Chancouver

In Vancouver there is a store with 218 flavours of ice-cream. Many of them are normal flavours like vanilla, chocolate, and pecan. Others are questionable like wasabi, and cheddar and apple. Still others are crap, like balsamic vinegar, black pepper, and charcoal.

I can't tell you exactly where the store is located, only to say it's opposite a paint factory, which may account for the wide variety of colourful ice-creams.

This store is a fairly useful analogy when it comes to describing the city.

Anybody going into the ice-cream parlour is incredibly excited to be there. You sample the crap flavours, and you buy a scoop of the decent ones. I got a scoop of chocolate-peanut butter.

People in Vancouver are incredibly excited about living in Vancouver. And well they should be. It's got thousands of flavours, usually having to do with sushi. The weather – which, in fact, is not a straight drizzle throughout the winter months – beats the hell out of the rest of Canada. It's richly multi-cultural, and there are things to do.

Of course, coming from Powell River where there is absolutely nothing to do, I was just happy to see actual humans wandering around doing actual human-type things. The thought of sitting in a café made me very emotional in terms of it's high activity value.

Here are some things I did:

The Vancouver aquarium which contains, not only beluga whales, otters, and grumpy-looking fish, but the Northwest's only 4D movie theatre. Now, we've all become accustomed to 3D thanks to Avatar, so what is the fourth dimension in film-watching?

Well, as it turns out, it's a theatre that lulls you into a false sense of security, then suddenly attacks you with gadgetry. Someone tweaked a 17 minute clip of a BBC documentary to make it 3D. The theatre was then rigged with automated gadgets timed to squirt you with water when a whale exhales through it's blow-hole, whip your ankle when an octopus strikes, and pokes you in the kidney when an anemone gobbles a fish. I had a hard time focusing on the show because I was in a state of tense fear waiting to be zapped with 50 volts every time an eel moved across the screen. It's one of those ideas that seem great in theory, but ends up scaring the crap out of you in practice. Having to clean off your 3D glasses with your shirt because you've just been sprayed in the face with water is a little counter-intuitive in my books.

There is also the newly re-opened Museum of Anthropology, which could also be called "Hall of Elaborate Masks and a Few Weapons that Maoris Used to Brain People".

Also there is cross-country skiing on Cypress Mountain. An excellent place to wobble on skis while being repeatedly lapped by a fit guy wearing a body-condom.

Being a bit arty I also checked out the Vancouver Art Gallery – or VAG, –located in downtown Vancouver. Being new to the VAG I wasn't sure what to expect. I discovered that most of the VAG is empty aside from lots and lots of Emily Carr. Being a fan of abstract and surrealist art I wasn't particularly impressed. All the other artists featured seemed to be from BC featuring installations about BC. Which is fine; I get it, you love being here, and we should too. What was most interesting to me is that I counted the word "banal" about a dozen times in the little description plaques beside the pieces. Usually it had to do with the artist choosing a "banal" or "mundane" subject to show the "normalcy" of day-to-day existence in an "ordinary" context. I couldn't help thinking, with that sort of thing happening outside the VAG for free, why pay to get in? Mocking aside, though, the VAG was a nice experience. Particularly cool was a life-sized baleen whale skeleton done entirely with lawn chairs.

I also saw a beautiful woman take a crap in an alley-way, but I'm not sure it was an exhibit.

I attended a musical called Debt. It was nice to see a performance by professionals in close quarters. The singing was bearable, but the show was beleaguered by the very un-musical recitation of economic theory by a fatuous over-actor. I believe the show focused on debt in a Vancouver context, but early on I became distracted by one particular performer's magnificent legs and missed a large part of the plot.

Despite the fact that most of the population of the city is stoned all of the time it is a healthy city. People generally tuck in at 9pm so that they can get a start jogging at 5 the next morning. It is a rule abiding city. Everyone pays close attention to the cross-walk signals, and are easily duped when someone like me comes along and flagrantly ignores them.

I recall standing with a group of people at a cross-walk waiting for the light to change. I looked up and down the street, didn't see a car, so I proceeded across. Everyone followed me. Then I stopped because I saw a car approaching. Everyone behind me stopped. I turned around, cut through the confused melee, and returned to the corner. There was some milling about in the middle of the road and then everyone followed me back. No eye contact was exchanged amongst us. Not even sheepish.

A friend tells me that Vancouver was a very pedestrian city. This is no longer the case. . . On second thought maybe Vancouver is walking-friendly, but because no one knows how to drive (possibly because they are stoned) the normal rules for pedestrian right-of-way become moot.

This is a slightly scary concept when you consider that every single person in Vancouver has a car. This can be illustrated by the commuter lane (which only requires one passenger to qualify) being practically empty while the other two lanes of HWY 1 are parking lots. The movement during rush-hour in these lanes is so scant I find it hard to believe that anyone goes home when they've finished work. I suspect they park on the highway (one of the only places you can park without getting hassled) and then turn their cars around the next morning to head back into the city.

Except back-tracking in Vancouver is like trying to return to your spot at an AC/DC concert after you've gone for a beer.

While I was house-sitting in North Vancouver – the part of Vancouver containing white people – I had access to a car. I decided to head a short distance down the road to pick up some food from a drive-thru. My attire was unfit for a long sojourn. On my way back to the house, perhaps five minutes away, I missed a poorly indicated merge and found myself on a long bridge heading into Vancouver proper. Immediately my highway instincts kicked in and I tried to determine where to get off and use that information to go back the way I came. Undeterred by the lack of on-ramps corresponding to the off-ramps I pulled off on a promising street. I believe it was Pender, or possibly Hastings. Not that it mattered because when I got off the highway I promptly found myself stuck in a Gordion knot with no means of escape. Cursing and sweating I did an eventual U-turn and the highway had disappeared.

