Pointless Nostalgia, Part Deux

"It's all about helping kids!"

Or so says the intro to one of the greatest, if not shortest lived, cartoons of the early nineties: ProStars.

This is another one for the "used to get up at 5:30 AM for Saturday cartoons" set. As Retro Junk and Wikipedia note, this was supposed to air on ESPN, but was shipped to NBC instead, as part of their new lineup of awesomeness, which also included Super Mario Brothers. Airing from 1991-1992, the show centers on Michael Jordan, Bo Jackson and Wayne Gretzky doing what they do best, which isn't playing their respective sports and earning bajillions of dollars, but instead fighting crime and helping children, often protecting the environment as well. Doesn't that just beat all? Of course, it's all for the kids. Jordan and Gretz are fathers, and I'll assume good ones, and Bo Jackson really did it for the kids, when his electronic image starred in the NES football game, Tecmo Super Bowl, which retarded kids might still play. Back then, Bo was "... the most lethal football player -- in video game history!" because he must have killed somebody in the game, or something.

The show was a hit (with me), because it was mind-blowing to see my favourite athletes accomplish some superhuman feats of derring-do and utilize wacky gadgets. Also, child protection seems noble. No other athletes, during that time, and maybe even today could tackle these issues:

The ProStars battle the evil Gargantus and his gang of thugs to stop them from tormenting a remote Australian town.

The ProStars must travel to Scotland to save a community from the terrifying ghost riders!

Here's the visuals. The opening credits for this powerhouse cartoon:

This confirms what I thought all along: that our best athletes lived in lockers. It makes sense considering that anytime I saw them interviewed on TV, they were always in front of lockers. And those lockers had their names on them. Think about it.

Also, I don't know what a "slam shot" is, but it ain't a hockey term. This is what you get when American producers latch on to a hockey legend in his prime, and try to glamourize the sport they most likely know nothing about. Slap shot wasn't powerful enough, plus it didn't include one of the inane 90's buzzwords seen at the start. "Hot", "cold" (which is it?), "jammin", "slammin" (oh, those rhyme - how clever). These terms were seen on millions of pre-schoolers and elementry kids sweat pants and shirts. Even I had basketball-themed pajamas that had a net and a ball, and were surrounded by awesome phrases like "slam dunk!", "super!" and "basketball!" I really liked those pajamas, but the tag scratched annoyingly against my ass. Note to future parents: unless you want your son/daughter to walk around with a hole in the ass of their pajamas, don't let them near the scissors.

The ProStars inspired an entire year's worth of kids to become better people. And, with most cartoons, had a namesake cereal. Sweet, sweet, tooth-decaying cereal. Sometimes with prizes.

Life: The 3" x 5" Edition

If you've ever wondered whether or not life could be simplified and catalogued for easy reference, Indexed is a great start. It's no Dewey decimal system, but damned if it isn't close.

Words Of Wisdom For The Weekend

Hey guys! While you're out on the town the next couple of days, just remember that we're fighting the good fight here. Don't get knocked out!

Just play it safe out there, because you know how some girls are! Have a great weekend!

From The Bargain Bin

The most recent Something Awful post has me thinking about the state of the internet consumer market these days, both in Canada and the U.S. Mostly, it's got me thinking "Who are the fucktards who buys some of the shit found on the web?!" The 'net have given us a great tool for connecting the world simply through the click of a button, but it's also given us an seemingly infinite amount of products that really shouldn't see the light of day, or any part of the day for that matter. By just searching around for a bit, you can find the most baseless, inane, unfunny, retarded and sappy garbage out there for purchase. Oh, and they're useless. Utterly, utterly useless. One website of note, and one that was featured on Something Awful, is the What On Earth Catalog. The items for sale here, are they collector's items? No, they're not. Joke gifts? Sadly, the jokes on the recipient, who no doubt will lash out with a flurry of face punches if they open up one of these cheap turds.

No, these little malignant tumors are for a few types of people: those who are so removed from regular society that they no longer understand the nature of "normalcy" and how it relates to material items, those who take some kind of sick pride in finding the most obscure and irrelevant item in order to proclaim that an item is "so rare, it's cool" (but in reality, it's so rare because it's idiotic), and those very speical types of people who are simply out of their fucking minds.

Now, I have to remark that my birthday is approaching with great speed. If anyone out there were to even think of purchasing any of these "gifts" either as a twisted joke or some perverted idea of irony, I'm just going to snap on them. As I perused the What On Earth website, I noticed that not only are the items aesthetically challenged, and just plain stupid, but the company's attempts at clever, marketable item descriptions are almost pure literary gold.

First off, is this montrosity, The Boyfriend Arm Pillow:

Description: "Never curl up on the couch alone again, with this comforting arm that wraps around you as if to say, "I'm sorry work was rotten today," or "No, you pick what we watch tonight," all the stuff you'd never hear from a real boyfriend. Polyester filled with comfortable, snuggly foam."

I'm going to let Josh Boruff from Something Awful give you the 411 on this "item":

"If I were to walk into a lady friend's domicile and find an arm attached to half a torso that she uses for cuddling, I would immediately run away in terror. In much the same way a man having 1/5 of a fake woman to cuddle with would be extremely disturbing and downright perverted, the scenario is no better when gender roles are reversed. In fact, dare I say it's even a little weirder? At least with guys you pretty much know they are capable of high levels of inspired perversion and ingenuity when it comes to combating loneliness. There is simply nothing sane or rational about snuggling up to a chunk of severed muppet. Worse, you couldn't even cheat your way into a high occupancy vehicle lane with this, unless maybe you bought 4 or 5 of them and stitched them together and then stuffed them into an adult tie-dye outfit. "

Enough said. Now, on to the next affront to good taste, another item for the "stay at home and dream about celebrity stalking" girl, the Fluffy Pink Boxing Gloves:

Description: "Sock it to him, one kittycat-soft punch at a time. These playful punching gloves are ultra puffy and fluffy, with "Tough" and "Chick" embroidered on the elastic cuffs. Super fun for goofing around, or wear them to rev up your home kickboxing routine."

