square zero

I'm not sure whether "not being a good fit for the company image" is grounds for dismissal.

But then again, when you're five days short of the end of your probationary period you're not entitled to much of a reason at all.

It's hard for me to get a bead on a lot of what was said to me last Tuesday when the GM called me into the office. I do know that I was called in right after he indoctrinated the new Sales lady. I heard something about the company hemorrhaging money. I heard something about me not being involved in the community enough. I heard something about receiving a letter of recommendation – "glowing" is the word I believed he used.

I'm fairly sure I mentioned the fact that I carried the radio station on my back – single-handedly, inexperienced – for two months. I didn't mention dealing with the power outages, missing board operators, and screaming up to Port Hardy at the last minute.

Or the ridiculous task of trying to produce commercials while live on the air at the same time. How about recording an entire six hour show for The Port 1240 every day, while getting interviews for the news guys in Courtenay, and working on a diabetes fundraising event?

How about weekends spent in the studio working on production pieces for the hockey team, or voice-tracking for the Sunday so that the weather reports would sound a little more authentic if they were closer to the date? I never bothered filling out overtime cards because I felt the experience was payment enough. Also, having use of the car would have equalized the money due to me.

The twelve hour days, the fact that I was just starting to get comfortable behind the mic despite getting very little guidance – despite constantly asking for guidance.

I did every thing they told me. Some things I got right away, other things I improved over time. That's how it's supposed to work when you first start out, right?

Christ, I hauled my ass all the way across the country for this job. Frankly, if I had known this was going to happen I would have continued waiting tables until something more secure came along.

I didn't menion these factors, because he knew. Why put him on the defensive when I knew I couldn't talk him out of it. I know this because I said, "I can't talk you out of this can I?"

So ultimately all that work was for nothing except a few references, and not enough experience to make me hireable in the industry.

"Keep your chin up." They say.

If you're at the bottom of a hole…Again…It's hard for your chin to be facing anywhere else.

I am utterly devastated.

I'm not a manic-depressive, but the depressions I'm occasionally lapsing into can only be described as "manic". We're talking acid-trip bouts of psychotic misery and horrible dread when I'm bad, and generally despondent and distracted when I'm good.

It's not just the fact that I was canned so abruptly. Or the fact that it's a hell of a thing to happen right before Christmas. Or that after three months I was starting to get a handle on things. Or that it was an incredible opportunity that I never took for granted. Or the fact that I took all the steps to keep my karma in balance (which sounds weird, but makes sense if you're me).

It's the fact that I have been again set back light years in terms of getting my fucking life somewhere stable. It was bloody hard landing this job in the first place. The months of sending out audition packages and following-up was endless and tiring. It's hard to face this reality again without the taste of bile in my mouth.

I feel like I've been climbing this beast of a mountain – still in the woods, but the pines are thinning, and I can smell the snow – when some anonymous malevolent force plucks me off its side and dumps me back in the valley. I felt I could start chasing goals because I was on the right path to create the groundwork on which they would have stood.

Perfect, a goddamned mountain analogy. This place is disturbing me.

And the malevolent force is not so anonymous. I know who "terminated" my employment, as he put it. The thing is, he seemed to genuinely feel bad. He was quick to offer himself as a reference, as were other's near the top of Vista Radio. That would seem to indicate that losing this job wasn't completely due to incompetence on my part. That's how it's supposed to work, right?

He said that he hoped the experience wouldn't stop me from pursuing radio. Platitudes from a well practiced manager, or sincere thoughts from someone who really cares? I suppose when (and if) I recieve that letter of recommendation, I'll know.

So here I am in Vancouver, staying on the floor of my cousin's kid's room. I'm living out of my suitcase again with no prospects and a dim view of the future.

Right now I'm remembering what my professor told me when I said I landed a job in Powell River. He said, "You'll like BC".

Despite the valiant efforts of a couple friends and family in Vancouver showing me the grandeur of the place I remain deeply, deeply, unimpressed.

Of course my glasses are not exactly rose-tinted. They smell, and are obscured by shit.

I feel that I've made a lifetime of sacrifices, only to land back in the tar-pit.

There is no justice. There is no reprieve. There is no balance, and nothing matters no matter what I do. There is, however, this – an email I got from the head of the United Way in Powell River:

I hope you won't turn your back on us, but I do want you to know that you have been incredibly supportive in casting out the net of info re United Way and other things that really screamed to be shouted about. I hear practically daily "I heard you on the radio", and you did that. For that I am very grateful. You may have lost your job, but you have helped me keep mine. Thank you.

Janet

Sigh…You're welcome Janet.

apropos to nothing

Welcome to my secret blog.

It has become secret– or as secret as anything can be online –because of a person I don't know.

Imagine that, huh? A person who I have never met, whose face I could not pick out of crowd, whose opinion would normally be useless to me has caused me to lock down my blog.

It was Wednesday when I got the email to my work account. At first read it was fairly rational; this person had taken exception with my portrayal of Powell River in my blog. He did this by cutting-and-pasting things I had written onto the body of the email with his own little comments like: "I like how you generalize people here", and summarizing what I was saying into neat little points like, "…about the people", and "…things to do here."

He said if I didn't like it here, I should leave. Which is a fair, but clichéd argument, usually attributed to morons.

All in all he thought I was denigrating a great and wonderful town, and I was wrong about everything.

Here's where it get's a little less rational.

He said that he showed my blog to his peers and seniors. Seniors? That would involve finding seniors, calling up my blog and showing it to them. Maybe the Senior didn't know how to operate email. Did he help them get online so that he could illustrate how I didn't like the community as much as he does? Maybe the Senior couldn't see too well. Did he read it to them?

Let's call this guy "Kevin Allen", because that's actually his name. At least that's how he signed the email. . . I figure if I was the kind of guy who worked hard at pointlessly angering Seniors using someone else's steam I wouldn't want my actual name known.

Anyway.

Somehow or another Kevin found my blog – which is no mean feat, I have enough of a hard time getting people to find it when I want them to read it – and worked himself up into a righteous enough fury that he forwarded his email– with all the bits he'd stolen of my writing –to everyone he knew. And some people he didn't, like my GM.

As soon as I got the email from him I locked the blog down. But I guess not before the GM had read through it.

He asked, "So what's with the blog?"
I explained to him that I write to vent, and it's always meant to be in humour. I told him that I would stop writing it.
He said, "No, you shouldn't stop writing it, you're a good writer."
He said I should just be careful of what I say, and who can read it.

We are talking about a very reasonable man here.

This was not the reaction Kevin was hoping for. Kevin was trying to get me fired. That's why he chose only certain bits to bring to people's attention.

Kevin, apparently, is also trying to get me lynched. Word of what I had written (through Kevin's filter) had spread to the audience of a hockey game that same evening.

I don't know how he did it; whether he stood on a pulpit like a religious degenerate, or distributed pamphlets, or went from person to person to talk about me. Whatever he did, I was the topic of conversation at that game.

A game that was abruptly cancelled because Powell River had it's first of two power-outs. Luckily, I guess, the audience were able to occupy their time in the utter blackness by talking about me.

How do I know? because I got emails from people. One girl, named Jenny (who may have also been Kevin), sent a message which said basically, "I heard at the hockey game you said bad things about Powell River. Say it ain't so. And if it is so, why can't I read it?" I wrote back asking that she respects my privacy, and invited her to the studio to get her on-air saying why she loves Powell River. I offered her a hockey ticket to the next game if she showed up.

This, by the way, was something Kevin didn't do. He railed and ranted about my writing and failed to tell me what he likes about the place. Although, I suspect what he likes about the place has something to do with being somebody by blind-siding someone else.

When you swish the gravel at the bottom of an aquarium all its occupants notice.

Another email from someone had an entirely different angle. It said basically that they'd heard about me at the game and not to worry, because some people are tools.

It was a breath of fresh air. I've been around enough here to know that great people exist. Most of the people I meet are fantastic, even given my general cynicism towards people that are too nice.

This guy's email essentially said, it's hard being new, find an activity you like doing and do it. Chin Up!

It doesn't change the fact that he overheard stuff about me at the rallying point around which most Powell Riverites find themselves: a hockey game.

This is unnerving to me and probably doesn't help dissuade you folks from the perception that I've been painting of this place all along.

If Kevin's goal was to change what he believes is my perception of Powell River he is doing a really crap job of it. Because now all I can think is, a) many people here trust rumour to form an opinion of someone, b) many people take themselves too seriously, and b) many people here don't a have anything else better to do.

At least the people here who actually listened to what he had to say. Which at that point would be entirely word-of-mouth, because it became even more difficult to read my blog then than it was before.

You see, what Kevin did was take what I was generally commenting about the place he lives and using it to fuel a very personal attack.

Basically Kevin is in love with me.

Why else would he devote so much time to doing something so pathetic? The kind of frenzy he was trying to whip up is a labour of love, of passion, of freakishly obsessive behaviour. All directed at one person, me.

He is a throwback who can't accept someone else's opinion if it doesn't jibe with his own. He is the slap in the face to free speech. The fact that he was creeping around in my writing to try to find things he didn't like speaks volumes about his character. Volumes that don't go much beyond zero.

And "creeping" is the operative word.

I am reminded of Fox News which selectively edits real information so that it can give it enough gravitational spin that it attracts other like-minded sycophants who then commence tea-bagging each other.

Probably even now he is trying to figure out a way that he can read my blogs and expose me as the dastardly person I am. Truth is, if he tries hard enough he will find this and he will read this. And he probably still won't get it.

Nor would he understand that I say enough positive things about Powell River that I really mean on air, that my blogs become the counterweight that keeps me from turning into somebody like him.

He wouldn't know about that though, because he doesn't listen me on the radio. That was his parting shot, by the way, he and his friends are no longer going to listen to Sun FM. They are going to go to the competition.

Okay then Kevin.

But if you're half competent as my censorship committee you'll pay close attention to everything I do, not just write. My observations are broad and take many forms. The stuff in my camera, for example, would make you blubber with delight. And, of course, what I say on the air needs to be taken in account as well. Otherwise you're not doing your job.

Also, mate, there are people here who read it and really enjoy it. That means it's witch-hunt time. Although, I've locked those people out as well as a safety measure. But hey, a good old-fashioned witch-hunt doesn't need anything weighty like actual evidence does it? You should have no problems continuing to live out the stereotype I've created for you.

