Two Gateway exiles scavenging all the crap around the world and bringing it to you. Just so you don't have to do it yourself.
29 January, 2007
Dear fuckface researchers,
Back the fuck off.
Yeah, I know "it would be good journalistic practice to actually read the article before seeking clarification of points with the author!" But you know what, you retard? Your article is behind the wall of subscription which both of my university logins have no access to. All I'm asking is for you to send a fucking PDF, so I can read it before I interview you. Can you do that? Can you send a PDF? Or is the stick too far up your ass that it's affecting your ability to attach a PDF to an e-mail? At least I'm putting an effort into reading your paper.
Maybe you should make your research better and publish it in Nature or Science! That way, people can actually have access to it. Ever think of that you fuckface?
This is the first time in the era of my new and not so crappy crap shack that something remeniscient of the OG Crap Shack has happened. I came home this afternoon a little after 4 to find a newish Volvo parked a few stalls over from me. I thought this was odd, as there hasn't been anyone parking next to me all winter. Apparently, someone else thought this was odd too, and decided to do something about it. The below pic is vigilante visitor parking action in its purest sense:
You can't really make it out from the pic I took, but there, on the drivers' side window is a notice written in lipstick telling the owner to park in visitors' parking. They also wrote a similar message on the car's windshield. I would have taken more/better pics, but I didn't want the visitor to come out and see me lurking around his expensive car and then blame me for the vandalism. And yeah, I'm that much of a pansie.
"I had a dream last night that there was a fire in the condo. I dreamt that all of your sneakers caught fire. I could actually smell the rubber burning, it was that real."
-- my brother in law to me, shortly after I moved in to the new and improved crap shack.
One of the most overlooked (and subsequently scariest) pitfalls of living in an apartment building is that you're at the mercy of the stupidity of those around you. This was a great fear of mine last year when I lived at the Original Crap Shack, as the building was filled with scummy people who I'd put little past (yes, I'm thinking of them using the lobby and elevators as a urinal, or worse).
My night was a quiet, but good one. With pretty much everyone I know in Vancouver at nash this weekend, I stayed in tonight. I rented and watched 2046, a movie that a classmate from last semester did a presentation on, wrote about basketball, watched a lot of basketball and transcribed a long-ass interview. I did all of this in the reverse order that I wrote it. I talked with my brother and Chloe online before extreme fatigue hit me and at 3am, I called it a night. I was sawing lumber by 3:30.
About 90 minutes later, the threshold on the stupidity dam gave way. I woke up just before 5am to what I thought at first was my alarm clock—which is weird because I didn't set it. It took me a second to realize that it wasn't my alarm clock at all, but in fact the fire alarm. To grasp the full chaos that the alarm inspires, combine the buzzer setting on your alarm clock, turn your alarm's volume up to full and strap it to your left ear. Then have someone blow a whistle in sync with the squealching noise that the alarm makes in your right ear. Throw in a slow strobe light with the noise and you're pretty much where I was about an hour ago.
My reaction to the alarm was admittedly stupid. When I realized what it was, I didn't take to the lessons pounded into my head as an elementary school student. I didn't get dressed and bolt out of the apartment. I first looked out my window to see if anyone had evacuated yet. No one was in the parking lot. My next thought was that my worst fears had been confirmed. The stub of a match that I had used to light a candle earlier in the night had started a fire. I opened my bedroom door half-expecting to see my apartment up in flames. It wasn't. I then thought of what my brother in law, Tom, had said to me when I first moved in. That has stuck with me over the last five-plus months and I've gone to borderline obsessive-compuslive lengths to ensure that I don't accidentally burn the place down with candles or through letting the lint pile up in the dryer. Whatever was wrong apparently wasn't my fault. I then looked out the front window again, this time from the living room to see what was going on. I could see the strobe light staggering its way across my building, synchronized with the loud whistle noise that went with the alarm. I could hear people opening their doors and looking down the hall to see what was going on. I went and put some pants and a shirt on, then peered down the hall. I saw a few people with coats on, and lots of people who I think/hope had the same routine as me up to this point.
With the sounds of firetrucks on their way, I decided it was time to evacuate. Pathetically, my first thoughts went to my sneakers. There was no way I could get to them all. "Should I grab the black and red Jordan XI's?" I asked myself. Instead, I grabbed my laptop, cell phone and recorder, my backpack and my coat, and got out. As I made my way through the parking lot, I thought of my Air Jordan X's, still sitting in their box, in pristine condition. I've never worn them and now I might never get to. The thought was interrupted by the shrill voice of a young blonde woman who was shreaking at people to get away from the door. The fire, a small one, was in a ground floor suite, about as far from my apartment as it could possibly be (asshole for thinking this way). The woman was trying to explain what had happened to a small group of people, saying that she came home to someone passed out inside the apartment, there was smoke and she pulled the alarm. "I'm sorry I woke you all up, but I didn't want you to die!" was what she screamed before making a phone call.
By now, the firetrucks were pulling into the lot. The firemen (no women sighted) were directed to the proper apartment. When the screen door was opened, the strong smell of a grilled cheese sandwich filled the parking lot. The apartment looked smokey, but smoke didn't billow out of the living room or anything. It was a very small fire. A few minutes later, we were told it was safe to go back in. Once inside my apartment again, I took a video of the scene. You can hear the alarm in the background. My time guesstimations are admittedly ridiculous. My apologies.