Unless you're a girl who has an unhealthy obsession with the colour pink (and I know that there are some), I cannot imagine any girl with even a slim thread of self-respect buying these for themselves or someone else. These gloves are pretty much relegated to gay strip clubs and really cruel stagettes.

It's not all for the ladies, though. I'm sure there are a few basement-dwelling albino males out there who would get a kick out of this next item. Do you like "Monty Python and The Holy Grail?" Afraid of women? Then the Monty Python Black Knight Helmet is for you!

Description: "The first line to memorize: "None shall pass." The last: "All right, we'll call it a draw." You know the rest. A hilarious way to blow off some steam at work (how about wearing it to that next big meeting?) or for while watching 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail.'"

If anyone were to wear this at work, I'm sure they'd find that a) they've been fired and b) they've had their ass kicked, two times over. The only person wearing this is hidden away in the back room of the local board/card game store, and they're in the middle of a 72-hour long game of magic cards. They also smell like old jugs of milk.

Next, an item I could probably wear at the next family reunion, if only to feel like I've accomplished anything, the Graduate Hat:

Description: "Trade in that mortar board for an innovative advertising campaign; you're a proud graduate and available for hire!"

This is almost as stupid as it gets. I can only see this hat given away to people "graduating" from Special Education. And I'm sure that they don't even want to wear it.

I'm sure that some of my friends know my attitude towards insane dog/cat lovers. You know, the types of people who consider their pet(s) to be akin to a son or daughter? They dress them up, talk to them in babytalk, and let them sit on their laps while driving. These people are pretty much dead to me. However, that doesn't mean they can't be fashionable! Here's the Dog/Cat Hairs Sweatsuit!

Description: "For any dog-lover, it goes without saying, but now you can improve the fashion sense of the rest of the world."

Please note the immense irony in that statement. "Improve the fashion sense of the rest of the world." Apparently, the rest of the world wears a suit made out of garbage bags.

Lastly, an item that no depressed, low-self esteem person can live without: The I Rule Bowl.

Description: "What a way to start the day: vivid colors, sincere complements, carbs. Each of these bright, cheery bowls is handpainted with positive feedback around the rim and in the bottom."

Yep, it's the perfect item to make me feel better when I'm 40, alone and having yet another bowl of putrid Frosted Flakes, wondering what happened to all the good years, and what the best way to kill myself would be. I'll probably just drown myself in this colourful, fun bowl.

Tom Hanks Not Available For Comment

Rudy: Let's have a bachelor party with chicks and guns and fire trucks and hookers and drugs and booze!

Gary: Yeah! Yeah yeah! All the things that make life worth living for!

- Bachelor Party (1984)

Now, that's how a bachelor party/stag party should be done. I will be witness to a stag party tomorrow for one of my best good buddy, Jason M. Now, there are opportunities for great shenanigans, but I think it's lacking in some vital areas. The organizer of tomorrow's party just needed to do a little research. All he had to do was pop in the DVD, or for historical merits' sake, the VHS, of Bachelor Party, with Tom Hanks and Tawney Kitaen. What he would have witnessed is the correct way, and really, the only way to properly celebrate our friend's departure from normal society, and into what I call, "The No Fun Zone".

I label it "The No Fun Zone", because after you, the bachelor, get married, what fun are you really going to have? Sure, you might have a little bit of fun with your wife somewhere down the line picking beans at the farmer's market, but what about the great times and fantastically stupid memories that you and your buddies are capable of producing, even on the worst of days? Gone, my friend, gone. No more stupidity for stupidity's sake, no more drunken dials, no more yelling, pantsing, "whoo!-ing", punching, farting, belching, bare ass-waving adventures. Why? Because if you do have any of these, the keeper of sex, i.e., your wife, will withold. And then you're fucked, at least until you bring her flowers, build her a garden, or whatever.

Therefore, since you've committed yourself to this penitentiary of predictibility, this detention of dullness, you have but one chance to redeem yourself in front of your pals. The bachelor party. Your last moment of singledom (unfortunately our boy Jay hasn't tasted the single life since he was 17, but this lesson can be applied globally), your last days of autonomy should be executed to the fullest extent. You have to have fun one more time, before having fun is something you need permission for, and can only be done if you don't "have some chores" to do that day.

Look, I'm not a complainer, or a wet blanket or anything, and I do realize that some effort went into organizing this event. I'm just being realistic, and unless TV and film have lied to me, there should be some sort of "revered passing" of the single torch, and that torch should be used to blow shit up. Metaphorically, of course. There should be booze, hilarious hijinks, acting stupid for photographs, acting stupid and complaining that a camera didn't catch it, more booze, perhaps some little people, mooning/flashing older people, etc., etc. Most of all, there should probably be female nudity somewhere along the trip. Maybe the sight of nudity that's not his fiance might be distasteful to our boy, but what about the rest of the guys? A stag party at a strip club, or one that has booked a stripper is ten times the amount of fun one dude would have on his own. Just look at the assholes who frequent the peelers. Do they look like they're having a good time? No, because they're hiding from something, probably their wife, kids, or their extremely ugly face. Oh, and they're also perverts. However, when you see a stag party with strippers, they're always having a good time, not too mention getting most of it on tape (for blackmail). Sure, the majority of stags that actually get strippers are mostly douchebags, but their intentions are noble, and their dreams of sleeping with those strippers...are extremely sad.

So what then is the most viable option for a bachelor party? How can a party look fun and memorable, without becoming greasy and pathetic? Let's take a cue from Tom Hanks and his merry men. Watch the film. Study the film.

Then turn this:

Into this:

That's just fucking rad. This weekend, let's do it, and let's do it awesome. I want to see dumptrucks of awesome dropping their payload onto our party. And then I want to swim in that sea of awesome, because that's what parties are for.

Set Sail For The Boston Pizza!