But, whatever.

I bet you the guy hasn't listened to radio since the advent of the iPod. He doesn't fit the demographic. And I don't think Goebbels' machine is still broadcasting.

Besides, to quote the great philosopher M. Jagger, "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."


And that's why the blog is now locked.

I've devoted entirely too much time to this.



You may now return to your regularly scheduled propaganda.

hardly

Last weekend I was in Port Hardy.

...And I thought that Powell River was in the ass end of nowhere...

I’m not sure, but I think I was duped into making the 250km drive up Vancouver Island on twisted palsied roads through terrain that makes the Himalayas look meek.

The GM called me at 10:30 Friday morning, “Hey do you want to be my favourite announcer in the whole world?”
“Uhh, okay.”
“I need you to go up to Port Hardy and cover tomorrow’s morning show, and Op for a remote over the weekend.”

This, by the way, does not illustrate a faith in my abilities, but rather a softness of my brain. I was the logical choice because I didn’t know what the trip would entail.

I didn’t know, for example, that Port Hardy is the Northern-most town on Vancouver Island. It sits at the apex of two fierce and unpredictable weather masses. I believe they are called “Rock” and “Hard Place”.

I also didn’t understand that this was no Ottawa to Montreal 200 click cruise. This was a harrowing, teeth clenching drive through landscape that makes you feel like a tick on a bulldog. All done in a car designed for teenage girls who park them at malls.

Beautiful scenery I would imagine, except that while getting there it was impossible to see due to low-lying fog. And sudden 4.30 pm darkness (I finally hit the road at 3PM).

I also managed to miss all the scenery on the return drive because of heavy rainfall. The kind of rainfall which affords you glimpses of reality when the windshield-wiper passes. All the scenery passing the car was done in the cheap stop-motion animation you see in early 80s sci-fi movies. I actually briefly glimpsed a glacier of mud moving towards the highway on my right. I suppose I should have stopped and got it's autograph when I passed, but I was too busy clenching my sphincter.

Besides, how was I to know then that this would be the famous mudslide which would shut down the only route North/South on the Island until today? Turns out I narrowly missed writing this on the edge of a cliff face surrounded by wildlife considering me in terms of edibility.

There is no cell or radio signal for about a two hour stretch of the drive, so rescue would be a dim fantasy. And even if someone stopped to pick me up, as soon as they saw the car I was driving, they'd take off in fits of hysterical laughter.

Of course as soon as I got to Port Hardy things went pear-shaped. The girl that was supposed to Op the Hockey game in Powell River that night called me in tears to say that her father had disappeared. Turns out he is a former drug addict, and that's what they do. She called with this information about 30 minutes before the puck dropped.

Brittany was leaving to Victoria so she couldn't help.

What followed was a mad flurry of phone calls in which we figured out that the game could be operated from Courtenay. All the girl had to do was flip the "On" switch for the computer on the mixing board.

Which she did.

The problem is that she flipped the "Off" switch on the On-Air fader. This meant that from the end of the Hockey game –10 pm Friday – until about noon the next day, Sun FM was broadcasting static.

Noon is about when I got another call from Powell River. This time from the play-by-play announcer who was on a rescue mission. He had somehow gotten a key to the studio, but couldn't figure out how to get the station to start broadcasting again.

I tried to describe to him which buttons he should press, which dials he should turn, and when he should have an aneurism. All based on the hazy picture in my head of the mixing board. Eventually after many repeated question and instructions we got it running again. The whole thing was like trying to guide a blind man through Mexico City with a map of the London underground.

I was calm throughout despite the fact that I was also opping a remote for the woman that works at the Port Hardy station at the same time.


Not much going on in Port Hardy. There's about 20% unemployment with a lot of ragged people wandering around its streets.

Within about an hour there was three kinds of precipitation, and a constant strong wind coming from every direction. . . And occasional sunshine. Just long enough for me to rush to the hotel, grab my camera, and rush to a scenic area – which could only be described as "harbour with background trees" – when it would start rain-snowing again.

I saw a bunch of eagles and many aboriginals. I think I saw a seal, but that may have been an aboriginal too.

The people were very friendly. But seriously, to live in a place like that you have to have a good sense of humour.

There was an inordinate amount of liquor stores there. These are places I went to after work to buy a few tall-boys in order to sit in front of my computer and scream at it for being so shitty. I did go to a pub one night, but left after a single pint because I couldn't bear to look at myself in the bar mirror for any longer.

I had great and cheap sushi with the freshest fish you can find in BC.

When I was talking to the woman that runs the radio station I asked her what people do for work in Port Hardy. She said, "There is a gravel pit. We ship gravel to California. It's the best gravel in the world."

I looked at her closely. Her face was straight.

Port Hardy: The Best Gravel in the World.

That about sums it up.

I caught the last ferry from the Island during a torrential downpour. The same downpour that would shut down Courtenay the next day. When I got to Sun FM on Monday Brittany told me that the wind had blown over our antenna that morning.

More dead air.

Hard to say what I've learned in all of this.

I think it has something to do with packing a change of underwear, but I'm not sure.

By the way, I've started referring myself as "de Hoog" on-air – see what that does.

de-frib, stat

I hung out with a guy Saturday night.

Although he's an engineer he currently subsidizes his life by playing on-line poker. This may seem like a strange way to make a living, but he's not the first person I've met who does this. I've met one other person who does this –who, in fact, paid his way through College playing multiple games at the same time – but he is a tool, and won't be mentioned again.

With a society that seems based on going outdoors and looking at trees, or shooting at animals, staying in-doors and playing online poker seems a bit incongruous. But count on me to befriend the most incongruous people you can find.

I'm speaking to you Andy-Oxide, and you Carl Warwick, and you Phil Warren.

Anyway, the person that I met here who does this recently broke his wrist playing volleyball. Which makes me think he should play less poker and drink more milk.



Many of you have commented that I should ditch the whole radio thing and get into writing full-time.

I really, really, appreciate the sentiment. I'm glad you enjoy what I write, and I assure you that I aim to please.

But I assure you that I am, in fact, putting my writing to good use. The kind of use that is involved with monetary compensation.

That is, when I'm not responding to American Nazis who email me their crap:

Date: Mon, 9 Nov 2009 12:56:02 -0800

From: onair@957sunfm.ca

To: tiaorg@comcast.net; jmattbarber@comcast.net

Subject: Re: “Gay” Activists Mull “Organized Terrorism” Against Christians (Press Release)

Hey paranoid Neo-Con twits. Stop clogging up our inbox with your hack-journalism, fear mongering, and fascist garbage. We are trying to have an actual business here. Your point of view(s) is ignorant, dull, and pointless.

Also, we are based in Canada, which makes you and your people more redundant than you already are. We get enough of this idiocy in the form of Fox News. If I suddenly turned into a brainless sycophant I would tune in to Fox for this same info, I wouldn't bother reading your pathetic drivel. Chances are most of your demographic can't read, so they are as well.

Which raises the question: why put it in print in the first place?

Don't answer that. I don't care.

It's simple. DO NOT SEND YOUR CRAP HERE.

Thanks.

I've started the habit of writing out my breaks before I announce them. This is something I've been told a number of times to overcome my brain/mouth neuron misfires. It took a while for me to get into the habit, and now that I have it's tweaked my performance tenfold. I'm not even sure why I didn't start doing it right away. The hump, I think, was trying to write for speech, rather than my usual meandering blatherings designed for more literary purposes. And I mean "literary" in the most lax sense of the word. I'm me, I have no illusions.

Anyway, as many of you know when I write I aim to amuse. I hope that's not coming as a surprise. If it is, I've been doing it wrong. Or you are, more likely.

Anyway, that being said, I've been trying to script in my own brand of humour into everything I say on-air. I'm getting better at it. The trick is being funny, while staying relevant, and not offending people that either should, or do, work at the CRTC. Ultimately the goal is to cause someone's death by how hilarious I am.

I'm imagining the listener driving down a rural road who hears me say something so funny they are attacked by a frenzy of belly-killing laughter which causes them to lose control of their car and drive into a tree, or, even better, another person who is unaware of the wildly swerving car because they are listening to me on their am/fm transistor radio.

Perhaps they are eating dinner and they overhear me. Boom, the steak bone is stuck in the trachea, the face becomes blue, the sphincter has its last parlay with the brain.

Perhaps they are doing nothing, but because they are helplessly gripped in laughter, they cough up a spleen or other major organ.

Causing multiple deaths with my humour would be the pinnacle of my radio career, I think. It would only be bested by someone actually listening to me on an am/fm transistor radio.

It takes a real commitment to radio to look like a jack-ass in headphones not attached to an iPod.

Besides, there's not a lot of other things a radio jock has control of anymore. We can't touch the music, we can't choose the demographic, we can't choose the ads. All we can do is choose what we say, and for me, hope that it kills somebody.

And, as it turns out, the less satisfied I am the funnier I can be. Might as well put those negative emotions to good use.

This may seem like crazy-talk, but it's not. The urge to kill someone with humour has been around for as long as stand-up has. So, really, since Plato. Among comedians "to kill them" indicates that they had the room in stitches: it was a successful show.

Of course, for comedians the expression is just an expression. I seek carnage. A gigglecide, if you will.

I realize that setting a goal that high may be unrealistic. It will take years of honing the timing, and focusing the vernacular to be at the stage where I am comfortably causing death at will.

That's why, for the time-being, I'll be satisfied if the occasional person just pisses themselves.

the sloshies

What evil twisted self-induced psychosomatic force is at work that's causing me to rocket out of bed at 8.30 on Sunday to face a day with absolutely nothing to do?

Wait, daylight savings, so it's really 7.30 AM.

I could lie in bed, but my head, as usual, is spinning. Whether it's thoughts about the vaguely seen gorilla-sized tarantula I dreamed attacking a man in a zoo last night– it was "vaguely seen" because I kept trying to cover my eyes while some asshole behind me kept convincing me it was a porcupine, which it sort of looked like when I peeked, but quickly became a gorilla-sized tarantula again –or, the myriad of thoughts about the operation of the station. I can't seem to stay in bed.

So, I write.