Briefly, a list of what made this a horrible evacuation, some of these things I'm guilty of too: - people taking forever to get out of the building. - when people finally leave the building, they all flock to the site of the fire. - people standing way too close to the builiding when it's been evacuated. - people not leaving their apartments despite a slew of firetrucks showing up, then stupidly watching from their balconies while the situation was sorted out. - leaving my black/red Jordan XI's to potentially burn. What was I thinking?
I noticed this while watching season five of 24, but now that Wayne Palmer is president, I think it's time this gets put out there.
Wayne Palmer
Tupac Shakur
The same guy?
Could it be that Pac got sick of making records from the grave and has resurrected himself on the small screen of the most popular drama on TV? I noticed during the second half of the season premiere tonight that some of Tupac's swagger leaked out in some of Wayne Palmer's lines, particularly in his exchanges with Regina King, who's playing Wayne's sister. In conclusion, if the 205 albums that have been released in the ten years since his death weren't convincing enough, his presence on 24 proves it: Tupac is totally alive.
Number of times I made fun of Rossy: 5(+) Number of hockey-related discussions I made with Smiz when we were both under the influence: 2 Number of Wii bowling games played: 4 Highest Wii bowling score: 142 Number of real bowling games played: 2 Highest real bowling score: 64 Games of Laser tag: 1 Of which I won: 1 Hugs administered by friends and family: countless Number of boys I kissed (voluntarily): 1 Number of boys I kissed (involuntarily): 0 (No Crotch Nazi-sighting during this trip. Huzzah!) Number of tree-top Styrofoam mannequin head I attempted to kiss during the NYE party at the Wafflehaus: 1 Number of trips to the Black Dog: 3 Number of times I don't have to wait in line because I went there before 9pm: 3 Number of hipsters sighted at the Dog: too many Number of post-Dog Funky Pickle pizzas: 2 Number of times I suggested a post-Dog Sam Wok trip: 2 Number of times we carried out said trip: 1 Number of times where we were forced to select an alternative because Sam Wok was closed: 1 Number of additional pool tables found at the Garneau since I last went there: 1 Number of $8 DaDeopo'boys I consumed: 1 (fried oyster) Number of high school friends I stumbled into at Remedy: 1
Boston:
Number of my flights cancelled due to the blizzard: 1 Jugs of expired milk found in the fridge: 2 Average expiry date: December 18 Number of opened Doritos bag found on the counter: 2 Number of bags with chewed bits of plastic around it, suggesting that mice (or tiny elves) attempted to gain access into the contents of the bag: 1 Number of rusty nails found in the bathtub: 1 (origin unexplained) Bags of rotting garbage in the house: none (huzzah #2!) Bottles of Smuttynose beer in my side of the fridge: 6 (huzzah #3!! I totally forgot I bought that before my trip) Other food items, besides the beer, in my side of the fridge: none Also, found this in our living room: Yes, it appears that she has taken over our living room. FTW?!
Thanks for coming out last night. The UnderDog was fun, though with a bit more hipsters that I expected. Unless we spontaneously go bowling or something, that's probably last time I see you guys before I head out East again. Therefore, let's relive the best part of the evening again, courtesy of Mr Stefan, shall we?
Denver Broncos cornerback Darrent Williams was killed early yesterday when his white stretch Hummer was sprayed by bullets after a nightclub dispute following a New Year's Eve party.
-AP
I know it's part of the story and it's probably good journalism practice. But the mentioning of a white stretch Hummer, in the lede nonetheless, is making Williams out to be the most unsympathetic drive-by victim of 2007. So far.
In order to properly anticipate the new year, I've decided to revive the ever cathartic list of people I'd like to fight. Because really, can you see me approaching the new year in any manner beyond inappropriate ass-jokes and rage? Anyway, I know I'm going to look like a total fem-jerk for wanting to beat up children. However, I'm sure my swift roundhouse kicks are absolutely justified once you realize that the aforementioned children are the K-Tel Mini Pop kids.
I was watching TV that day when I found out that the "MPKs" are releasing their THIRD CD. On which they decide to boot-fuck such classics as Hooked on a Feeling and Life is a Highway, as well as non-classics A Public Affair, Crazy, S.O.S.
You know what else is worse than Paris Hilton signing Stars are Blind? Having 7-year-olds regurgitate it. It’s like that embarrassingly bad mixtape that your 10-year-old retarded cousin made with his Fisher-Price recorder-radio set and you secretly think that's the worst birthday present ever, but you can't throw it away because it's made by your retarded cousin. It's exactly like that, except you have to pay for this.
Now, I have nothing against karaoke. Karaoke is awesome. Without karaoke, there won't be American Idol. And though Clay Aiken is a horrible byproduct of the show, don't forget American Idol gave us Kelly Clarkson; without Kelly Clarkson, there's won't be Since U Been Gone—the infectiously danceable song perfect for belting out at the top of your lungs into the showerhead as you shower. (In fact, Jake and Smiz, if we ever get around to it, we should karaoke before I leave. And I'll sing Since U Been Gone)
However, I wonder who's bright idea is it to herd a group of children—with the perfect balance of gender, skin colour and ethnic background of course—into the recording studio and record their karaoke attempts. What's crazier is that this is the third version of this, meaning CD 1 and 2 did so well that it warrants a third one.
So I guess who I really want to fight are the adults behind this and the adults who buy these CDs. But, whatever, the out-of-key MPKs totally deserve the blame, and my fist of fury, as well. (Also, the asian girl of the group has weird eyebrows. I don't like that.)