Now, everyone join with me here:

"What the fuuuuuuck?"

I mean, honestly, let's just look at the most recent Boston Pizza promotion, and let it out. Let it all out.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Arrrrrrrr!

What the hell is that thing on the left? Am I supposed to get the impression that during this promotion, I will be served by or cooked for by pirates, or pirate-types? I hope for their staff's sake, that no-one had a terrible accident leaving them scarred, and horribly disfigured by some nasty kitchen incident. I can just see the chaotic mess that followed some poor guy's/ladie's kitchen mishap.

Manager: "Oh shit! John what the fuck happened?"
Poor John: "Ahhhh! The slicer cut my hand off!" Take me to the hospital!"
Manager: "Hold on a sec. I've got an idea. Rick, pass me that pizza slicer and some tape. Yes, yes! I've got it!"
Poor John: "What are you doing? I'm FUCKING DYING HERE!"
Manager: "Just hold on. I'm going to need you to put on this frilly shirt for a moment while I get my camera. Hold your arm over this pizza. Hold it." *click*


Seriously folks, this is one of the stupidest things I've ever seen. I can understand restaurants trying to break up the monotony of their everyday menu and I can even extend some credit to a business trying to piggyback on whatever's popular at the time (see an earlier post about The Pirates Of The Caribbean). But this is helmet-worthy retarded. I can just see Captain McAllister from The Simpsons coming around to each table:

McAllister: "Ahoy Mateys, had your fill of tacos? Would ye sooner eat a bilge rat than another burger? Then come for all you can eat seafood at the Fryin' Dutchman/Boston Pizza! Is it more iced tea you be needin'?"

Except the iced tea is probably bilge water. And the seafood? I probably wouldn't order it. It was prepared by a guy with a can opener for a leg.

P.S. Thanks to Allie E. for her sharp eyes and love of BP's.

Death From Above 1979...Dead

Damn it all.

For some reason, I'm not allowed to like something, and have it last. I'm not allowed to have nice things.

When Death From Above 1979 broke out in 2002 with their EP Heads Up, they were unknown to me, and pretty much everyone else outside of Montreal's sweaty dance-punk scene. However, with 2004's You're A Woman, I'm A Machine, they fast became one of my favourite bands, adorned many top album lists from that year, and it all culminated in a tour spot with Queens Of The Stone Age and Nine Inch Nails. They had a raw, electric energy that most bands only dreamed of, but don't even come close, even if they had a magical rock machine. DFA 1979 consisted of two musical visionaries, two regal knights of the rock table. With Sebastien Grainger exploding the vocals and drums, and Jesse F. Keeler rocking bass, vocoder and other percussion, they were a force to be reckoned with for many moons to come.

Or so I thought.

With a website post on Friday, Jesse officially laid some rumours to rest and declared DFA 1979 expired. I must give my utmost thanks to the gents for providing me with a sonic revolution, an auditory delight that I will be honoured to pass along to the uninitiated. To Jesse, best of luck with MSTRKFT and doing the drum work on the new QOTSA album. To Sebastien, best of luck with whatever you're up to. I hope you're not still dating Kelly Osbourne, right? RIGHT?

And now, we rock:

Pointless Nostalgia, Part One

As some of you know, I'm a sucker for anything and everything related to pop culture, or as it's more commonly known, "usless crap". During my formative years, which due to a mental defect, are still continuing to this day, I watched countless amounts of TV and movies, both of which still permeate into my vernacular and conscious thought. It's now at the point where everything I say is probably from some show or film, much to everyone's annoyance.

My absolute favourite pop culture poisons are anything from the fantastic decade of nostalgic decadence, 1985-1995, the latter year being when I entered high school, and therefore could not openly profess that I still had "Return of the Jedi" bed sheets (it was well known that in high school, even having bedsheets was a sign of pussydom. Not having a bed was the height of cool). In that decade, we youngsters were subjected to marvels of such great wonder, that we grew up to be normal, productive members of society, with the occasional feeling of shame and embarrasment for having witnessed such marvels.

One such marvel originated not in North America, but the wacky fetish factory known as Japan, where kitschy obsession has no bounds, and is most often bounded itself. Samurai Pizza Cats aired 54 glorious times in Japan, and was eventually passed over the Pacific, along with many other Japanese creations in the Seizure Induction Pact of 1990. SPC first aired in 1991, and combined many favourite things of that era's youth. Ask any grade 6 student to name things they like, and they'll no doubt reply "Animals, pizza, robots, and not getting hit by daddy". The show was a 75% hit!

What resonated with most young mouthbreathers was the frantic animation style, non-sensical dialogue, wide arrange of colours not yet seen in the Americas (blue wasn't used until 1993), but most of all was the hilarious, mind-boggling intro sequence:




The lyrics spoke of whimsical dreams, requited love and the ability to be stronger than dirt. 3 or 4 kids in America, and two in Canada, one being me (I met the other guy at a convention in 1999!) truly believed that the show would be the answer to all the world's problems. As it turned out, it was the answer to nothing except two questions: "How can I waste a half-hour of my time each day?" and "What should I stop watching if I want to impress girls?"

Samurai Pizza Cats earns its place in the pantheon of great, never-watched animated programs of my youth. And to it I say, "Thanks for making me such a fucking weirdo".

The Weekend Holy Trinity: Drinking, Yelling and Naked Hottubbing

On an ancient parchment, buried somewhere in the vast caverns of time, it is written in Sanskrit that everybody's working for the weekend, and everybody wants a little romance. After this past weekend, those words could not ring any more true. Well, at least the first part.

The Place: Mitch's Cabin Extraordinaire, about 15 minutes east of Wainwright, Alberta. The Event: The Annual May Long Weekend Party Spectacular, aka Mitch-A-Palooza, July Edition. The Result: A party for the ages. One to write about in ancient Sanskrit, or as our current time era permits, a weblog.