I've gotten much better at drinking beer since I moved here. There was a lull there for a little while, what with the whole transition thing, but I'm back into it. After a few beers I have great ideas, and it apparently gives me nightmares. Which brings me to a notion that has crossed my mind for a number of years now:

I'm getting better at this radio announcing thing, I think. Yesterday I went to the station to listen to some of my moments of speaking ("breaks" we call them) and I seemed to sound a little clearer, more relaxed, smoother. . . Confident, really. It seems like one out of every four breaks I do, is not too bad. Basically, about once an hour for about five hours, I nail it. The rest of the time; crap.

This is a vast improvement over having a good-sounding break once every eight times I'm on-air, which translates to once every couple of days. So yeah, if asked how good I thought I was, I'd say, "I'm all right every few days or so."

I'm starting to be able finesse the techniques and pinpoint the problems. The major one being, of course, my mouth. The neural connection between my brain and my mouth is unreliable. It's pathetically amusing at best, goddamned frustrating at worst.

The point is, I'm getting better, but not good enough, and not fast enough.

I listen and watch personalities, comedians, news anchors (except for the one's on CBC radio in Victoria who can't seem to execute a single newscast without fumbling it like a slinky handler in de-tox), presenters, artists, and hosts, and think to myself, how can their execution be so flawless?

I have been only able come up with one factor which may account for this widespread phenomena of perfection:

Alcohol.

It's a simple equation really. There is a fine line when you've had a few drinks– not too many –and the delivery and thought process are smooth. The content is good and the confidence is high, if only slightly demurred. A perfect balance is reached in verbosity. This is why the Czechs only understand each other when they're a little bit drunk, otherwise their odd vowel-less babbling is as foreign to them as it is to us.

The problem is this: I've never been able to get into a habit of drinking. I'm a terrible alcoholic. Even at the height of my drinking in Prague– where I was drinking far, far more than what is acceptable by North American standard (which are, admittedly, pretty lame) –I was able to walk away from it relatively unscathed. I say "relatively" because it may account for my misfiring brain/mouth synapses. Of course, how can I tell?

Also, bringing a flask of whiskey (a drink which makes me awesome, by the way) to the radio station may set an unhealthy precedent. The fear really is: what if that's what it takes? What if I find out that this is the key, and I'm stuck with it?

There are of course practical matters as well: If I imbibe over the course of a show I likely won't be able to drive home after my shift. And, if my career in radio takes off, which I sincerely am gunning for, I'll need to be slightly drunk for four hours a day, five days a week, for the rest of my life. And, because of the nature of alcohol, it'll need to be a little more booze every time.

When you look at it like that it seems pretty daunting, if not expensive.

On the other hand, there are people whose lives are exactly that. Awesome people. Talented people. People who I admire.

For me it's Career Uber Alles. It's all I've really got and I have strong ambitions in that department. They say, you do what it takes, right?

But…nah, at least for the time being. I'm big on, "the time comes when the time comes". I don't like to force things. Organic development has been my Nom de Guerre for the past little while so I'm just going to see how far I can get before I plateau.

And I like drinking because it's fun. Alcohol becoming a crutch for my livelihood doesn't seem very fun to me.

Besides, It's inevitable, really, that one day I will be on the air, and I will be slightly wasted.

I just hope that when that happens my performance will be crap.

you can freak if you want to

There are some faceless crazies around here.

Last week Brittany and I were doing some work in the booth when the phone rang. When she answered I watched her face go from amusement to slack-jaw horror. She held the phone out to me and I could hear a middle-aged man screaming this:

"…I don't want to hear anymore fucking black people, in their black fucking places, with their black fucking problems. I don't give a shit about these fucking black people…"

He said something else about taking initiative in the music we aired, before abruptly hanging-up.

Brittany realized that the guy was complaining about a Rihanna song that we had just played. Regardless, she was aghast.

Me, I was more bemused. I had previously been lambasted by a faceless cow who had a go at me by demanding point-blank over the phone, "Where's Bobby?"
"Sorry, she's not working here anymore."
"Oh, that's what's wrong with the radio." Before abruptly hanging-up, and leaving me fuming over this passive-aggressive blind-siding.

No, for me this bigoted-tirade raised a whole raft of questions, like: How do I physically identify this guy in the world so that I can soak him with bear mace? Does he lick his kids with that tongue? And, more importantly, what kind of degenerate, sitting at home listening to the radio, hears one song that works him into such a mindless frenzy that he calls the station and screams about what he perceives to be a personal affront?

It's bloody weird on so many levels.

Wouldn't you change the station? Wouldn't you realize that the songlist has to appeal to a lot of people; not just your throwback, toothless, self?

I mean, I don't even disagree with sentiment. I too am sick and tired of black people carrying on about their men who be doggin', and their "shawty", in high-pitched warbling voices that can't seem to sustain one single note.

Why, just last Friday I committed a radio sin (which I will never, ever, do again). I waited for Mariah Carey (Who, by the way, is about as black as Rihanna. But hey, they all look the same anyway, right?) to reach one of her famous long drawn-out wailing emotion-ridden caterwauls–

–and abruptly killed the song. I said, "Well, that's enough of that.", by way of apology.

Sort of an ambush, I guess. And it was incredibly wrong, hypocritical, and irresponsible of me. It felt great, but it was wrong. The point is, I do get it.

But I also get that I'm sick of white men who lack fiber and then record their voice-tracks while sitting on the toilet, and white women who seem to always want to fight in their songs. I'm sick of the Canadian rock scene. Faber Drive, Stereos, Marianas Trench, Simple Plan. . . They should all be made to battle to the death in a gladiator's arena. The remaining survivors will then have to face Nickleback armed only with Michael Bolton haircuts.

I will say this about contemporary pop music, the black, as usual, is far better than the white. End of story.

Just one other thing about life in Powell River. These people are getting wacky about Halloween. I've counted two pumpkin-carving contests, four dances, and two stage-shows. Some people just down the road from me have decked out their lawn like the Haunted House in Disney World, only more haunt, less Disney. Yesterday the town was overrun by packs of adolescents in full zombie regalia. It's all very pagan for a place that sports about seven or eight packed churches every Sunday.

It has occurred to me, though, that Powell Riverites get goofy about any holiday event. Which means maybe, just maybe, they're all as bored as I am. Any chance to party and they swoop down like pigeons at a bread-crumb convention.

I have seen only one other culture act this way; The Smurfs.

the *sigh* club

When I was in White Rock two weekends ago for Doug's funebration (funeral/celebration) I met a lot of BC natives. Many of those people had been to Powell River and the reviews were excellent. They talked about the beauty of Powell River, the thriving art culture, the affordable living, and the abundant hiking trails. They talked about its environmental friendliness, the kindness of the people, and the quietness of the community.

In one particular conversation a woman in her mid-fourties was delighted that I was living there. She said, "Oh, how nice! There's so much to do there."

I waited, interested.

She went on to say that you can go to Lund, a fishing hamlet at the north end of the city limits, or go to Saltery Bay, at the south end.

I said, "Okay, then what?"

She was taken aback.

Perhaps it's the generation gap. Perhaps at her age going to some place qualifies as doing something. I suppose, by definition, by going someplace you are doing something. For me, going to a new place is "doing something", but then it quickly becomes "looking at something". And then, before you know it, you're back to square one, because "looking at something" and "doing nothing" become virtually synonymous after a certain amount of time.

That's what I'm faced with here at the moment. What do I do when I'm not working?

Sure, I'll go Kayaking when the season comes. I'll definitely go hiking too. I'll probably join the boxing club, and maybe I'll even take up curling.

Last weekend I went to one of the junior hockey games. As usual my foreigness became evident when I sat in the wrong bleachers. It took me well into the second period to realize that if you support the local team you sit behind your team's bench. I just sat where it was less crowded.

So there you go, I did something.

The thing is, the kayaking, the curling, the boxing club, and the hiking are stuff I normally wouldn't do. They have become things I will do for lack of anything else to do. Activities by default.

The other reason I'm not filled with glee and excitement about doing these things is that's it's so structured. The great thing about bars, and parties, is the random element. The fact that you never know what's going to happen. You add alcohol to the mix and ensuing silliness can make for a great evening –or a miserable one, either way it's interesting.

So the question is really, what do I want to do?

Well, I like socializing with good people. I like getting blitzed on the weekend. I like eating a good meal. I like seeing a good movie. And, yes, I like doing nothing. However doing nothing– like getting blitzed, eating, and watching films –is generally better with other actual humans.

The problem is that there's a large vacuous space where all the people my age should be. And, of course, the only people left that are my age have done that aggravating North American thing and are now knee deep in baby shit.

Not that I know the first place to meet people anyway. It's definitely not the pubs, they seemed to be filled with people either singing folk songs along with the folk band, or outright degenerates.

I've been told that if I want to meet people I should join clubs. Essentially, I'll have to pretend to be interested enough in some club to join it, and then be able to hold my own in a conversation about the brilliance of that particular club with it's members.

Or I could start my own club. Call it: 30-Something and Bored Shitless in Powell River, or Group of People That Are Amused by Huge Pick-Up Truck Tires. Membership would may be low, but hilarious.

Of course, how much excitement can I expect from a town that has a bus stop called "Grief Point", which is about 5 kilometers west from "Blubber Bay", which, in turn, is a short water-taxi ride to "Desolation Cove".

You know, I never thought I'd say this, but it would be a whole lot better to be able to share this experience with someone.

I suppose the implication of that statement is that I'm lonely. But, I'm not really. I know how loneliness feels, and this is not it.

Nope, I'm just bored.

I suppose I'll go for another fucking walk.

some wildlife

Alone on Thanksgiving and it's no sweat. I'm reminded of the heady days in Prague when I was alone on Thanksgivings, Christmases, and the occasional Birthdays.

I've got everything I need here: fast internet connection, a large hunk of ham, beer, and some of the finest cheeses I could get my hands on locally. Also a sack of locally grown potatoes.

As is tradition, the things I'm thankful for:

Aside from a knee that's wonky I'm in fairly good health. Although I went for a wander around town and quickly came to realize my cardio isn't all that great.

They view here is great, even standing in front of the clunky, yellow, pulp and paper mill which spans about a city block. Relatively speaking the thing is a behemoth.

I've got a pretty cool job, and my bosses are not twats.

