Nemesis

I have two constant companions. I don't like them very much. One is doubt, the other indecision. Somehow I have managed to get this far in my life with those two hanging on my every word, echoing my every thought, mocking or chastising me constantly. They make it difficult to get anything done. At times I am able to ignore them, or get a step ahead of them so they are preoccupied with catching up, while I get on with what I need to be doing. But other times, it's as if they are a step ahead of me, they know exactly where I'm headed and have already figured out why I shouldn't go there and do that and they have no qualms about telling me what those reasons are and that, really, I'm an idiot for even thinking about it in the first place. I have a somewhat analytical mind, but when that analysis is turned to examine a problem or dilemma of my own, it becomes crippling. My ability to see all sides of an issue make it somehow impossible to actually make a resolution and follow it up with action. I just mull it over and over and over and over and over, ad infinitum, ad nauseam. And do nothing about it. When I get like that, I get stuck in my own head and it makes me a little crazy. It's like spending all of your time with someone that you don't really like, yet for some reason you can't make them go away. For a long time I assumed that all people were like this, that everyone had minds on overdrive that wouldn't just shut up, but I've since learned that this is not so. No, some people are actually able to think their way through a problem, make a resolution and then do something about it. Annoyingly, I am not one of those people.

Directions

I bought a new pair of headphones today, so I can listen to music at work and tune out all of my co-workers. These are the instructions that came with them:

Wear the earpiece marked "R" on your right ear and the one marked "L" on your left ear.

Thank you for the help.

Yiiiipppppeeeee!!!!!!!!!!

I really can't believe it. Today Arsenal scraped out a nil-nil draw against Villareal to earn their spot in the Champion's League Final, against either Barcelona or AC Milan. This is the worst season Arsenal have had in the English league in a decade, yet somehow, in the year when no one expected it, when everyone had written them off, they've gone and made it this far. I had a doctor's appointment this morning about some neck pain that the doctor suggested was probably stress related. So after my doctor's appointment, I went to an Italian cafe to drink lots of espresso and watch Villareal miss chance after chance after chance against some of the sloppiest Arsenal defending I've seen in a long time. How's that for a stress reliever. Idiot. As I was watching the game, I began contemplating something I often do when watching my chosen sport, which is: why do I watch this sport? It's often dull and uninteresting, other times it is downright maddening, and more often that not, particularly when a team you support is involved, it is far too stressful to actually be "enjoyable." It is supposed to be enjoyable, right? It is only a game, right? I was thinking about these things when the referee awarded Villareal a very dodgy penalty in the 89th minute and I knew exactly where this was heading. (For the record, the one goal wouldn't have been enough for Villareal to win, just to send the game into extra time, and give them a whole lot of momentum.) But, somehow Jens Lehmann the Arsenal 'keeper guessed the right way, and saved Riquelme's (of all people) shot. And then somehow, Arsenal held on for the 3 minutes of stoppage time and were into the final. Which I still can't believe. I was actually shaking for a good long while after. Part espresso, part nerves, part joy. And that was the answer to my own question of why I watch. It's about drama, the low points of which there are many, and the oh so sweet highpoints of which there are few. But damn do they make it worth it.

Flickr!

Alright, now that my digital camera is back from the shop after the robotic mishap, it's time for me to get serious about my photography career. So I've started a Flickr page where hopefully I'll be posting some photos. Here it is. Or you can link to it from the sidebar long after this entry has been buried under the weight of new posts.

Stop Thief!

I was having dinner at Sitar with some friends this evening. About 30 metres away from the front of the restaurant my bicycle was locked to a parking metre and my helmet was locked to the bike. After dinner, a lovely meal of malai kofta with naan and vegetable pakoras if you're interested, when I went out to head home, I discovered that I was the victim of a crime. The bike was still there, as was the helmet, but some jackass had taken one of the plastic clips that holds the two straps together, thus rendering the helmet useless. Who the hell does that? Who needs one plastic clip from a bike helmet? Sometimes I like to think that there is only ever one BMW with a missing hood ornament at any given time, and that the person who owns it will steal the next one to replace it, thus continuing the cycle. Maybe this is something like this. I guess I have to find a match and swipe it. But I don't want to do that. So, if you are the one who stole my one little grey clip from my bike helmet and happen to be reading this, I'll make a deal with you. Leave it in my mail box and there will be no questions asked. Otherwise, I will find you.

Enough With The Pictures Already!