I escaped from the clutches of home and work on Thursday night, having cleared my work plate of anything that might create an unyielding obstacle to my having a great time, and a day off on Friday. The car trip is a scant hour and a half/two hours, if you're going about 140 km/h, slowing down for only the slowest of mini-van drivers, with which the highways seem to be clogged. I don't have a real beef with mini-vans per se, since they seem to be the only viable vehicular cage for most people's brats, but do they have to drive ten kilometres below the speed limit AT ALL TIMES? Get out of the way, and wipe off whatever sticky shit is on your kid's face.

I left town at around 8pm, since it took me awhile to pack and pick up supplies. After collecting the usuals: tent, sleeping bag, clothes that I will probably ruin, etc., I had to get but two things: Beer and Meat. Really, for a weekend to be truly grand in my opinion, it only needs to be meatened and liquored up. Those two things are pretty much a great addition to anything. Having a shitty time at a job interview? You should probably liquor it up. Having a colonoscopy done? Definitely meaten up beforehand (maybe even liquor up, too). To my surprise, when I arrived at 10 pm at the cabin, I was only greeted by three others, Mitch, Greggers, and Party On Garth. No worries, I thought, we'll start this up right. Greg proceeded to show me his great idea for the camping arrangements, which led me to believe that he really doesn't work, but instead comes up with fantastical ideas bordering on pure evil genius. He had taken the riding mower and mowed out "campsites" in the field next to the cabin, which from the air, I'm sure looked like a weak effort at crop circles.

Mitch's cabin site is pure gold. His cabin has all the amenities, save for TV, but we can miss the latest celebrity turd gossip or middle east deaths for a while. Shower's great, running water's great and 3 fridges are really great. There's an outdoor pool table, big fire pit, BBQ, nearby lake, floating trampoline, outdoor games. It's like a summer camp for adults, with a bit more drinking and nakedness then you'd find in a regular summer camp. A game of beer frisbee, or beersbie broke out amongst our meagre group, which is a game surprisingly involving beer and frisbees. It's not who wins, but how stupid you get. I got stupid.

The next day was simply gorgeous, the type of day where you just want to sit outside in your underwear and not move for hours. However, this was interrupted by a few chores, like getting wood for a commandeered empty outhouse, which started out like this. It's demise is an annual tradition, which I will comment on further down. After the chores, my stomach was just flipping, so I had meat and beer to calm it down, which always does the trick. Meat and beer is like slapping a hysterical person. Shocking at first, but ultimately necessary. A little game of croquet erupted, and it seemed to pass the time, but eventually, with every game of croquet, the temptation to misuse the mallets overcomes normal gameplay. After just hitting cans, we invented a croquet mallet-hackeysack game with a beer can as a hackeysack. This entertained us for a while, and we got pretty good at it, but in the end, it was pretty retarded.

Near the end of the evening, most of the other party goers arrived, and they brought the rain with them. Bastards. However, when you're camping at Mitch's, rain has no power. It's pretty much castrated. There's plenty to do!
There's Bender.
There's terrible singing. I should never be allowed to attempt "Oh Sherrie", by Steve Perry. That dude has pipes. I have a warbling shitbox.
There's pool table dancing, evidenced here and here and here.
Weenie roasting.
And of course, demonic possesion everywhere.

The first night brought out what everybody was expecting in the first place: naked hottubbing. With the characters that this group has, it was a given, and much thanks go to Morghan and Mary for getting the flesh party started. I personally have no problem with shedding it off, and I really don't care about seeing another dudes man-package. I just don't need to see any spread-eagle specials, no offense to you Greg. Not content to just sit and pretend to not notice everyone's naughty bits, the daring tub dwellers decided to take trips back and forth to the lake, complete with mud slinging and trampoline jumping. One problem with all of this: shrinkage. Not too much, and I'm good with what I've got, but with all the hot water to cold water action we were doing, it wasn't helping out mini-Tyler. Bedtime for the hottubbers: 6 am.

Saturday was the penultimate day. Drinking. Yelling (sometimes at insolent pistachios). General tomfoolery. Many, many shenanigans, and plenty of movie trailer voices. Also, I believe Jody and I went through every Terminator 2 line of dialogue. "Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away!" Oh, and Jody. This guy should have his own sitcom. Seriously, everything he does is pure comedy, even if it's at the expense of his own body, mind, self-respect. Who else would wear this Lucha Libre mask for almost two days straight? Then he found these crutches, which would have been completely offensive, if it wasn't so funny. This guy can really commit to a bit.

A few of us had a little golf at a local "course" about ten minutes walk from the campsite, but even it's sand greens couldn't keep us interested. We wanted to party, and party we did. More bender. More dancing. More of everything. Including (drumroll)...the Annual Burn An Empty Outhouse, this time with a fireworks display! The outhouse that I previously mentioned (don't worry, it didn't have any piss or shit on it) was prepared for its demise. And then it burned. It was smoked with fireworks, and lit up for all to see in a display that spit in the eye of any safety rules or policies.

Just watch this (MPG courtesy of me). Or this (AVI courtesy of Ashley). This is how to make a good time legendary.

The reactions of the group were of wonder, mystery, and courtesy of Jody, longing and this.

After creating the good fire that Prometheus himself stole for us, there was more naked hottubbing! Yeah! Naked bodies! This time with more girls (thanks Allie)! Of course, we couldn't just do the same as Friday night, so what do we do? We add soap! Much thanks to the earlier, non-naked crew for that idea. It added just the right amount of mystery, but by this point, everyone's seen the junk and the tits, so it's a little moot. The mind, which is a bowl of warm tapioca pudding by now, gets into gear. We get some great ideas and some bad ones. The first was to create a naked slip and slide, using some tarps and the hot tub cover. A huge bucket of awesome for this idea, although since we're adults, we go a little too fast and careen well beyond the limit. Grass and sand tend to get into little nooks and crannies, and our bodies have their share of those. Then we decide that everyone should get a view of our grand state of enjoyment. We institute what I dub "Tent Flesh Packing". If you're sleeping off a night of drinking, or not drinking, you don't want 5 or 6 soapy, naked people invading your tent. It's just not good manners.
Sunday was a travel day, and not all that interesting. So there you have it. Mitch-A-Palooza 2006, as much as I can remember it. If anyone who was there is reading this, please add your own memories, and/or picture links (this is where I humour myself into believing that anyone will read this).
Oh, and if you want to see the rest of the pics, dear reader, check this site out: www.ece.ualberta.ca/~marchand/gallery/.