I appear to be writing again.

According to Aubrey de Grey they'll have the means to make me immortal within my lifetime. Here's hoping it's not near the end of it.

I've still got my sense of humour, even if it isn't everybody else's…Actually especially because it isn't everybody else's.

Brittany King has arrived.

Brittany will be taking over the morning show. Hard to get a bead on how old she is –about my age, I guess. Regardless, she's going to be the new Assistant Program Director. Officially, starting on Tuesday, Sun FM will be staffed with a grand total of two people.

She showed up bright and early at 5.30 on Friday morning. I attempted to teach her everything I know over the course of my show but it's probably all moot. I'll still have the same duties, including: loading the news, loading the commercials, reconciling the logs, doing interviews, finding the music, merging the next day's show, and blah, blah, blah. It seems to make more sense that way since I've been doing it anyways, and these jobs tend need to get done near the end of the day, rather than the beginning.

Another thing to be thankful for: I no longer have to slog my ass out of bed a 5am. It takes me forever to wake-up (I refuse to drink coffee). You listen to my morning shows and you can hear the alertness creeping in over the course of the hours.

She seems nice and very driven. Which is good, because she can take over a lot of the imaging and promotional sides of things. It also frees me up to do a bit more production which is what I enjoy doing.

She waves at everybody that drives by, which worries me, because I haven't been doing that. I haven't particularly noticed anybody waving at me as I drive around in the gay-mobile, and of all the cars in Powell River you would wave at, the gay-mobile is it.

Six in the morning we were standing outside and she waved at a guy in a pick up truck driving by. She says, "That guy looked really happy."

A pause.

I say, "I think there's a lot of meth going on around here."

Silence.

I say, "I'm not saying that guy is on meth, I've just seen some people walking around with crazy looks on their faces."

I have no idea why I'm telling her this.

Later on she asked me where I was from. I said, Ottawa. She said, "Oh, a city boy." I was thrown for an instant. Yeah, I guess Ottawa could be considered a city. I told her, "It’s not really a city, more of a huge suburb."

I wandered around yesterday and took some pictures. I've loaded them into facebook today and had a look at them. Christ, they really look rural. You almost expect to see tumbleweed rolling by with Ennio Morricone whistling in the background.

I did an interview with Mike Gerard the other day. He's the Powell River Conservation Officer. He want to get the word out that the bears are going to be hanging around town. It turns out that hibernation season is coming and they want to fatten up, so they head into town looking for food, usually in people's garbage's.

The way he told it, it was almost like, "So don't be surprised if you run into a couple at the pub. They tend to get a little wasted, so don’t startle them. And definitely don't make fun of their mothers."

He suggested freezing your garbage and keeping it in the basement, so you don’t attract the bears. I wondered if Mike was married.

I had another conversation with Janet Alred– a late-thirties lady who is involved in numerous organizations around here –about bears. The conversation started about hiking, and that I should explore a lot more and hike in the local wilderness. I agreed wholeheartedly. But then asked, "But what about the bears?"

She said, "Just make a lot of noise. It's not the bears you have to watch out for," She looked me dead in the eye, a strange look coming over her face, "it's the cougars. They'll get you."

An awkward pause, then I said, "Erm, is that a double-entendre?"

Whether it was, or not, she had a story. She told me about this family that went for hike in along the Willingdon Beach trail. It follows the coast North up to the general vicinity of my neighbourhood. She said they were skipping (well probably not *skipping*, it just sounds better in a woody-travel-story) when they started to hear some rustling in the bushes. They realized they were being followed.

Janet says, "Now, with bears, if they're following you, it may be just curiosity, or making sure you clear away from their hang-out. With cougars, when they follow you, it's because they want to eat you."

She went on to tell me that this family started hustling away, at which point I interrupted, "Wait, you're not supposed to run away, right? Because then you look like prey." She agreed and dropped a couple more tidbits: You always make eye-contact with a bear while backing away slowly. You never make eye-contact with a cougar. From what I gathered, if you ran into a cougar you wouldn't be able to make eye-contact anyway because your head would be between your legs trying to kiss your ass goodbye.

It turns out the family got away. The weren't that far form civilization and they called a friend to come meet them half-way. Regardless, the cougar probably found some other young men to stalk (damn, I told myself I wouldn’t go there).

Then Janet says, "Yeah, you should definitely go hiking."

your average early morning rant

So Saturday morning 5am I launch out of bed, my head crammed with anger that has since withered a bit. Regardless I hammer out this in one sitting...and then posted on Facebook:

If you think that there's nothing wrong with the Canadian entertainment industry you probably live in a post-communist eastern block country, because that is the only place I've seen where the contemporary mainstream music, television, and film industry is as terrible as Canada's. That being said, if you think there's nothing wrong with the Canadian entertainment industry you will be offended by this –my open letter to Canada which asks:

Why is Canadian-made entertainment so broodle, eh?

Evidence abounds of this. CBC is the big may-pole around which all Canadians dance and two-step. We skip and riverdance to folksy fiddle music around the thing while lauding it's virtues and the fact that it binds our great and impressive country together with cheer and swagger. And, in a lot of ways it does. CBC Radio is a pretty great thing. CBC Radio is a great source of news, intelligent commentary, humour, music, personalities, and interviews. CBC *Radio* really does keep Canada connected in the way the railway once did –as is so popular to say.

CBC Television, on the other hand…

You take out Hockey Night in Canada, and all the News shows, and you literally have tripe, idiotic, smarm which fails to be funny when it's a comedy, ends up being banal if it's a drama, and is just plain aggravating if it's anything else. Of course, if all you watch is CBC Television you'll think it's great.

You'll think Little Mosque on the Prairie is genius, "Hey, can you believe it? There are Muslims in Saskatchewan, and boy are they up to some silliness! Ha ha ha." It's almost as if all the other CBC shows are so heavily laden with white people they decided to lump all the minorities into one show and label them all wacky Muslims. Egyptian, Indian, Hispanic, whatever, they're all Allah fearing Muslims who are hilarious.

Or so the writers think. The show is just not funny. How do I know this? Because I've actually seen funny shows. They're out there. The show could be funny, but then you'd have to offend a lot of Muslims which would be very un-Canadian.

Another comedy: Corner Gas. Occasionally it will illicit a "huh", but those are few and far between. Besides does anyone watch that show for any other reason than to see the hot cop and the cute diner lady? That's the only reason I've lingered there. I've never stayed to long, though, because all that show does is make me miss canned laughter. And I hate canned laughter.

And do we really need two shows about loose women riding horses in the prairies? There are so many of them it's a wonder they don't run over hilarious Muslims more often. To the best of my knowledge Heartland appears to be about a young girl who gets into awkward teenage situations– usually to do with sex and arguing in barns –and then gets on her horse and rides around when she can't take it anymore.

Wild Roses, on the other hand, is about many adult women that get into awkward adult situations– usually to do with sex and arguing in barns –and then get on their horses and ride around when they can't take it anymore.

The plots in both shows are static, the writing is cliché-ridden (ha ha, get it? "ridden") and forced, and the acting makes you want to light your face on fire.

And why all the shows that take place in Prairies? Nothing happens in the prairies. We all know that, including the people in the Prairies. Who is CBC trying to fool?

Of course you have to give them credit because they are attempting to provide a bit of geographic balance by bringing in some of the Atlantic provinces in the way of Ron James. Ron James: the only man that makes me want to kick a midget in the head.

Here's a guy whose stand-up blatantly rips-off Hunter Stockton Thompson– who's not alive to defend himself anymore –blends in a little of "awe-shucks" facial expressions, spit-laden Dennis Miller verbosity, and Monty Python's silly walk with an Eastern brogue that borders on the retarded. There is nothing remotely funny about this guy. So what do they do? Give him his own show, of course.

I suppose I could crucify the Canadian audience for letting this travesty continue but I don't think they're to blame. I was once watching his stand-up on CBC when the camera suddenly panned to catch audience reaction. It settled on the beautiful girl in the crowd (as cameras often do) and she looked really pissed that she was there. I'm fairly sure that you don't go see stand-up to work yourself into a rage because you lost 15 minutes of your life to a Newfy jack-ass.

CBC is not alone in producing garbage either. One show comes to mind called The Listener. It's a show about a moody Corey Hart-looking twenty-something that can read minds only when it serves to further the plot. The makers of this show have skirted the conundrum of inherent redundancy in having a mind-reading lead character by making it so he can only read minds *some of the time*. That is to say, when someone killed somebody, or they want to shag another character. Look, Toronto has enough of a bad rep without making other Canadians believe the city is filled with people thinking lurid thoughts about homicide and sex.

Then again…

The show is a no-brainer, and the writing and characterization is not strong enough to up-hold the formulaic template they super-impose on every single episode. That being, Corey Hart hears the voice of someone dying/murdering/about to be murdering/raping then murdering so he wanders around Toronto only hearing the minds of people directly involved in the day's story-line. The police don't believe him (ah the age-old Dumb Cop Effect) so he solves the case on his own with the bitter law-enforcement trailing behind him like huskies chasing the sled. Everyone on the show is frowning, and the two female leads are so incredibly hot you stay tuned in for a couple more moments.

Television in Quebec is not much better. They have one style of show that I have only seen in Eastern European countries. It's hosted by a cocaine-addled middle-aged fat man who enthusiastically does an embarrassing group-dance routine with gorgeous models at the beginning of every show. He then un-hinges his guest musicians by having them play along with his own musicians who are in random places throughout the venue. Forget the drum cue, unless you know that the drummer is located on the upper-mezzanine behind the bar.

Another game show, again with gorgeous girls, features them asking skill-testing questions to the viewing audience over a bed of electronic music. They then jabber awkwardly for hours on end as the viewing audience refuses to call in with the correct answers.

Then there's the films. Hundreds are made apparently, but in my life-time I have only seen two good one's: Good Cop, Bon Cop, and The Crow. I eagerly saw Passchendaele because, not only was it a film from the Canadian perspective about the significant role that Canada played in WWII, but there appeared to be many guns and things blowing up. Hey, I'm easily amused, that should make my critique all the more significant.

Sadly, it turns out that the Canadian perspective is pretty much the American perspective with all the prowess of 1950s movie-making. That is to say, every word any character uttered sounded familiar because someone had already written it already. And not even recently. These lines were taken right out of every spaghetti western, and black-and-white war film ever made.