I have a digital camera. I use it a lot. If I'm out walking, I'll take pictures of various things I find visually interesting. If I'm out with friends, I, and all of my friends it seems, will take random snapshots of the evening's goings on. Before I get started, I'll say right away that I am well aware of the contradictory nature of complaining about something that I do, but I'm okay with contradiction. It's one of my many middle names. But it has gone too far. I remember a time. A time not so long ago. Perhaps a better, if slightly less technologically advanced, time. It was a time when I could go out with friends, drink way too much, make an absolute fool of myself, feel a little embarrassed the next day, laugh about it with those friends, and move on. Those days are gone. Now, in every crowd, there's always some joker with a digital camera or phone just waiting to pounce. At the first sign of drunken tomfoolery, the snapshots start coming thick and fast. And when in the past you had that slight embarrassment the next day, it was coupled with vague stories and a blurry memory. But now, you have the blurry memory coupled with photographic evidence. Damn embarrassing photographic evidence at that. In some cases, edited into a montage with musical accompaniment. I believe that inherent in mockery, is a desire for social control. As in, we laugh at you, because you are acting somewhat out of line with our social norms. We laugh at you because that is a simple first attempt to bring you back into line. But the mockery that accompanies drunken photos, especially ones posted on the interweb, has none of that element to it. No one wants you to stop with the drunken shenanigans...they want it to continue so they can have more drunken shenanigan photos. It's downright mean spirited, I tell you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to sort through my digital camera photos to figure out which drunken friends I can embarrass here.

Note To Self

Dear Self,

(re: the previous entry)

Please don't write blog entries after you have been drinking. They make no sense.

Thanks,
Self

Misconceptions

Sometimes you think everything is going just the way you want it to be going, but sometimes you are just plain wrong; it's not going like that at all.

Life's Big Questions #1

Why does the Blogger spell check always tell me that the word "blog" is misspelled?

I Wanna Love You Tender

This just may be the best worst music video ever. It's even better than the one with Mr. T wearing knee socks and short shorts.

Racing Mind

Sometimes I wish I could stop my brain. It goes into hyperactivity mode and I want to do eighty seven things all at once. More often than not it happens at night, when what I should be wanting to do is sleep. But no, instead I want to be reading three different books at the same time, go out and take some photographs even though it's night and my camera isn't working very well, watch a couple of films, write some as yet undreamt of masterpiece, chisel away at a new linocut, the list goes on. And on. I think what I need is to take up zen meditation and learn how to just sit and stare at a blank wall. Or maybe I need some coffee. The upside of it is that at times like this I feel at my most creative and I have a tremendous amount of energy. The downside is that for all the mental cogs a-whirring, for all the sense of urgency I feel, I can never seem to focus on any one thing, and so I get nothing done. Then the feeling passes, I go to sleep or work or whatever and I try not to think about the fact that my time is slowly wasting away and maybe I'm not using it as well as I ought to be.

My Inner Hooligan

Last year, my friend Paul and I became Vancouver Whitecaps seasons ticket holders. Our goal for the season, beyond just being able to tell people that we were seasons ticket holders, (does it matter for what?) was to find our inner hooligan. I'm not talking about your drunken-violent- throw-a- burning-moped-on-the-pitch sort of hooligan, more your mildly-buzzed-question-the referee's- parentage-throw-your-empty-beer-cups-on-the-grass-behind- the-goal-remind-the-opposing-goalkeeper-of-his-weight-problem- and-that-he-was-born-out-of-wedlock type hooligan. Now, I have a shaved head, so add to that my Whitecaps jersey and scarf and you'd think it shouldn't be much work. But I tend to be fairly quiet, I don't really shout or sing in public and I certainly don't litter. The easy solution was, of course, appropriate amounts of hooligan juice. Warsteiner tends to be my favourite, though the Guinness will do just as well. The first couple of games, I stood with the other hooligans and hopefuls, sipped my beer, looked on amused as they chanted, tried to mouth a few words then quietly snuck over to the garbage can to deposit my empty cup. With time I was able to start to vocalize and harmonize along. I could even anticipate what songs or chants would be up next. I think my big breakthrough came though, not in the singing front, but with the garbage. It was a few games into the season and I think I realized that it was time for the next step. Or maybe I was just feeling lazy. I think Paul, standing beside me, realized the significance, as rather than skulking off to the bin, I sailed my empty beer cup over the head of those in front of me and on to the swath of grass behind the net and in front of the boards. Mission accomplished. As the season wore on, and the hooligan juice continued to flow, I became more comfortable with the yelling, chanting, jeering, screaming and even the littering. I may have even initiated a chant or two. Sometime mid-season my buddy J-Mac started attending games. After our first round of calling the opposing goalkeeper a fat bastard he turned to me and said, "That's the funnest thing I've done all week." And he was right.