Until next year, in a world, one man, will face adversity like no other. This summer. This summer!

Oh, and one last thing: Next year, the ROCK KICKS will be out again. Full force, full rock and roll! What do you think of that, Mike?

Bring Back Supermarket Sweep!

I need groceries.

Taking stock of what's left around here has produced the following results: The only food items left in my house seem to be 4 kinds of Tabasco sauce, Swiss Chalet Au Jus mix, some free cereal samples (I can't believe that you can get 'Wheetabix' in a sample size), and a package of Premium Plus crackers - and thank God for those. If you don't have saltine crackers, you've truly hit rock bottom on the food supply.

Luckily, I haven't succumbed to that point where I'm eating just random food, believing that I'll manage to stumble into some awesome flavour combination. I'll say 'no' for now to the old mustard-and-soy sauce-on-stoned wheat thins sandwiches (although thinking about it is getting me curious, mostly due to the sodium content). So barring any descent into culinary madness, I'll be fine just waiting until shopping time, but that shopping experience will be so fucking boring.

Shopping for groceries is the height of tedium. I will have to endure hours of trying to get around not-looking senior citizens and out-of-control brats, dodging them in the parking lot, in the aisles, around the checkout lines, and back again in the parking lot. I'll grab a shopping cart, and try to have some fun with it, but it just doesn't have the turning radius and stopping efficiency needed to avoid breaking shit or annoying people. Contrary to popular/idiotic belief, there are never any beautiful women in the store, just moms, with their hell-spawn children, screaming and spanking and trying to corral what little control they have. I never buy what I should, and I always forget to buy the necessities (like milk), instead purchasing poorly thought through impulse items (like a plush kleenex box cover). Pretty shitty deal, but it can be so much more.

I ask simply for the triumphant return of Supermarket Sweep to transform grocery shopping into a fun, exciting competitive event. For those of you who cannot remember this show, in either its US or Canadian form, here is an informative video:



Just thinking about whizzing past aisles in my cart, paying no heed to the laws of physics, or the polite ethics of modern western society, and I get all bubbly inside. I just want to run and grab and grab and run, and this show would let me do it! Granted, the show is set on a stage, and according to one contestant, the crowd is non-existant (goodbye to another fantasy), but the thrill of the hunt and chase are still there.

So I'm mentally ready for the Big Sweep. I need to be physically ready, and I need on site knowledge. I am going to start training for the (obvious) eventual return of the show during my next shopping excursion. I am going to visualize my shopping needs, then proceed to attempt to shop for groceries in the least time possible. I will not listen to the cries of protest from the staff nor other shoppers, as that will only distract me from my goal. Of course, any groceries that I collect during my training period won't be paid for, or put back into their original locations, but that's Safeway's problem, not mine. I'm an athlete. I'm a supermarket superstar.

Chapter 4: Signaling (for fuck's sake)

Signaling (From The Basic License Driver's Handbook)

Hey fuckheads. Signals may be irrelevant or an unnecessary hassle to you, but you know, they actually serve a purpose.

Let's review:

Signals actually tell other drivers (i.e., me) what you are going to do. In advance! Some might say that they read your mind!

Certain official government documents state that you MUST signal when:

• moving from the curb or parking lane
• turning
• changing lanes
• stopping

In case some of you are confused, and I know you are, here are examples of these signals:

Left Turning Signal

Right Turning Signal

Now, is that so hard? No, it isn't. You should all practice once or twice on the driveway before you leave your house or place of business, because if you don't start using it like us intelligent drivers, I will kill you. I'm not fucking lying. I will eat your soul.

Everything I Learned In Life, I Learned From PBS

PBS. The Public Broadcasting System. In 1969, America was strife with protests, demonstrations, and other public displays of autonomic thought. Nixon's government could see that it was losing its control on the thoughts and behaviours of the younger generation. To counteract this, the administration commissioned a private study, known only as "The Nanny Commission". It was found that parenting should be not be up to parents, but instead up to whimsical, educational television programs funded by individual televison stations across the country, secretly run by government agents and "viewers like you". The result: millions of children that have learned proper morals and ethics and ultimately became incredibly boring.

I consider myself one of these children, although the boring element has eluded me (prove me wrong, people!). Although I am a staunch Canadian, this bastion of American television, with it's annual pledge drive (begging), has instilled in me the knowledge and confidence a young man needs in his developmental years. Although at times we disagreed (my fanatical desire to have the letter 'u' in words like 'colour' and 'favour' led to many objects thrown at the screen), I came away with almost no homicidal cravings whatsoever. Let's now look at the highlights of what I learned from the shows and applied to everyday life.


MATH: Square One Television

Square One was comprised of small sketches that introduced and applied concepts like counting, combinatorics, vulgar fractions, and other math shit. What I learned is this:

- If you are wearing a Michigan Wolverines helmet, and make a math mistake, a tornado named "Mr. Glitch" will destroy you. I was great in math because of this until Grade 10, when I lost the helmet.
- Real cops carry calculators.
- If you ever say "oops" while making a math error, the Hindenburg crashes again.
- Harry Blackstone Jr. may be a great magician, but "math magic"? Here's where I learned what "retarded" meant.


GEOGRAPHY: Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego?