Admittedly, the bits with battle were pretty good.

I'll make this easy for you. I challenge anyone to go to here and find 3 exceptional films. There are 890 there. Just find three, and not the two I named already. Find one that has been critically acclaimed outside of Canada. And, keep in mind that even if you find some (I'm not going through the list myself, it's too aggravating) there are 890 there. I'm not asking you to find 100, which would be about 1 good film out of every 9 very-expensive-to-make piles of twaddle. Christ, even the States can do that.

Then there's music… I cringe as I begin writing this.

Every Nickleback song sounds the same. It's so true it has become a cliché. Think of Bryan Adams, Jann Arden, Celine Dion, The Northern Pikes (They Ain't Crap, They Just Seem that Way), Gowan, Colin James, Tom Cochrane, Avril Lavigne (Oops, I've Heard this Before), and hundreds of other Canadian artists who are in constant rotation on radio stations.

We hate them, if not all of them, at least most of them. They are unoriginal, uninspired, perpetrators of soul-less, meaningless drivel which exist only because the CRTC has created a competition-free range for the musically-disabled. We hate them because under CanCon we have listen to them, and they're rarely any good.

And that's important, we're talking mainstream here. So before you blast me for there being a lot of great Canadian music out there, I know. Trust me. Listen, the Guess Who (before CanCon) were awesome. Sadly we got to know Randy Bachmann a little too well, thanks to the CBC, and have come to realize that he is a twat. On the other hand I cheered when Moxy Fruvous broke up– they sounded to me like how mime looks –but was pleased with the Gian Gohmeshi acquisition the same venerable institution made.

The point is that we are constantly bamboozled by the same three chords being hollered by men who sound like they're passing un-husked lychee nuts out of their urethra. On our radio station we play Faber Drive. They sound no different from Finger 11, or The Stereos in that they make up for quality by drowning out bad singing by beating a guitar against a bass drum. Faber Drive, by the way, was discovered by, and signed to, Chad Kroeger's label. I don't know about you, but he may be a greater threat than H1N1.

And I won't even get into our writing, only to say that Bloodletting and Other Miraculous Cures has permanently jaded The Giller Prize for me. Stick to doctoring Vincent Lam, you witless jerk, at least that way you can heal the people that are injured by reading your terrible schlock.

I need you to tell me: what the hell is going?

Why is Canadian-made entertainment so broodle, eh?

cliff-side deer-drop

An ability that an announcer must have is a complete dedication to the moment. They need to focus on the now so that the delivery is clear and smooth. It seems I need to work on this particular aspect of my announcing.

The big problem is ignoring the interior monologue I’m sometimes shouting at myself while I’m trying to speak on-air.

A few hours ago I was back-selling some songs, including Roxette. I looked online before I turned on the microphone and came to realize that Roxette had broken up in 2001 but were re-forming for a big tour which will kick off in Holland on the 23rd of this month –this is staggering news, I know.

Anyway, to myself, I thought, Ah! This is relevant to the listening demographic who love Roxette.

So I went on the air, “That was Lifehouse, Broken, on 95-7 Sun FM the energy of Powell River. Before that you heard Lenny Kravitz, and Roxette, It Must Have Been Love, “ I paused, “Hey a lot of people are wondering what happened to Roxette-“

And then the voice in my head started jabbering, Dude, who gives a crap what happened to Roxette?
“-well , ah, they’ve been quietly releasing albums-“
Why don’t you name some albums?
“-up until 2001-“
..Or don’t mention the albums, but definitely mention Marie’s brain tumor..
“...and it looks like after-“
Brain tumor, brain tumor, brain tumor.
“ –eight years they’re, ah, getting back together to go on tour.”
Hey! Heeeeeeeey!
“The first concert for the newly reformed-“
Call them “Roxy”.
“-Roxy- um, I mean Roxette, sorry -will be in Antwerp on the 23rd of this month.”
Do NOT say it will be an “interesting” show. Any other word but “interesting”, please.
“ Wow, won’t that be an interesting-“
Aaargh!
“-show to see after all these years.”
Disaster! Get out, get out now! Just don’t say “a lot more great music on the way”. For the love of Christ, don’t say it!
“Well, stick around, a lot more great music on the way,”
I hate you.

I’m dealing with a rather unique problem in that every single day someone calls in and asks me where Bobby Fields is. Bobby Fields was the former morning show host. The kind of morning show host that has a little bicycle horn which she honked frequently on air; a horn that she meekly offered to me which I subsequebtly threw in the trash.

I’m not what you’d call a “horn honker”.

Regardless it seemed people loved her which makes me- the new guy -a shady pretender to the morning show. In a normal office environment, when you’re the new guy, your critics have faces. Not so in radio. My critics exist somewhere in the listening ether. This puts me at a significant disadvantage when trying to defend myself against not fulfilling all the giggling rowdiness that Bobby perpetuated.

Last week one woman called and, without introduction, demanded, “Where’s Bobby?”
“She’s not here anymore. Can I ask who’s calling?”
“Oh, that’s what’s wrong with the radio. I’ll be listening to Courtenay from now on.” Click, Bzzzzzzzzzz.

Notwithstanding the fact that by listening to Courtenay she’s actually listening to the parent radio station anyway, this threw me into a paroxysm of helpless rage. How do I defend against that? I wanted to ask her what needs improving, but this evil twat didn’t even give me that opportunity. She blasted me then hung-up.

The worse thing is that she knows who I am, but I don’t know who she is. It’s a small town we’re bound to run into each other.

To illustrate how small this town is, I’ll relate a story:

Last week someone called in to wish a little girl a happy birthday. As usual the guy was barely coherent as the words stumbled through his gapped and gnarled teeth. He said he was the girl’s step-father.

Moments later, jockeying for the chance to win a free birthday cake, a woman called in to wish the same girl a happy birthday. She said she was the girl’s mother. I told her that the girl’s step-father already called in. She said, “Oh, he’s not her step-father, he’s her uncle.”

I couldn’t help thinking, does he know that? Does the girl know that? Is this place so backwards and small that a little girl’s step-father can also be her uncle? And what’s his relation to you: cousin?

The little girl got her cake. I imagine the family will toss it in a blender and suck it up through a straw.

Sadly, my step-mom’s father died. Doug Baird. A man’s man and a real diamond. I loved that guy and I’ll miss him dearly. I went to Vancouver this weekend to celebrate- yes “celebrate”, he wanted it that way -his passing with about 80 of his friends and relations. Doug Baird flew bombers in World War II. Appropriately his favourite poem was this:

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee
No 412 squadron,
RCAF
Killed 11 December 1941

I was honoured by being asked to read it aloud by Leslie. I read the shit out of the thing with all the speaking prowess I could muster. I read it for Doug, I hope he heard me.

dry heaves

This ever happened to you?

You've popped all your clothing into the communal dryer- one of many -in your building and you return to your apartment to do other stuff. Then, when you come back to get your clothes someone has carefully folded them. This happened to me today. I came down to the laundry room and the clothes-folder was still there.

It's a weird thing because while someone's hands have been all over your clothes, they have also folded them. It also means that a complete stranger has been handling you underwear. Personally I don't like anybody touching my underwear unless I'm about to shag them.

And what do you say? The expectation is that you say "sorry" for occupying a machine they obviously desperately needed. My first reaction, thought, was to walk right up to her face, poke her in the forehead and say, " Don't you ever, ever, fucking touch my clothes again. Ever."

Of course, I didn't actually do that. That would be crazy, right?

What really ensued was an awkward exchange between two strangers, one of whom knows what the other's underwear looks like. She said, "I had to use the dryer, I'm under a time constraint."

What possible time constraint would still allow you enough time to, not only do your laundry, but fold someone elses on a Sunday? This was clearly someone that planned every minute of their day and was not to be tangled with.

I suppose I haven't been here long enough to let that B.C. chill I keep hearing about wash over me.

Yesterday was a busy day for me. I did my first remote. That's when you go to some business that's holding a special event and you broadcast live on location. The business I was at for 4 hours yesterday was Valley Building Supplies. Sort of a family-owned Home Depot type place. They were having the grand opening for their new showroom which featured wood-stoves. Due to budgetary constraints (I imagine) I didn't have the usual microphone and mixing board you usually see jocks using in bigger cities. I had a cell phone.

When you're at these things you cut into the regular broadcast, about three times an hour, and rave about the incredible things going on in the store. You're supposed to sound excited about the deals and try to attract people to the place. For me, it's really hard getting excited about wood stoves. I think I did manufacture the bulk of the emotion, but it must have sounded contrived.

I whooped about the free food, the great prices, the raffle, and other stuff you could buy at Valley Building. For one reason or another- and I did this about 5 times -I kept saying, "They've got everything from knee-pads to screen-doors!". The last time I told myself that I would not mention knee-pads or screen doors and ended up saying, " ...and they've got everything from power-drills to knee-pads!".

Here's the thing though; because my broadcast was via cellular telephone, to the casual shopper I must have looked like a lunatic screaming into his phone about how amazing the place was while demanding that the person on the other end get here as soon as possible to take advantage of the store's excellent customer service and bask in the glory of 40 wood-stoves. . . And finally, incongruously, naming a song that's coming up next.

This quest of mine to blend in is not going so well.

By the way, a woodstove showroom is not a place you want to be in 27 degree weather unless you have hypothermia.

After that I went to the town's Fall Fair. This was a cute little deal with local artisans selling stuff and farmers showing-off recent crops. There were many contests; from Best Pickled Fruit, to Nicest Home Made Pie, to Best Diarama of My Family. In addition, there appeared to be a contest for Strangest Looking Vegetable. First Prize went to a zucchini that had a conjoined twin.
There was also a table with depressed fat rabbits in small cages.

The whole thing was quaint. Really, really quaint.

Sun FM has something called "The Birthday Line". This is where anybody can call in and wish somebody a happy birthday. That person can also win a free cake from the Mitchell Brother's Grocer (by the way, if you Google "Mitchell Brothers" it takes you to the O'Farrell Theater in San Francisco which features live sex-shows. This is not the same pair of Mitchell Brothers). Now, if you have a certain kind of mind you may think: Doesn't that mean that anyone can call in and falsely get a free cake? You would be right, but I've been told that Powell Riverites don't cheat. Basically, if you're a sociopath you'd make out over here like a tiger in a chicken farm.