Throughout the winter, my inner hooligan has been lying dormant. The season opener is just 2 weeks away, my tickets are in the mail, so I guess it's time to start waking him up. Come on you Whitecaps!

We're All Terrorist Suspects, Aren't We?

This is great. An Indian-born British man was hauled off of a plane as a suspected terrorist after a cab driver reported the man's suspicious behaviour to the police. He was interrogated for 3 hours, a background check was run, then he was released. The behaviour in question...playing a Clash song and a Led Zeppelin song on his MP3 player through the cab's stereo and singing along. Apparently the cabbie thought the lyrics were suspicious. The questionable songs were London Calling and Immigrant Song. I've never been a big fan of Led Zeppelin so I'd agree that might be suspicious behaviour. But really, it's too bad that none of the stories about this have said anything identifying the cab driver, as I'm fairly certain he's got some public ridicule and mockery coming his way.

Cussing, Rebirth & Other Inconsequentialities

Laura and I were walking around Trout Lake today when we stopped to sit on a log on the beach. A small crowd had gathered there and a few of them were clearly getting ready to go into the lake. I would never swim in Trout Lake's brown goose shitty waters, but apparently others would. They formed a circle to pray, which should have been our first clue they weren't there to do regular lengths, but it was a cool day and the water was probably downright cold, so perhaps a bit of divine intervention was called for. As the group approached the water's edge, one of the swimmers stuck her foot in, quickly pulled it back, then shouted, "Praise his name!" Apparently the divine intervention had not come. The girl's epithet made it clear they were a christian group; but her words made me wonder, what is the difference between saying "praise his name," loudly as a response to something perceived as negative or shouting "jesus h. christ," or whatever variant of taking the lord's name in vain is your preference? They both seem like expletives to me. Anyway, an older man took one of the "swimmers" about 10 metres out into the water, then asked her aloud why she wanted to be baptised. She answered something, not loud enough for us to hear, then he dunked her under the water. All the while the rest of the group stood on the shoreline, digital cameras up and at the ready. After he pulled her up he walked her back to the shore, then they formed a cluster and prayed. They then went through it all again with the girl who had shouted "praise his name." It all seemed very strange to me. I'll be the first to admit that born again christians creep me out, but there was more to it. If people feel the need to have a religion it should be a personal and private thing, in my mind, not something requiring public proclamations. As well the mixture of digital cameras, dirty beach with dogs and purification ritual seemed incongruous to me. And I'm not even going to talk about the filthy lake water. I suppose saving souls is tough business and you just don't get any respect from cynical atheistic jerks like me.

Aphorism #1

Sometimes you have to let yourself fall apart, so you can put yourself back together again.

Big Furry Things

WARNING: The following post contains mascots!

I'm a little disturbed right now. I was watching Arsenal trounce Aston Villa today. Right at the start of the second half Thierry Henry scored a sweet goal, as he does, but as the ball was flying into the top corner, I noticed a large green thing running behind the net. Watching the replay I focused on that large green thing, and what it was, was this:

Dear readers, this is the Gunnersaurus Rex. In the past 15 years I have watched a lot of Arsenal games, far too many by some accounts, and not once have I been subjected to that. No wonder the Aston Villa goalkeeper let so much by him today (5 goals if you care); he was afraid of that thing behind him. I had no idea Arsenal had a mascot. I had no idea that European sports and soccer teams in particular had mascots, a clearly ridiculous North American phenomenon, as far as I was concerned, limited mostly to baseball. Sure, the Vancouver Whitecaps have that stupid duck, but it's, you know, for the kids. But Arsenal? My beloved Arsenal? With a mascot? A dinosaur? What the hell does a dinosaur have to do with the Arsenal? I'm hoping that this all fades from memory, that I don't see the Gunnersaurus Rex again for the next 15 years, and I can forget this whole sordid affair.

For those of you who are curious, here is a link to all of the Premiership clubs' mascots. Here is a link where you can see the Whitecaps duck, along with other USL mascots, including Portland's Timber Jim. If you'll notice, Timber Jim isn't a mascot, it's a guy.

DISCLAIMER: The Organ Grinder's Monkey in no way condones violent assaults upon mascots, though upon reflection may find them humourous.