I learned more about the world and cheesy acapella music from this show than any other of its kind. Most importantly, I learned that American kids were pretty stupid. Harp on the USA's xenophobic tendencies from time to time, but damn kids, learn something, anything about other countries than your own. While you're at it, learn some things about your own country too. I'm surprised these kids even knew where they slept. Here's what else I took away:

- Monuments can actually be stolen. And
you can retrieve them. I tried to steal Mount Rushmore once, but someone had
found it, and then had a warrant, in that order
- Dying informants never actually die. They just
pretend to die, which puts them in a perfect situation to give more information.
- 9 out of 10 kids will always choose Disneyland or Disneyworld after winning a free trip anywhere in North America. The 1 out of 10 kid? He/she chooses Bangkor, Maine. I will never understand why.
- The guy in your acapella group with the mullet? Gay.

Art/Painting: The Joy Of Painting With Bob Ross

No explanation necessary. I learned that every living thing, and even some inanimate objects need a little friend. Right about there. Anywhere you want it. That's nice.




Miscellaneous: Zoobilee Zoo

Easy. Don't do drugs.

This Kid Is Alright!

I Heard Her Pray The Night The Slurpee Machine Died

My name is Tyler, and I am an addict. Oh, it's not something taboo, or risky, or even worthy of societal scorn. You won't see 15 year-old runaways strung out on it in some seedy, dilapidated shack behind the abandoned auto-parts store. You won't see it peddled by washed-up Hollywood stars and starlets, still clinging pathetically to a small glimmer of hope that one day the public and casting directors alike will fall in love with them all over again, but in the meantime, they're too fucked up to notice that they're wearing sandwich bags for shoes. Nobody is going to get caught in the bathroom at a party with some guy who's been up for 96 hours, and all he wants to talk about is how stellar of a car salesman he is, only to have him break down crying by the time he gets to how much his kids hate him.

They're just Slurpees. And I love them. My friends, especially those who had the pleasure of working with me at the Students' Union, know of my seemingly unnatural love of the cold, semi-solid beverage. At the time, I didn't think that it was too much to have two or three in a 7 hour period while "working", especially since I was getting them for free at the SUBmart, using extra volunteer coupons for myself. But four months straight? Seems excessive now as I look back, but my Slurpee-addled mind can only become extremely jealous of the Tyler two years ago, and try to think of ways to travel back in time. I tried to cut down on my slurpee intake while at Ticketmaster, and the roughly two excruciatingly long blocks to the nearest slurpee slinger did help the cause. It would not last however, despite my blood sugar's insistent cries that it must.

Working once again for a student association, I find myself as close as ever to a slurpee pusher - the MacEwan convenience store. The slurpees are plentiful, and cheap on Tuesdays! I have reached Valhalla, and it has spoon straws. Now, you can only imagine my horror today, as I saw that the machine that time and time again brought me so much joy, alleviated so much pain, and got me away from work for those few precious minutes a day, was broken.

Out of order. No service. Nothing. I was thunderstruck.

The silver box hummed and swirled, but the slurpees themselves had been reduced to nothing more than a twisted sugary liquid, too dark for consumption, too painful to look at, too much for this grown man to bear. "WHY?", I cried. "Who's to blame for this injustice, this travesty of confectionery delights? The worker who guarded over the refrigerated wonder machine could only muster a slow, sad glance of forced acknowledgement, and a trite apology. Confusion and anger waged a war of attrition in my emotional core, and I was unable to decipher which one I wanted to win. It was all I could do to not simply give in to raw, unbridled anguish and fall to the floor in a quivering pile of humiliated human being.

So I left, empty-handed and somewhat tired. I walked the slow path back to my office, a trek comparable in suffering to the Bataan Death March or Dr. Zhivago. I sat back at my desk and had what some addicts call a moment of clarity in that small sliver of lucid thought between hits. An epiphany. I would stop having slurpees everyday. I could not bear to go through this maddening event once again, to feel amounts of disappointment that could make the Grand Canyon an easy walkover. I would be born again.

My detox lasted 3 hours. Damn you 7-Eleven. Damn you to hell.

Coming Next Summer: Calaway Park, The Movie

Even the most basic of film watcher, the type that finds Legally Blonde to be highly engrossing entertainment, knows that The Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest, out last Friday, is the continuation of the franchise trilogy. The current movie has once again thrust viewers into a fantasy pirate world, and has also added yet another notch to this series' claim on the longest, most pointless movie titles possible. Pirates is basically neck-and-neck with Tomb Raider, both movie franchises built upon entities of great fanfare, but differ in their relative focus on female memories. Seriously though, do we need eight or nine words in the title? Couldn't they just have titled it "Depp's Eyeliner" or something?

In any event, I have just come home from viewing said middle child of the trilogy, and I can honestly say that I did enjoy it. Seriously! Me! Enjoyed it! It had action, adventure, romance, big scary things (as far as Disney goes), and huge blowey-up stuff. Everything that gives Jerry Bruckheimer horny feelings, to which he promptly blows up (you should hear stories about when he and Michael Bay get together for lunch. Oh you haven't? That's because those stories have been blown up). There's just something irritating about middle stories though, because you can't just waltz in without seeing the first, and nothing really gets resolved. However, it does lead to imaginative plot developments. Mine has Capt. Jack Sparrow opening up a bunch of Joey's Only Fish & Chips. But these ones are awesome.

I can't help one feeling, though, and it's an obvious one. This multi-bajillion dollar franchise is still just based on a fucking Disneyland ride. A ride. Made into a movie. That's grossed a box-office total equal to Oprah-like proportions. I remember the ride fairly well, even though I was only six when I went to Dizneeland. I was scared shitless, especially when I witnessed the pour soul being lowered into the well. I have issues with that, alright? Now, at that tender age, would I believe that almost exactly twenty years later, we'd have TWO films and awaiting a third, based solely on a boat ride consisting of animatronic pirates? Hell no, but I was six. I believed that my hand-puppet dog played with my toys when I was out of the room.