Anyway, as it turns out, the kinds of people that would go for the free cake are the exact kinds of people that don't have a firm grasp on the English language. This means that occasionally- on Sun FM in the early morning -you can suddenly hear someone jabbering excitedly, and incoherently, in no known human language, for about 30 seconds.

I get a lot of dumb calls too; like people asking me to see If I can announce that someone needs a ride to Surrey, or if I can enquire as to whether anybody has seen a husky named Ely wandering about.

Overall I'm still crawling up a vertical learning curve, but every day I get a little bit better. I've got most of the technical stuff down and soon I'll add a new aspect to my breaks: the music bed. That's probably meaningless to most of you, but to me it's adding an extra revolution to my high-dive.

single malt scotch

It's amazing how much your life can change in a couple of weeks. This time last week I was in a state of mild anxiety because I was about to be going live the following morning at 6am - gazing at a board of lights with hundreds of dials, buttons, keys, and faders and a wall of computer screens. Like the first monkey to space staring at the cockpit array during the pre-launch countdown.

A week before that I was looking at my entire life packed into a suitcase, guitar case, and duffle-bag on the floor of my dad's place in Ottawa.

This past week has been a 5 to 5 marathon of learning the systems: How to load commercials, how to load the news, PSAs and spots, how to record a conversation, how to voice-track, how to change the face of the day-to-day programming, learning entire software and hardware from scratch, battling the edginess of a moody mixing board, learning how to use an FTP window, how to log the day, how to set the system up for the next day, and a myriad of other technical ding-bats, whatsits, and blubbersnaps. Yeah I know you stopped reading. I don't blame you. I did too.

...And that was just behind the scenes. On top of that I was getting used to proper on-air levels for my voice, where the mic should go in relation to my face, that certain buttons will broadcast the wrong things on air, that the weather needs to be shorter, that my voice needs to be longer, that I need to sound more enthusiastic about Mission Distract, Rod Stewart, and Hedley.

Then there's the interviews: I've recorded interviews at an average of about two a day with everybody from the United Way, to theatre organizers, to cops and hockey coaches, to people who've made calendars that they think are amazing enough to be talked about on-air. I am the major source for news clips that are sent to Courtenay where the news guys, namely Derek Bouchard, turns them into something newsworthy.

All this while dealing with the usual crap associated with living in the digital age; email crashes, program glitches, and generally stuff that you never saw Chris Stevens deal with on Northern Exposure.

Oh, yeah. Did I mention that I was alone out here?

When I agreed to the job at the end of August I was told that that it would be me and two others - that I was meant to show up and “show some initiative” and “take charge”. When I arrived to the Courtenay station on the 8th, to “learn” software from people that have a hard time elucidating, I was told the station in Powell River was down to one person – Bobby Fields. More about her in a second.

When I arrived, via ferry, to Powell River with Derek Bouchard, my guide, there was no one here. Bobby Fields had been laid off.

Derek is a good soul, he drove me all over the place so I could get a bead on Powell River. The trip was a blur as I fought exhaustion and could only muster up, “Yeah, it's stunning”, or “Wow, it's gorgeous”, or, “Hey, that's awe inspiring” without the conviction of being in -as people keep telling me- “God's country”.

God is definitely here in terms of the imaginations of the kinds of people who host a Creative Arts event in honour of it being “Creation Month”. An event that I cringeingly had to promote on air.

I counted several fundamentalist churches here including the Jehovah's Witness, Seventh Day Adventists, and a huge amphitheater with the unmistakable look of an evangelist's hollering block.

Yes it's beautiful here. It's the kind of place that the Alien and Predator do battle, and the whole town gets nuked at the end. It's the kind of place where Jack Nicholson is a “dull boy” and later shows up to seduce three middle-aged women. It's the kind of place where angsty scowling teens screw each other, and others die in horrible drunken collisions. It's a tiny San Francisco without the homosexuals and nightlife. It's the set for any chain-saw wielding horror flick. It's pick-up trucks and Indian reservations, farmers markets and opulent sea-side houses, massive trees and a crumbling airport, two stoplights and a much ballyhooed junior hockey team.

There is a lot of nature here. There is a dying lumber mill, yet the town still keeps it's head significantly above the water line. I'm still trying to get to the bottom of this.

And once again I am the incongruous 'other' who looks entirely out of place and draws looks from the population which averages about 50-years-old. People here are white. I saw one lady at the Telus counter who might have been East Indian but perpetrated a homey small-town Canadian drawl. I did see one brother speed by in an SUV with his head ducked behind the steering wheel as he made his way to the wild nothingness North of town. I thought, “That can't be right.”

Embarrassingly, in a town filled with trucks jacked-up on tires so large they could crush a house, i'm driving a white Toyota Matrix with a baby-blue and orange Sun FM logo blasted on it's sides, hood, and bumper. A car that can only be described as “gay looking”.

This draws looks. Even more when a tall, bald, dark person emerges.

A couple of days ago a gas station attendant saw me coming and was scrambling to find the Sun FM signal on the radio when I walked into his store. He apologized for not being able to find it. I said, “I'll tell you what, in the studio where I work I can't tune in the station either. I have to stream it online.”

He said, “That's Powell River for ya.”

People are not used to change here. And it doesn't help that Sun-FM has a revolving door. I can't count the number of times somebody asked me, “Where's Bobby?”. Indeed, where is Bobby? Well, she's often at the studio moping depressively, or twisted on caffeine, picking up her mail and talking endlessly as I try to get work done. I don't have the heart to kick her out. I did, after all, unwittingly end up with her job. I don't know the exact circumstances of her firing, so I exist under the threat of suddenly being canned for doing, or not doing, something she did or didn't do.

I've found a one-bedroom apartment to live in. It's filled with the following furniture:

A bed

I've had to pace myself in terms of expenditures towards housey type items. I have three forks, three spoons, and three butter knives. I've got a cutting board. I have my computer and an internet connection (thank the cavalry). I have my clothes and my guitar. I have a mobile telephone.

Okay, this all may sound grim. But let me put it into perspective:

This is a dream job for someone right out of college. It happened faster than the average grad will achieve. I've skipped over all the usual garbage surrounding trying to break into The Industry including mindlessly pushing buttons and dancing like a doof near banners and other branding silliness. I have a lot of lateral leeway in terms of where I want to take the station and what the output is outside of advertising (awful, awful, evil advertising).

I'm learning everything about the day-to-day operating of a radio station.

I'm working with (remotely of course, everybody I answer to is across a massive body of water in an entirely different station) really nice patient people.

The music is not country.

The landscape is not prairies.

I'm on the ocean, which has always been where I hoped to be. I know I'm near the ocean because I've tasted the water. It was salty.

Finally. I've been lonely before. I have my parents to thank for making me an only-child and equipping me with the right shoes to stride right through it.

I am (was) a waiter

I'm somewhat of a bastard, which probably makes me ill-suited to be a waiter. Regardless this is what i've been doing for the past two and a half years.



I wait tables at a local greasy spoon here in Ottawa. The place is roughly the size of a cargo container and is overrun with lebanese. They serve standard greasy-spoon fair; hamburgers, pasta, poutine (that Quebec creation which combines all the carbohydrates of fries, cheese, and gravy with all the health benefits of freebasing lard), caesar salads, and arguably, the best pizza in town.



I am the only waiter in the place on Monday, Tuesday and Saturday evenings. Along with me are 1 to 2 cooks and any number of dishwashers who cannot speak English. You would think that would be frustrating for them, but it's not, because most of the conversation between the staff is in lebanese...Which I don't speak but believe I can at least reach a close proximity to by wildly waving my arms around.



They are generally nice people, even funny. Unfortunately the two guys - a cook and the cashier - are more moody than a lonely wet cat in heat.



Also, there's a disher-washer on Monday who makes up for the fact that he's utterly useless by maintaining a steady tuneless humming throughout the evening. The closer I get to him, the louder he hums. It's a nervous humming, because we both no that he is about as helpful as a dog turd on a sidewalk. Thankfully he provides additional assistance during pressure-time by puttering around directly in my flight path.



There's Vlamur from Bosnia. Totally competent and a real nice guy. We bond because we're the only staff that speaks English. We tend to agree with each other whether it's hockey or the slightly confused management style. Sometimes, though, I get the feeling that neither of us has a clue what the other is saying.





There are two modes of operation at the restaraunt: stillness pervaded by boredom, or racing around pervaded by spastic.



Either i'm sitting there - usually doing a crossword puzzle, or watching the cook cook, or pacing back and forth along the narrow length of the restaurant, or watching Mythbusters - generally bored, or i'm madly scrambling from table to table to kitchen, to fridge, to dishwashing nook, to store, and back to table. All this punctuated by quick inane comments to other members of the staff and customers. Things like:



"No, they're not lesbians...Lebanese from lebanon."



"It's cream of spinach soup...It's made from cream and spinach."



"No, you can't have the gravy for free."



"Define 'warm it up' considering it just came out of the oven."




I say these things with a straight face. It comes out smoothly because i'm part of the flow of the restaurant. I'm a nice guy. I can put it on and calmly deflect an old man screaming in my face because his turkey dinner with mash potatoes is 45 minutes late, because the cook has to do deliveries and he's the only on that can cook turkey.



I don't say to Old Turkey Mash, "How do you know that was actually Turkey you just ate?"



Other things cross my mind throughout the evening.



Like, families that sit down and order a large greek salad, a plate of zucchini sticks, a plate of nachos, two medium deluxe pizzas, one spaghetti, a round of milkshakes, slices of apple pie with extra ice cream. . .and then ask for Diet Cokes. What crosses my mind is: kind of like trying to melt the iceberg that just hit the Titanic with the hair dryer isn't it.



Then there's the people that order some extravagant cocktail even though it's clear the decor in the place consists of model trains, pictures of trains, pictures of train stations, and what appear to be miniature trains but are in fact trucks. Inevitably it's a women in her late fourties, round, leathery, grey roots, puffing on a Benson and Hedges Gold, with a beleaguered looking, late-fourties male companion. She orders a Twisted Julep Frat Face with a Touch of Gin. I look at her blankly, straight faced.