It turns out there is one major highway in Vancouver. Sadly it is nowhere near Vancouver. It starts on the North Shore and barely brushes the centre before abruptly turning east. To further complicate things Vancouver is criss-crossed with rivers, inlets, and estuaries with very few means of crossing them.

Now, not only was I far from North Vancouver and all it's white people, but I wasn't sure if I had just gotten off a highway in the first place. Not only that, but signs were telling me that I was in some place called "Burnaby". In the end, a trip that should have taken 5 minutes took 2 hours.

People familiar with Vancouver will read this, chuckle smugly, and say, "Oh, I see what you did there." And you probably do. But for a city that's inviting the world to come see it's games, having M.C. Escher design your streets and putting up vague and confusing road-signs seems a little like smacking the audience in the head when they enter the circus tent. Also, choosing about six different names – aside from provinces, and numbers – to call all the streets in the GVA is confusing and somewhat cruel for the uninitiated.

I don't know how many "Main Streets" I saw, but it immediately seemed like too many considering not even Ottawa doubles up on street names.

For the most part I lived on Alberta St. Alberta St. is parallel to Yukon St., which in turn is parallel to Columbia, Manitoba, and Ontario streets. You see where this is going? These are provinces in the dominion of Canada. There is a even a Quebec street. A clever naming-scheme as any. And you can almost ignore the fact that there are no PEI, Nova Scotia, or Newfoundland and Labrador streets. That's fair, the Rockies are high and it's difficult to perceive existence that far Eastward. But no Saskatchewan street? But they're so close! Practically on your doorstep, and far closer than Quebec.

The message here is clear; while BC laughs at some provinces, they find others too hysterical to even mention. Particularly the flat ones.

Ethnically Vancouver is as diverse as Hong Kong. As a matter of fact, perhaps Vancouver is Hong Kong. Whole portions of the city is entirely in Cantonese. The other ethnic groups include South Asian, and people from Port Coquitlam. I counted 8 black people, which hardly qualifies as a "group"… More of a "session".

Regardless, everyone was very healthy-looking and shiny. Even the homeless people looked okay. It was easy to find them, because, when they aren't all congregating around Main and Hastings, they can be found giving life-lessons in front of the London Drugs. Here are some life-lessons I received:

"Hey man, can you spare some change?"

"Why are you all dressed in black?"

"Man, you gots to feel it happen."

"It's a beautiful day, get your smile out."

And, "Your face! Your face! Heeeeragh!"

I'm still not sure why they all gather at Main and Hastings, but I got the distinct feeling of a corral.

Port Coquitlam, by the way, is very much like an old, better-looking Kanata. It is where they filmed the latest Twilight movie and nobody there is embarrassed about it. It also seems to be common policy to swerve at pedestrians in it's suburbs when they wear stupid hats.

Speaking of stupid hats, there is also a proliferation of hipsters in Vancouver. These are the skinny, hairy, ironic-handle-bar-moustache, tight-pant wearing denizens of a sub-culture that severely needs to have their faces adjusted. Luckily they all congregate around Davie St. so can easily be found for beatings.

It's hard to find bitter people in an ice-cream parlour with 218 flavours to choose from. Similarly it's hard to find bitter people in Vancouver. On a scale from Rage to Joy most Vancouverites hover around Smug. Mostly people there are just plain nice. Ignoring my natural distrust of utterly nice people there is an element of the Davidian Cult going on. Of course, they have a lot to be nice about. The city sits in the shadow of many glorious mountains which can be seen on a clear day. Practically everywhere you go in the city affords you a breath-taking view of old-growth forest and the glassine towers of the downtown core. The modestly named Seymour Creek gushes green water through a crevasse in which kayakers furiously stroke in the middle of January.

It is definitely an outdoorsy city. Vancouver begs to be walked, biked, paddled, skied, rolled, swam, waddled, and limped. Which begs the question; if practically nobody is ever in their house why is the real-estate so damn expensive? That's the thing. They've designed the city so that new-comers find it impossible to get out again, yet living there is like living in Manhattan while working at the 7-Eleven. This is a real downer if you've gone in blind trying to find work

As a friend put it, "There must be millions of millionaires." Personally, with all the houses, I couldn't figure out where everyone worked.

I say, let the nature reclaim the land and give all the Vancouverites massive Mountain Equipment Co-op backpacks stuffed with tents, sleeping-bags, and hibachi stoves. They'll be fine. Trust me.

It's also a city buzzing with human life and activity – until 9pm. I didn't really get a bead on the nightlife in Vancouver; either because I was belting out My Way in a karaoke bar, transfixed by the enormous busts on some mannequins in a shop window on Granville, or stuffing my face with pizza near Robson – sometime all three at the same time. I did see nightlife in Port Coquitlam thanks to some dear old and new friends. Nightlife in "PoCo" consist of a bar called "The Fox and the Fiddle".

Sitting here, with a perforated ear drum, and a brutal cold, (A friend asked me today how my cold was doing. I said, it's doing great, very successful, it's kicking my ass) it's easy for me to be bitter about the place. . . What? Who am I kidding? That's my modus operandi, I'm bitter about every place. But here's the thing. I'm really not. Vancouver is pretty damn cool. Even with a black cloud hanging over my head when I got there I could still appreciate the city for being great. I had the benefit of some very good friends and family to show me around and get me to the heart of the thing. I think to myself, "Would I have liked it as much without them?" The answer is yes, but I wouldn't nearly have had as much fun.

See? Just like and ice-cream parlour with 218 flavours to choose from.

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.