My point is this: If someone out there can make a film out of that, what's to stop anyone from making a movie along the same lines? Therefore, I give you Calaway Park: Secret Of The Log Ride. For those of you who don't know or care, Calaway Park is a Hanna-Barbara theme park just west of Calgary. Also, it kicks major ass! At least, it did when I was five. The Flintstones are here in all their glory, and some other minor characters (points if you can name one other than Snagglepuss or Yogi Bear). So many great memories are made and kept regarding this park, and it's so odd, because really, it's not the most awe-inspiring theme park out there. Therefore, making a movie about it should be a pants-wettingly spectacular idea! Here's the plot: an archeologist (who may or may not be swashbuckling, but is definitely dark and mysterious)has always been interested in clues left behind over time regarding some kind of treasure or something. Since childhood, he has been told of treasure left behind since the beginning of time! He has come across a map to a new, mysterious land called "Calaway" to retrieve an ancient, powerful artifact: The Flint Stone.

The Flint Stone is part of a great legend that supposedly enables the bearer to connect with aliens, or control the thoughts of man, or propel a car with his/her feet. Of course, he is not alone. He has a sexy assistant (who eventually will have an agenda of her own), to which he once dated, but it didn't work out. On their journey, they fight evil doers, come across ancient magic, reveal truths about themselves and make out a little bit, but stop due to some jarring event (like a bad guy popping out of the background yelling "Arrgh!"). There's also some stupid tie-in with Burger King or something, with a new product revealed (the Dinoburger, or equally as retarded). Some people die, some are believed to die, but return, and there's a twist, like John Goodman comes out and threatens to sue.

As for the climax and conclusion, I leave that up to anyone. How will this tale end? Am I only talking to myself? If anyone does come up with an ending, one caveat. No Rick Moranis. Not one bit. And no Rosie O'Donnell either. I want this movie to be as far away from The Flintstone movies as possible. Which means it won't be a colossal embarrassment! Ha!

Cowboy Hat Convention

Ah, yes. The Calgary Stampede. A whole week-plus of drinking, yelling and generally being an asshole. And those are just the girls. I only get a little bit of holidays this summer due to a new job, so I have to choose carefully. I chose Calgary for my first little jaunt, and it seemed like a fair choice, as it allowed me to break in the new truck on the highways, and give me that special sense of self-autonomy, which feels great and tastes great, too. Like a phantom popsicle. I must thank my friend Gavin for this excursion, since his idea to go on the Stampede Club Crawl was a sound one. And now for the day-by-day summary, and the hilarity that ensued.

Thursday: I drive almost right from work, stopping only at Bang-On on Whyte to pick up a new custom t-shirt and some new shades. The shirt says "Tonight's the night!", which what myself and Warren C overheard one chick say at O'Byrnes (and by the looks of her, good luck with that). I figured the shirt would fit the theme of the club crawl quite nicely. Warren and I hit the Stampede that night, which has a curious entry fee. Pay $12, or pay $6 for a "sneak peek". Oh, tough choice. We stroll into the Nashville North tent to meet up with some Calgary/Edmonton types, and see Great Big Sea playing their last few songs. After they finished, it began. For the rest of the weekend, save for times in the car, and a few precious moments at the bars, it was country music as far as the ear could hear. Now, for those of you who know my position on country music, this is just about hell for me. I realize it's the Stampede, but damn it all if country music isn't just the worst fucking music on the planet. Every song sounds the same, and all the line dances are absolutely retarded. Nobody looks sexy dancing a line dance. Two-stepping, when done by people who are "good" at it, looks like a writhing mass of flesh having a seizure. With cowboy hats on.

Beers: $5.50 for a can. Not stupid, but affordable.
Late night food: A shwarma (sp?), that Warren wanted me to try. Looks like a donair, but misses the little things. Like having a good taste, and the desire to have another one.

Friday: Warren and I spend the day traipsing up and down 17th, which, quite frankly, puts Whyte Ave to shame for the amount of great looking women. If I was wearing sweatpants... Of course, being that it was such a nice, hot day, some of the fellers decided that it was their constitutional right to not wear sleeves, short or otherwise. Does any lady out there just titter with excitement by the sight of some sweaty guy in a wife-beater, or worse, a shirt with the sleeves torn off? Oh, right. He's got a cowboy hat on. He's exempt.

The evening started early at Coyotes at about 8:00, although we got to the line at 7:30pm. We had bought $15 no line/no cover tickets, thanks to the ever-dependable Morghan. I thought that was expensive, but during the Stampede, expensive is the theme. More like absolutely ri-damn-diculous. $20 cover at Coyotes? $50 cover at Cowboys? That's beyond stupid into some realm where stupid beats Conan The Barbarian and Red Sonja. Nevertheless, the bar had just about the most scattered ass a warm-blooded heterosexual could want. Assless chaps on the beer tub girls? I think I signed a petition a while ago for that. Overall, pretty decent night.

Beers: $6.50 for a bottle. Of Bud. It had better taste like piss from a Royal family member. But not QEII. Gross.
Late night food: Gerry's, which used to be Husky House. Worst fucking double-burger I've ever had. The rat burger in Demolition Man? I'm sure a delicacy next to this pile of shit. I don't need Stallone to tell me that.

Saturday/Sunday: Ah, the Stampede Crawl. Started at the crack of noon (roughly), and for my ticket, at the Ranchman's Party Tent. It was a tent, but the party was somehwhat lacking. I've never seen a crawl this immense before, and it was certainly something to behold. I've planned many an event before, but the guys who plan this must have a death wish or something. Or, they're Superman. I bet Supe would plan an awesome party, but would probably evolve into everyone just kicking him in the groin repeatedly while he laughed. Food consumed consisted of one smokie hot dog by this point. After about two hours, we were ready to board the Bus Of Laughing Morons. Ah, nothing like a bunch of goons trying to get girls to flash, or sticking their asses out the window constantly. With cowboy hats on. My source of comedy was calling two guys "Toby Keith", simply because they looked like Toby Keith "Present" (fat and bloated) and Toby Keith "Five Years From Now" (fat and bloated).

Beers at Ranchman's: $4.25. No more crying!