"What's the matter, you don't have single malt scotch?"



I look around me, at the trains, and I say, "This is pretty much a greasy spoon. How's a gin and tonic sound?"



Then there are the people who take painfully long to order, and don't answer when you ask, "Do you need a moment to decide?" It's funny each customer to some degree or another is convinced that they are the center of the known universe. That is to the exclusion of anyone one else who might need the one waiter that is the only one available.



In this particular degree it's like trying to get and order out of William Shatner on quaaludes:



"Ieeeeeee. Woooooooould. Lieeeeeeeke." they pause to bring the menu closer to their face like it's a secret code and the message will change, "Emmmmmmmmmmm. Hooooow's.Yoooooooooour... Huuuuuuuuuuuummus?"



"We don't have hummus."



"Aaaaaah. Wellllllll-"



"Do want me to give you more time?"



"Weelllllllll. Nooooo....Caaaan. Yoooooou. Sugessssst... Somethinggggggg?"





"How about some fries and a Red Bull?"





"Frieeeeeeees? Iiiiiiiis. Thaaaaaaaat. Onnnnnnnnnn- wherrrrrrrrrrrrrre. Issssssssss. Thaaaaaaat?"






And so on.



There are those people that have come to a restaurant fully equipped with competent cooks and begin to create there own special meal. This is usually by way of a long painful game of twenty questions:





"I see that you have zuccinni sticks. Do you have blue cheese?"





"No."





"Do you have....Honey Dijon mustard?"





"No."





"Do you have duck liver?"





"No."





"Do you haaaaaaave... fried plantain?"





"No."





"Butter scotch builla-base."





"No."





"Hm.....How about-"





"Look lady, if you can't read the menu i'll get the kids' one. It's got pictures."





And yes, it's usually the middle-aged women that are worst customers. They narrowly edge out extremely old people and young families as people the most likely to demand the most and give the least.





They are also the most hormonally extreme in terms of pre-food and post-food attitude.

(sorry to end this one so abruptly. i ran out of steam when I was writing many ages, and now, a world ago.)

July 17, 2008 - Thursday

July 17, 2008 - Thursday
trinidad & tobago: a jabbering travel advisory

I've seen a lot of incompetence in airports in the past little while. Ironically, the winner of the Golden Blumpkin Award for General Airport Stupidity has to go to the Ottawa International, aptly known as "YOW". Not only were they caught totally by surprise by my Delta DA466 flight coming in from Atlanta at 22.30 in the evening, they only had one person in the whole place that could "operate" the gate (they operated it like someone with palsy working a back-hoe), and they insisted that I had to apply for immigration to get into Canada. Which is odd, because I'm a Canadian citizen.

Again I was faced with the question I faced in the Czech republic many years ago; is it worse to be trapped in a country and not able to get out, or vice versa?

Yeah, I'm going with the latter.

Other Airports?

Negotiating JFK wasn't too bad considering my arrival and departure gates were in the same terminal. However, if you're amused by fat people running JFK is a barrel of laughs. It's roughly the size of Guinea, and about as organized. Which means that as a hub you often have to traverse huge distances to get to your departure gate. If (Christ forgive) you're arriving from an entirely different country than the United States –different countries that lacks US Customs of their own, which is everywhere except Canada– you are forced to go through the long process of incoherent people in uniform yelling at you to do things you're not sure you want to do. Namely, take off your shoes and belt and explain what you're doing in the States.

Interesting question, that last, considering all the people in the massive cue were trying to get the hell out again. On the Visa paper which you must complete in it's entirety under "Place of residence in the US" I wrote the address of the airport. The Customs official literally went cross-eyed reading it over the third time.

"Dis address heah, is the address of dis airport heah."
"Yes, it's where I'm staying the seven hours I'm in the U.S."
"Buh' dis address heah, is the address of dis airport heah."
"What else am I supposed to write there?"
"You funnah wit'me… bah?"
"What?"
"I say: you funnah wit'me bah?"

It is my suspicion that all airport officials in the U.S. must attend the James Brown School of Linguistics before they can qualify.

Oddly enough the least painful experience I had in all the airports I've been through was the one in Trinidad.

For point of reference Trinidad is the functioning half of Trinidad and Tobago. Not to be confused with Turks and Caicos, Curacao and Bonaire, or Gecko and Spleen. Trinidad and Tobago is a "Developing Nation". This means that sky scrapers are popping up like zits on a teenager with rent prices that no normal Trini can afford. It also means that they import far more cars than the infrastructure can handle. A friend pointed to a huge harbour in Trinidad's capital city of Port of Spain; in it were thousands of rows of white Mitsubishis parked and ready to be bought and driven on local roads –roads suffering from a 24 hour traffic jam. My thinking was that if people simply bought the cars and went and sat in them in the harbour they'd get more mileage out of them.

Anyway.

The only screw-ups in the Trinidad airport were myself and my friend Alex. We were both probably discombobulated from travel as he had an eight hour layover in JFK, and I inexplicably flew from Ottawa to Atlanta to New York to Port of Spain; literally travelling more of the US than Keruac ever did. I thought it best to wear a black "US Athletics" T-shirt in order ingratiate myself during my two pointless U.S. layovers. I need to do these things, you see, because I'm prime fodder for the U.S. Customs Banana-Republic-Checkpoint mechanism. Customs officials love to hassle me.

Somewhere along the way Alex and I had switched bags; my bag was on the trolley which he was pushing, and his was being pulled on it's wheels by me. I have no idea how this happened, like I say, we were travel stupid. At the final baggage check before we enter the country the security guard says, looking at my Dutch passport and then at me, "You not from the U.S., you not athletic, go stand ovah deah." pointing to an x-ray machine manned by a little Indian guy with the biggest mullet I've seen since Lethal Weapon II.

I dragged Alex's bag over to the x-ray and watched it go through the machine with trepidation. The guy looked at his screen and said, "You got some strange tubes in the bag. What's it?"
I hesitated, "I'm not sure."

"You don't know what's in your bag?"

"Well, ah…heh-heh…It's not my bag." Knowing that this is a cardinal sin in the airport community. Never taking his eyes off of me, he unzipped the bag and started rummaging around. He produced a poker set. The tube he saw were the chips for the game. He then proceeded to lecture me about appropriate travel etiquette, emphasizing that you do not carry someone else's luggage. All I could do was nod sheepishly until he let me go.

All things being said, had this happened in the U.S., I'd be in a black hood with electrodes attached to my testicles. Getting lectured by a tiny mulleted Indian was a cinch.

My travelling companion –an admitted Chilean, currently in remission– and I, didn't stay long in Trinidad. Within an hour we were catching the puddle jumper to Tobago. I immediately fell in love with the flight attendant on the 45 minute flight. Her dark swarthy complexion, the Trinny accent as she boredly told us the rules for flying, and the way she dully pantomimed blowing into the life jacket if the rip-chords don't work had my pulse racing.

Indeed most Trinny's hate their jobs. This is plain when one deals with service personnel. They resent the fact that you have the nerve to enter their store and start actually shopping for things. They are slow and languid, and they'll stare at you dumbly for a long time after you make a request. I actually walked into a store and was grimaced at by a guy who I'd awoken out of a deep slumber behind his counter.

My guide, and most coherently knowledgeable person, was my friend Trevor who was there to get married. He told me that there is zero percent unemployment in the Tobago. He added, "The jobs are there if people want them."

Me, I couldn't understand what half the people were doing. Every intersection had people just standing there. They watched cars drive by with blank expression on their faces. Sometimes there would be four people occupying all major headings on the compass doing absolutely nothing.

There were people wandering around with sticks. Others were sitting on curbs. People were staring at windows. People were staring out of windows. People were examining their fingernails. People were staring at each other. People were watching chickens from a distance. People were yelling at other people. People were sitting in bars. People were driving around in circles, their cars vibrating from loud music. Eventually, in Trinidad, we discovered one guy who literally was having a nap in the middle of the road. I thought he was dead.

"What are these people doing?" I asked Trevor.
"Nothing. They're Lymin'."
Lymin'
Looking up the word in the Urban Dictionary, here's what you get:
Lymin: Hanging Out, Chilling.
Basically, doing nothing. On the T&T Government Website you can find their motto: "Together we Aspire, Together we Achieve". Aspire to what? Achieve what? Total immobility? Able to outmaneuver a sloth in a combat situation? Here's a thought for a new national motto: "Trinidad & Tobago: Together we Aspirate, Together we Uh…" or more simply, "T & T: We Lymin'"
The only thing that Tobagans (Tobagians? Toboggans? Tomatoes?) do fast is drive.Picture angrily wrenching the tape out of a busted tape deck. The ribbons strewn across the floor? Those are the roads in Tobago –and about as wide. It's hairpin turns on mountainous cliff-sides, it's deep pot holes, it's one traffic light on the entire island, It's switchbacks, bottlenecks, and sphincter-clench stops, it's deep ditches on either side of the road, it's people screaming along at a 120km/hr on the straight-aways, and not much slower on the turns (of which there are more of than a bowl of spaghetti). And all this is done on the wrong side of the road.

It's easy to spot people new to the Tobago roads. Not only do they approach the cliff-side screw-neck turns like a blind man feeling for a precipice with his cane, but they don't honk when they're supposed to –which is whenever you make a turn, and whenever you pass anyone on the street. As a matter of fact, honking the horn while driving is a little like breathing while walking; it's done consistently and helps with forward momentum. That being said, the only time when someone mustn't honk is when someone else does something treacherous that endangers your life. Not that the foreign driver need worry about that. They have plenty of opportunities to end their own lives; usually by accidentally hitting the windshield wiper when going for the signal while turning the wrong direction near the edge of a cliff. These people can be dangerous, not only to themselves, but to others. Thankfully they can easily identified and avoided by the 'R' on their license plates. Presumably signifying "Rental" or, according to the locals, "Retard".
They love their cars. They pretty them up with black lights, ridiculous hydrofoils, and tinted windows the same way certain jack-asses do here. Many cars bear wistful and incoherent slogans splashed directly across the windshield. Things like: HEAD OF STATE, CHRIST FINGERED ME, THE LORD GUIDES US which is probably true considering how they drive, THE KING OF THING, DEPARTMENT OF CHILL, and my absolute favourite: TOTAL NICENESS.

