, who just admitted he succumbed to hookers at Ghost Bar. I rule!
Suffice to say I made it to the hotel eventually… although the Soprano-mobile had to come to a screeching skid, when I pointed out to coke-boy that we had just past a building that said “Park Central Hotel” on the front. Good times.
Other random Notes about New York:
- I love this town. No other place I can think off, except maybe London, where you can just walk and walk at random and constantly come upon landmark after landmark or infamous places that you recognize from TV or movies. And you can do this alone for days on end and never get tired of. Like one time, I was walking across the street from the Ed Sullivan Theatre on Broadway, home of the Late Show with David Letterman, when I just noticed I had walked right in front of BAD BOY INTERNATIONAL. Dude, Making the Band 2! Its P Diddy’s headquarters, and get this, this was timed exactly when Biggie’s Hypnotize came on iPod. Surreal.
- Speaking of iPod, everyone in New York has an iPod. Everyone! Not once did I not see white ear buds on someone listening to music as they gallivanted about, its was just as common as North Face puff jackets and stupid Ugs boots. Well, I exaggerate, I did see one CD Player, but she looked like a loser anyways.
- Central Park is funny. At night, nobody goes in. In one of the busiest town in the world, one that remains relatively lively all through the night, they have a park that no one enters its borders after dark. Its like the forest from the Village. I walked to its outer rim one night, and all around Central Park there was pedestrian traffic. Inside though? It was dead still, with only bums and hiding rapists, apparently. I said fuck it, Im walking from Central Park West to Central Park East alone in the dark, I dont give a shit. So I did it. Although my hoodlum radar was working overtime, and it was a spirited speed walk. Again, I rule.
- Time Square is freakishly neon and electrics… just awesome. But also full of picture snapping tourists. And I had to try this: go to the middle island and play “Two Become 1” Spice Girls on iPod, the whole song. Think the video. Had to be done, had to be done. I smiled like a retard during this.
- Because I was comparing to Dublin prices, shopping on Fifth Ave. was actually affordable, and in some cases quite a bargain. Almost bought a pair of PaperClothDenim jeans… almost.
- Usually I pride myself on my sense of direction in department stores… but in Macys NY, it was so unbelievably big, I got lost in that mo fo. I couldn’t get out of womens clothing and lingerie… just couldn’t find a way out it kept going and going. ARGH!!
- A two hour lineup is never worth it for anything, even if it’s the Empire State building.
- Ive always wanted to skate at Rockefeller Center in front of the big Xmas tree. Until I found out its was $17 for half a hour. Plus $8 dollars for rentals. Plus all the rentals are figure skating skates only. Hells NO Im putting on figure skating skates. Straight blades and toe picks, no thanks.
- For all its grand cachet, Wall Street is surprisingly short and narrow. Its like a European style road.
- The SNL stage area is PUNY. Size of my kitchen, almost. So is the Dateline set, with Stone Phillips, and the NBC Newsdesk with Brian Williams.
- No matter who you are or how long ago it was, visiting ground zero for the first time is eerily sobering. You just don’t realize it until you get there.
Monday, January 03, 2005
Fly out
I fly out of Vancouver today. If my Christmas holidays were a Hulk Hogan match, itd be at the point where he is bouncing off the ropes, approaching for the final devasting nobody-gets-up-from-this-except-UltimateWarrior Leg Drop of Doom. Which means its pretty much over. Except I still got NYC.
Heres the thing: Blink and you miss it. There’s a whole lot to like in coming back home, and the only non-wonderfulness about it is how long it seems to last. It doesn’t last long at all. I had two and a bit weeks back home in Vancouver, and as long a break as it may seem, it actually seems rushed when there is a crazy amount of things to do all over again and good motley crew of friends to see as often as possible. But blink and its gone. Colon. Open Parenthesis.
Theres a Paris Hilton shopping list of things I love about coming back to Vancouver; going out for sushi at pre-selected and approved sushi establishments (Japanese operated only is the new snob rule) and almost dying the first time sashimi touches your lips; walking around downtown aimlessly with gingerbread latte in hand with the knowledge that waterfront can be no more than a few block away in most directions and the euros in my pocket mean I could actually shop at Holt Renfrew, if I wanted to; ordering the chicken basket at Hon’s Robson because its good and cheap and as a db tradition, its also a social duty; Breakfast at Zen Café for the best Eggs Benny ever, one with chirizo sausage the other ham-mushroom; watching the West Van lights from kits points, pretending that that night you own kits beach and everyone else is trespassing; Slurping down cheapass Vietnamese Pho and repeating the phrase “Pho Bich Nga” and giggling uncontrollably; Turning on the TV and finding 6 times more the channels in Ireland, but still nothing worth watching on; Walking home on a busy after hours Davie St, looking at the ground, making no eye contact as I head to my sisters late at night; stopping into Caban just to look at all the beautiful things; the opportunity to either snowboard Whistler or have lunch at Seattle’s Fox Sports Grill at a moments notice; and for two weeks, listening to people not talk funny and actually, get this, understand conversations without straining. Things to come home to, and envitably things to come back for again.
Only next time I hope I have a car. I hate the bus. And a bed too. Thatd be nice.
Thanks to everyone… its was so good to see you again.
Heres the thing: Blink and you miss it. There’s a whole lot to like in coming back home, and the only non-wonderfulness about it is how long it seems to last. It doesn’t last long at all. I had two and a bit weeks back home in Vancouver, and as long a break as it may seem, it actually seems rushed when there is a crazy amount of things to do all over again and good motley crew of friends to see as often as possible. But blink and its gone. Colon. Open Parenthesis.
Theres a Paris Hilton shopping list of things I love about coming back to Vancouver; going out for sushi at pre-selected and approved sushi establishments (Japanese operated only is the new snob rule) and almost dying the first time sashimi touches your lips; walking around downtown aimlessly with gingerbread latte in hand with the knowledge that waterfront can be no more than a few block away in most directions and the euros in my pocket mean I could actually shop at Holt Renfrew, if I wanted to; ordering the chicken basket at Hon’s Robson because its good and cheap and as a db tradition, its also a social duty; Breakfast at Zen Café for the best Eggs Benny ever, one with chirizo sausage the other ham-mushroom; watching the West Van lights from kits points, pretending that that night you own kits beach and everyone else is trespassing; Slurping down cheapass Vietnamese Pho and repeating the phrase “Pho Bich Nga” and giggling uncontrollably; Turning on the TV and finding 6 times more the channels in Ireland, but still nothing worth watching on; Walking home on a busy after hours Davie St, looking at the ground, making no eye contact as I head to my sisters late at night; stopping into Caban just to look at all the beautiful things; the opportunity to either snowboard Whistler or have lunch at Seattle’s Fox Sports Grill at a moments notice; and for two weeks, listening to people not talk funny and actually, get this, understand conversations without straining. Things to come home to, and envitably things to come back for again.
Only next time I hope I have a car. I hate the bus. And a bed too. Thatd be nice.
Thanks to everyone… its was so good to see you again.
Saturday, January 01, 2005
New Years
Last night, I fell asleep at 11:30PM. Woke up at 4AM. The sub-conscience New Years. How unbelievably cool am I? Sub-zero.
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