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.