They know the exact width of their cars down to the last layer of paint enabling them to thread the needle and defy basic rules of physics to squeeze though unlikely spaces with nary a scratch. Their heightened spatial sense shaves of the last millimeter when you pass them on a road one-lane-and-a-half wide beside a shear cliff wall clocking 95km/hr. They'll stop suddenly and park in the middle of major roads (by "major" I mean, "De chickens be wanderin' heah."). As a matter of fact, you can park pretty much wherever you want. Not that you could have a driving violation in Tobago seeing as there is no discernable police presence.

Which is probably why drinking and driving is so prevalent there.

When Trevor picked Alex and I up at the airport in Tobago he had an open bottle of Carib (the local beer) sitting in the drink-tray of his SUV. Being witlessly occidental after being so long in the oppressive confines of Canada I had forgotten that many countries are more relaxed about this taboo. From then on –despite the fact that I had never driven on the wrong side of the road before, nor piloted a car on such loop-de-loop street configurations– I always, always, had a beer in one hand while driving. As a matter of fact, I would have two or three for good measure before I even got in the car.

There are stories of people falling from great heights while drunk and barely getting a scratch because their bodies were so loose from being trashed. For the islanders something similar is at play; either being loose allowed one to easily circumnavigate the crazy cliff-edge hairpin turns, or if you did get into an accident you'd squirt through the windshield to drape over a tree like silly-string. If people asked you if you were okay you'd say, "I jes be lymin' in de twee mon."
There are a number of ways of getting wasted before you get behind the wheel of your car; my drink was beer.

Carib and Stag are the two most prevalent brews you can get on the Islands. They are fine beers with few additives so you can pound back many and not wake up feeling like you've been passed though a cow's digestive tract. Carib is the lighter beer of the two, and tastes better. Originally it was the beer to drink as it represented a certain refinement (which is a bit of stretch in a place where people fall asleep in the middle of roads) and couth. Stag, on the other hand, was drank by the lower order. A beer for apes and hooligans, much like Labbat 50 here, Branik in the Czech Republic, and American beer in America.

However, recently, Stag launched a marketing campaign with the positioning statement "Stag: A Man's Beer". So, Carib was relegated to a "woman's drink", and Stag, a man's.

Which says something about the power of advertising… Or the soft-mindedness of the Trinnis. I'm not sure which.

But Creeping Jesus the food was good. And not just the absolutely fresh tropical coconuts, mangoes, and papaya.

Although I grew up in a household where West-Indian cooking is the norm, there is nothing like eating the food at it's place of conception –like drinking beer in the Czech Republic, or having laser eye-surgery in Switzerland. The local food is fantastic starting and ending with Roti. The amazing thing is that all Roti is is curried chicken wrapped in a kind of pita bread. Other options for wrapping are curried pork, curried lamb, curried shrimp, and for the vegetarians; curried curry.

Although the Trinis –either due to laziness, or drunkenness– don't bother deboning the chicken before wrapping it up, it's a mouth-watering ensemble that's spicy, filling, and messy as hell. Because much of your time is spent unwrapping the thing to dig out the bones amidst the stew-like curry you end up covered in the stuff. Also, the bread has the holding power of one-ply toilet paper so it inevitably explodes. A nod to the locals for having the foresight to provide washing-up places in the Roti Houses.

Another popular food is so-called "shark and bake". It's essentially deep-fried shark jammed into deep-fried bread. Because shark is fairly tasteless a raft of condiments is provided to make it taste like something. There are so many toppings to choose from that, like snow-flakes, no two shark and bakes taste alike. Shark and bake is usually accompanied by very loud horrible music and the shaking of much booty by the beach.

I'm not sure when the "bake" part figures into it, except, perhaps, when you eat the stuff in the middle of a clear day

There is sharp racial divide on the Islands between the Blacks and the West Indians. Essentially the West Indians were imported from India as indentured labour to work on the sugar plantations. By way of encouragement the British guaranteed land to the Indians should they decide to make the commute to the Caribbean. The blacks in Africa got no such incentives. They were simply clubbed, chained, and sent to work as slaves.

With the abolishment of slavery the Indians ended up with land, the Blacks ended up with their loincloths.

The resentment ran deep.

To this day the chasm between the two is apparent. Trinidad is actually a pretty dangerous place with gangs and shootings and places you don't go after dark. The Blacks resent the Indians, and the Indians think the Blacks are fucking up the country. The two generally keep to their own and only mix tentatively.

Oddly enough this can be exemplified by the club Zen in the heart of Port of Spain; the capital and cranium of Trinidad and Tobago.

A friend working in the oil industry in Trinidad – by way of showing me that there were many beautiful girls on the Island– took me to Zen two nights in a row; Friday and Saturday.
Now, no matter where you go in the world dance clubs are pretty much the same; the ambience is designed to create maximum confusion, disorientation, and outright atavistic fear. The lighting in Zen was out of the "bridge scene" in Apocalypse Now with flashing staccato bulbs, and roaming strobes. Like many clubs Zen is multi-leveled, with the steps and sudden drops cleverly hidden by an overall black paint-job. This, in addition to the epilepsy inducing lighting effects, facilitates you falling flat on your face, or at least jamming you knee-cap into your hip-joint, which in turn facilitates you having to buy another drink to replace the one you just dumped on a beautiful woman. Of course, like most clubs, getting to the actual bar is like trying to skin a live wolverine with your teeth.

John explained to me that because the majority of the Indians live in the South of the Island (Port of Spain is in the North-East). He informed me that Friday night was a "Blackout" at Zen. Work finishes on Friday, and for most Indians, it's a bit of a long trek to the Club, preferring to do the commute on the Saturday thus leaving the place for the more local Blacks on the Friday. The racial divide is glaring if you compare the two nights.

On Friday the music is reggae on crack. The dance floor vibrates with the hop-skip-jump beat of tunes so insulting it would make Bob Marley violent. Thankfully, what the music lacks in quality it more than makes up in volume, causing you to walk funny days after you left the place. Wobbling tight black flesh abounds everywhere as the women try to outdo each other with outfits that would stop circulation in a toddler. The mode of dance is to shiver your ass like you're having a fit while keeping the rest of your body totally rigid. The whole thing looks the like the end of the Charlie Brown Christmas Special played at 120rpm.

The cartoonish music and dancing creates an arcade-like effect which is further enforced by the fact that women will take up stations throughout the club where they'll dance and wildly shake their booty. Men will find suitable booty with which they'll emulate the kind of doggy-style you can expect from small dogs on crystal meth. They'll carry on like this for a while and then move on to the next suitable booty –eventually making their way back to the exit, and then leaving. It looked like hard and draining work for both parties.

Nobody looked like they were having a good time.

Perhaps it's my West Indian lineage, or the fact that I was a different kind of drunk this time around (leaning towards whiskey rather than the rum of the night before), or perhaps it was just better; Saturday was a big improvement. The music was much more from Planet Earth in terms of what you'd expect in a club; deep house, progressive trance, and less of the DJ repeatedly asking if everyone is having a good time. On Friday one got the impression that the man was trying to reassure himself that fun was being had, rather than his audience. Although there was not a whole lot of rhythm amongst the patrons (illustrating another racial difference) the dancing was more relaxed and less of a "Look! Look at my ass freak-out!" kind of shuddering. It was more tame, more social, but still fairly cliqueish in terms of people not drifting away from their own cohorts. The outfits were still tiny.

And my eyes were saturated with woman of a particularly sexy kind of beauty: dark, sultry, and stacked like a teddy-bear with an elastic band around it's midriff. The shapes and forms of these women were almost exaggerated caricatures of what I was used to, and it was brilliant. Black, Indian, and everything in between, were hot.

One tall tanned Indian sauntered past me eliciting an, "Oh my God…" that my companions overheard, even with the loud music. After much cajoling they convinced me to go and talk to her. What ensued was a comedy of translation; she spoke English, I spoke English, but neither of us understood a word the other was saying. We both admitted linguistic defeat simultaneously, turned around, and went back to our friends. It was like being in the Czech Republic all over again, which is odd, because Czech is an entirely different language.

Which brings me neatly to this: I, and a few friends, had a profound experience with a huge turtle. Although with every telling of this tale the turtle grew to the size of a cube van, the one we saw was merely the size of a VW Beetle. She was a leatherback who had dragged herself out of the ocean at about midnight to lay her eggs in the sand as she does around the end of May every year.

Apparently these prehistoric beasts are very timid, so no flash photography, no yelling, no sudden movements, only lights with a red bulb, and, much to my chagrin, no riding the turtle. This being said, the local "experts" were giving me mixed messages on the thing. I watched one of these massive beasts emerge ponderously from the surf, walk directly into a beach chair, turn around, and head back to the water over the course of half an hour. When I asked what that was all about I was told they were blind when they came out of the water. I suppose the profundity of the scene precluded me asking what was the point in all the stillness and red lighting then? And if the situation was so fragile why did the "experts" have no problem tapping her shell, shining light into her face, measuring her length, width, and girth, and finally, lifting her tail and staring at the pile of golf-ball size eggs while jabbering excitedly?

Anyway. It was profound being near something so huge that was not in a zoo.
I didn't see much other wildlife except for many hummingbirds (whose feeder I accidently used as an ash tray), many lizards, and many stray dogs. For a while I was convinced it was one stray dog that was very fast, but I was assured otherwise.

Many bats, too.

I did, however, hear a lot of wildlife, usually at about 4.30 in the morning when the jungle kicked off in a frenzy of sounds directly outside my window. I am convinced to this day that the noises I heard were the locals throwing a rave in the jungle every morning to create a more "authentic" experience for the visiting whiteys. When you're woken up after three hours sleep by that kind of cacophony you listen closely to the sounds and try to figure it's source. Not that I'd be able to make the association if I could actually identify the thing in order to, say, whack the bastard with a cricket bat. Anyway, I'm convinced they weren't actual animals. It sounded more like midday at the market in Abu Dhabi.

Yes. And I finally got to see where my mom grew up in the South of the Trinidad. She hated me going there, telling me there were huge spiders everywhere and thus tapping into my primordial fear. I did see one big fucker, but you know what? It was sleek and beautiful.

Just like Trinidad and Tobago.