First place was (incorrectly) Tequila's, which was pretty dirty, and smelled like an open sewer in some places. It's 2 in the afternoon, why is it dirty? Fairly unremarkable. Second place was Tantra, which was a little more memorable, but about as memorable as it could be. Nothing against it, as it seemed fairly nice. Seemed like a smaller Rum for clientele, so therefore I hate it and would never go again. Third and final bar: Coyotes. Ah, fuck me.

The crawl people had to stay in this outside patio/tent area, which was fine by me, given that I had already seen what the inside had to offer, and was in no hurry for the sequel. Plus, as a bonus, there's no bathroom attendant in a port-o-potty! That means I don't have to pay a buck for the hand sanitizer. After a few hours, Miss Morghan informs me that I should head over to Cowboys (bile rising), because if I'm staying at hers and Mike's place, it makes sense to get together. So I leave. Without asking what the line is like. "Huge", she says. Fuck me two times. I reverse it, but take the wrong path, leading me into some Calgary transit garage, which leads me to have to hop a barbed wire fence to avoid an embarrassing turnaround (Hey, I don't know the guys working at the garage, but I certainly don't want them to think I don't know what I'm doing).

I try to weasel my way back in, but the mongoloid at the door says wait in line. So I do. I get to the front, and then he says that I have to pay the cover - $20. Are you kidding me? I paid $35 for the ticket? I relent, and get let in, but I can't get outside, because the mouthbreathers at two doors aren't letting anyone outside. This could not be going any better. I say fuck it, and leave. I get in a cab, and head to Morghan's, with the idea that I can sleep in my truck and wait for them. However, my phone is dead at this point, so I'm on a wing and a prayer. Good thing I remember where they lived. Mike wakes me up about an hour later, and the following conversation ensues (as I can remember it):

Mike: "Tyler, you can come up now".
Tyler: "No, I have to go to Warren's and get my truck."
Mike: "Dude, you're in your truck."
Tyler: (Confused) "Huh?"

I slept in a room that seemed only two miles from the sun, and in a cat condo which, due my allergies, made death seem like a viable option. I decided to book out early, and head to my Grandma's, where my parents are. Lo, and behold, what comes next? I LOCKED MY FUCKING KEYS IN THE TRUCK. Again. So a call to the parents (local call, Morghs, seriously), and AMA's on the way. But I'm not an AMA member yet, so it'll cost me. Oh, and I notice a parking ticket from the night before on my windshield. Fuck. Me. Running.

Overall Experience: I will absolutely, positively do this again next year! I can't wait to mercilessly make fun of country yet again. Stupid country. It all sucks. Except for Johnny Cash. He's a legend, and I've said it before, but JC transcends time, and space and denim.

And Now, Starting In Last Place, This Kid

Yep, that's me to the left. Either someone just punched my eyebrow, or I'm intoxicated. Witnesses say the latter, and they weren't as intoxicated as I was apparently, so I'll give them the benefit of the doubt. But damn, look at those sideburns!
So here it is. Standard Tyler procedure. Getting to the party just a bit late, but making a concentrated effort to make the most of it, and eventually, entertaining (mostly) everyone. Sure, blogs have been around since what, the phonograph? Who cares? If I want to write one of these, then damn it, I will. I feel that this will give me the outlet I need for my wordsmithing, wordplay and my fanatical desire for wordsex, which is probably as gross as it sounds.

So, what will I write about? Most likely what other people are writing about, which are ramblings of an almost inchoherent nature, and would be absolutely incoherent, if not for idiot-proof writing software (read: nothing that is of any interest to anyone). I will be writing, mostly during non-work times, and even during work, when things are "slowed down a tad" (which is most of the time--work is like that).

So there you have it. I have thrown my hat into the ring of the great world of the blogosphere. Eventually, I will get my hat back, because it was an awesome hat, I'm sure of it.
And now, what you've all been waiting for: Mind-numbing minutiae!

Mind-Melting Mayhem: NBC's Treasure Hunters

"Oh, for fuck's sake!", you exclaim. His first post, his cherry-popping entry into the world of sitting, snacking and generally complaining, is about a fucking reality show. Yeah, it is. Go fornicate with yourself.
I have been watching this show, and was fairly excited about the premise, being a devoted fan of "The Amazing Race". There's just something about having to use intelligence to win a game, and that just gives me an erection. A smart erection, you can be assured.

If you haven't watched an episode, the premise is fairly simple: Use noggin, aided by senses (especially sight). Be first to solve elementary-level clues. Win $$$. It seems almost too easy, but you do have to discern between dumbing yourself down, or smartening yourself up for some puzzles. Unfortunately, this is only for Americans, and thus, the basis for a high entertainment factor. I'm not an Canuck-elitist or anything, but solving puzzles? Americans? Granted, there are extremely bright Americans out there, but do the producers get them? Not really, as there's only one team of three, the "Geniuses", which is quite the awesome moiniker. You just know those fuckers will get license plates celebrating this. The whole nickname nonsense is getting out of hand with all reality shows, but with our attention span now in the nanoseconds, remembering people and stuff is hard. However, in two hilarious coincidences (I'm sure), I've now seen two African-American teams in two different shows named the Brown family, and the Black family. Are you kidding me? I wonder how we're supposed to remember them...

Now 4 episodes in, I have almost displaced my original contempt for it being an AR/National Treasure rip-off, and a blatant one at that. Hmm. Solving a treasure mystery based on clues left by America's forefathers? I assume that the four people who saw that film are writing strongly worded letters. I'm just surprised that TH didn't use an accented host. Everyone else almost is. I'm faily sure that this guy is naked from the waist down on all the videos sent to the treasure hunters. "Teams: Your next clue is hidden somewhere on my body. Now if the camera justs pans down a bit..."

Long story longer, it has the possibility of being a good show, but only if the hot Grad Students get back into bikinis, or have to put on shirts, and wet them to see the next clue. It's what the forefathers would have wanted.

And now, a random picture of me: