AVATAR or... I'm a big baby.

         I’m a big baby because I cry sometimes. I go to the movies once a week. Rain or fucking shine. I’ve always gone to the movies, the theatre. The theatre is where the sound is big, the floor is sticky and if you look to your left or right, you’ll see like-minded patrons staring open-mouthed at the big screen.  If something looks good, preview-wise, I don’t care what size flatscreen you have at home, nothing beats the theatre. The first movie I ever saw there was Close Encounters of the Third Kind and I must have been 5 years old because it came out in 1977.  I recently purchased the Blu-Ray Close Encounters. I Still love that timeless film,  it just doesn’t matter. Even  if that movie is on TV, commercials and all, I’ll watch it. It introduced me to a brand new world. Fantastic lights, sounds and strange beings! That was just the theatre lobby, to say nothing of the movie itself. I was born again, feeling or understanding that, not only was there a world beyond our atmosphere, but one beyond my front door and back yard. Spielberg’s ability, proven twenty times over, to transport us to another time, place or world, enabled my heart to sing in the theatre. My belief in fantastic realms was born and has gone unabated since.

      Over the years I have come close to that original magic place where Close Encounters took me. Star Wars, natch. I saw Christopher Reeve in Superman and I did believe a man could fly. My adolescence was fraught with acne and blown chances with girls at dances because I spent most of my time reading Frank Miller’s multi-industry changing four-issue Batman series “The Dark Knight Returns” over and over and over again. High School and bummer grades ensued with the futility of trying to fit into a strange world. New heroes arrived in the form of John McClane and Martin Riggs. These were Lone Wolves with a chips on both shoulders and I could identify with them, minus the taking-on-the-world-and-winning part. Ten years later Luc Besson showed me a sense of style with Nikita, then Leon in The Professional. I became older and more cynical. Pulp Fiction staccattoed its way across my consciousness and drove me down a wet, gray side-street straight into Sin City. Hello again, Frank Miller.

    I still thumb through that old comic book but the new fantasy was sharp dressed gunslingers with snappy patter and a tragic flaws. Haven’t we seen this before? I mean haven’t our parents? The graphics are better now and we are a generation raised on comic books and A Team reruns. Fuck the A-Team, gimme Reservoir Dogs! It was good to see someone die for a change. Continental Op planting a drop piece. Cary Grant as the rapist. Sam Spade with a drug habit, seventies soul on the 8-track and a multi-hued background ripping by.

    Our brains, however, as we grow older, want for more fantasy but sadly can accept less and less. We’ve seen the strings at the puppet show or the sleight of hand on the street corner. The headlines become bloodier and our ability to interpret or believe in the fantastic is trampled underhoof by runaway headlines of real rape and real torture and real rape-torture! Reality encroaches as we age and our grasp on the belief in beings from outer space or the stalwart champions who always do the right thing and get the girl slips with every marble-chinned matinee idol who hides the cuffs under a suit-jacket on the way to county, doesn’t it, Sugar Tits.

    Fantasy has returned in the form of Avatar. James Cameron's immersive and entertaining feast for the senses has the power to bring those of us who had lost faith and hope in a system that puts faith and hope in Scary Movies  and Adam Sandler. Fans of comedy and drama have turned to HBO and Showtime for decent writing and acting because at this point we’ll settle for writing and acting that is at best, decent. A reformed drug addict wrote that the whole god damned time he was snorting coke or banging heroin he was looking for transcendence. While I am not addicted to the movies, I go to them in the hopes that they take me somewhere and for the first time since 1977 I had a feeling. One that has been waxing and waning and skirting the edges and flirting with taking me somewhere. Close Encounters of the Third Kind. I wept as a boy when little Barry stutter-stepped out of the craft, searching for the source of his mother’s voice. I wept when Roy Neary was chosen to step aboard that same craft. I wept at a theatre for the first time in thirty years not for a particular scene or a sad turn of phrase. Not because a hero died or lived or a man was lost at sea. Not for a Notebook or unrequited love. I did not cry for a hooker or a vampire or a misbegotten son. I think now, a week after seeing the movie Avatar, I cried because in thirty years I have never felt so good, so transported, so transcendentalized sitting in the seat of a theatre. The type of experience I had was the reason I go to movies. If its all been dreck for you in the last 5, 10, 15, whatever years for you, well, someone finally gave enough of a fuck to make a movie that will reward you for being a fan of movies. Go see it. Just don't cry, you big baby.

Sheldon Brin, Ol' Shel, DJ SHELSHOK

 
 I know its been a long time comin’ guys. It’s hard to find the words to say about this guy so its taken a while and I still don’t know if I have it right. I met Shel on Shaughnessy street about 95 or 96. We were both sales guys from different companies. We hit it off instantly and although we’d lost touch early on in our relationship a few times, we’d been fast friends for years. His death, like many has inspired me to reach out to friends and family I’ve lost touch with over the years, reconnect and, despite our differences, appreciate what brought us together in the first place. I love Shel because he wasn’t anybody but Shel. You always got the straight shot from him with no bullshit which can be rare. I am going to miss him dearly but I know he’s still with us all. When I look for him or think about him or even talk to him now, I don’t look up, I look around. I urge you to share your tales of Sheldon Brin, Ol' Shel or DJ SHELSHOK here or anywhere else. I also urge you to reconnect with those who we’ve lost touch with or had a falling out with. There are people in this world who enrich your life and Sheldon Brin was one of the best. I still don’t know if I've used the right words here, but these words make me think of him and what he’s up to now... Love ya Shel!

Leaves are falling all around, It's time I was on my way.
Thanks to you, I'm much obliged for such a pleasant stay.
But now it's time for me to go. The autumn moon lights my way.
For now I smell the rain, and with it pain, and it's headed my way.
Sometimes I grow so tired, but I know I've got one thing I got to do...

Ramble On, And now's the time, the time is now, to sing my song. 

                                                                                                    Led Zeppelin - Ramble On 

Your Girlfriend is a Pain in the Ass Drink

 Anthony Vermeulen is a dangerous man. According to some reports it is entirely believable that, should your boyfriend spend any time whatsoever with him, it is likely he will cheat on you while doing drugs just before you drink yourself into a stupor and ruin your life.

    Anthony wanders between drinking establishments all week, gamboling wildly through the streets heedlessly plying his charm on unsuspecting and defenseless nubiles for the sake of his own gratification. He then whiles away the day in the pub relating to all who will listen his tales of sexual derring-do. Forgive me for a bit while I romanticize being single. I do so only to lift the term “single” out of the mire and ooze where it lays bleeding and drunk in the gutter.  There are those who would have me excommunicated from their social circle. I am a pariah, a Flying Dutchman, hell, a bogeyman for I am single. At least, to those who vilify the term. Being a single man amidst your dating friends is akin to being a Vampire at an orphanage. Not the adolescent fair skinned misunderstood high-school Vampire either. I am seen as the Gary Oldman-hanging upside down-composed entirely of plague rats-Vampire. Folks, I like being single. It is some of you who don’t like it. I wonder why that is?

    The people who perpetrate this myth are not entirely to blame however. It is likely that I have helped cultivate this image as a cad, a ne’er do well with a devil-may-care attitude, but for all this, I have also tried to be nice to you ladies. I have hugged you guys and shaken the god damned hands. I have met your sisters and been nice to them for Christ’s sake. I  have listened intently while your boyfriend has heard your blather for weeks, months and God forbid, years. I have been there for your birthday and we exchange niceties and pretend that we’re buddies and we’re really cool with each other and life is good! We both think this dude you’re dating is great but I must tell you... all this time I have been pretending. I don’t particularly care for you. Your conversations are boring and insipid. Your jokes suck. I don’t want to be with, on or around any of your female friends, should you even have any. Your boyfriend and I roll our eyes all the fucking time when you say shit. If I am guilty of one crime in our relationship it is being a phony. I have pretended to like you just so I can hang around with your boyfriend.

    I recently ended a three year relationship. I will spare you the details but suffice it to say that at the end of it all, certain and many people in my life breathed a sigh of relief, some of them audibly(!) and I was shocked. All along  they were biding their time waiting for it to end so they could tell me what they really thought of her. Thank you for the late breaking news friends, but Ol’ Tone is made of more efficient stuff.

    To all who read this I now pledge that I am no longer going to be nice to your chick or your dude in order to hang out with you. Who am I doing a favor for when I am kind to them. You? Hey, I love you and we both know there aren’t wedding bells in the future. Me? Its like pulling teeth listening to her boring anecdotes and her little jabs against you when I’m around. No, your significant other is the only one who benefits from my niceties and in return what? I am still the Vampire. One guy said that “...at the end of the day we are likely to be punished for our kindnesses...” and its true. Ladies, you know that guy who booty calls your BFF when he is pissed and generally treats her like trash (yet she thinks they are dating)? Why are you making it comfortable for him to be around all the time? Gentlemen, your buddy’s chick who insults him in front of you, chides him or stomps around the house and slams cupboard doors when you are over? Why are you trying to placate her? These are clearly the actions of an unreasonable person!

    I refuse to shuck and jive and dance to your bullshit tune. I think it will make my life easier and more fun. I am put on this earth to improve my life as well as the lives of those around me and I think that while shining a light on how I feel about your lover may hurt our relationship for a while, I would rather this than waiting until its inevitable end and muttering, “Thank fucking God”, because where was I when you needed me? You know those long wooden pilings you see jutting up around the dock when you go to the waterfront? Thats me, bro. I may have a few birds sit on me from time to time. I may even get shit on, but I am a constant. When that boat or ship runs aground, that piling is still there, leaning a little to the left. The boat is at the bottom, but I’m still there.

    In closing, it is only fair that I ask you a question that has plagued me since you guys started dating. Who’s weak-ass undermining bullshit do I refuse to put up with just to have a few laughs with you to gedda drink around here?

Bartender of the Week

Folks, meet Matt. Matt works at a joint I like to hang out in in New West. He’s a quick and entertaining bartender and he laughs at my jokes. Some of you may recognize him from slangin’ drinks around the LM, but The Drink Urban Lounge is fortunate enough to have him now. You are thinking there are no decent joints in New West anymore and you’d be wrong. The Drink is located on Columbia, 609, between the cop shop and, umm, the skytrain. Great place to bring a date and chill out. Real lounge style atmosphere with good music, cool servers and a stellar bartender, the aforementioned Matt. I met him there a few months ago, and the practiced hand with which he crafted a Whiskey Sour spoke volumes about his experience behind the Wood. I would highly recommend The Drink any night of the week, including the weekend. New Westminster looks like its shaping up in the past few years, and I for one am happy that a place like The Drink has staked its claim as a place to be for stylish, happening types like myself. Be stylish and happening. Dress cool, no hoodies or booty shorts. Its a casual atmosphere with nice low lighting where you can hang out with folks who like a nice mixed crowd, nice mixed beverages and a nice mixture of lovely females. Check The Drink Urban Lounge out at www.tagpubs.com. In closing, I’ve just GOT to ask, who’s stylish and happening bar do I have to sit at to gedda drink around here?

Complicated Handshake Drink

I gotta tell ya,  I am concerned about the state of human relations in this day and age. How we meet and greet each other says a lot about our relationships. Some of us have known each other since elementary school, high school or since we started working together. Some of us have only just met. Some of you know that I have worked in various nightclubs and bars around the lower mainland for several years now. In addition to being the types of places where people meet, greet, fight and frolic, they are also a microcosm of COMPLICATED HANDSHAKES.

    I don’t pretend to know where this whole thing started. Where or when we decided that we wanted an unwritten code between us that demonstrates and solidifies our union, at whatever level, when we meet. A complicated handshake to me means that you are a part of a special group or team and denotes a brotherhood, sisterhood or a bond. Its like a nickname. It means you belong. You have been in the trenches with each other and you value your fellow man’s presence in that brotherhood. While I have never served in the armed forces myself, I find it difficult to believe that there is a more applicable time for brotherhood and belonging, and the need for it, than war. (There are conflicting reports, but I can’t envision a WW2 complicated handshake. I just don’t believe it existed then.) Sure, Freemasons and Skull and Bones and all that stuff. They had their thing but I believe that was more sleight of hand than anything else. I also believe that Complicated Handshake was the product of two or more Bloods during the Vietnam War to solidify their fraternity within a fraternity, in the face of a society that would ask them to fight for a country that still denied  them certain human rights at home and abroad.

    Sports teams as well can be credited for many interpretations of the Complicated Handshake. Players on teams of fast paced sports like soccer or basketball employ a quick high five or hand slap. Football too. Baseball has its own thing. Baseballers have such elaborate hand rituals that they are sometimes hard to follow. In baseball players defense, however, they have little else to do during a game, nay a season. These styles and customs then trickle down to the fans, the public, for the same reason their appeal first came about. Brotherhood and belonging. Team.

   Let me meander around to the point. Whenever I meet someone new, as happens a lot with my employment, I am forced to guess which Complicated Handshake the person I am meeting would like to employ. The handshake my father taught me was the Classic. Wedge the thumbs. Fingers around the bottom of the other person’s hand. Grip firmly. Shake vertically. Repeat as needed. It is my experience that even when employing this handshake you will, say 75% of the time, receive a hand goose from the other guy trying to do the four-finger lock with the double shake. Escape or succumb to this, you will likely be met with a fist, held horizontally or vertically, bobbing in space. By the time you feel sorry for this dude for holding his mitt up and you decide to give him a “pound”, he has dropped his fist in anticipation of being “left hanging”. You then pound the empty air and he brings his up and you drop yours and you both smile and chuckle because you both look like idiots. How many times have you seen the ladies at the bar or in the office yelp “High-Five! High-Five!” while one of them holds their hand up waiting for the other. No REAL high five needs an announcement. It should be unspoken. The next sporting event you view on TV, watch what happens when your team scores. You will see, down on the ice, the field, the gridiron, and unspoken bond between players as they enact a ritual that goes unspoken, but speaks volumes. Then watch as the camera pans up to the big box seats to two septuagenarian team owners sharing 3-5 attempts at a mottled, age spotted High Five. Fingers akimbo. Faces hangdog. Colostomy bags on hips (yay for us! another million), as the High Five God shudders on his throne somewhere in a back room of the Sports Hall of Fame, or perhaps behind that long black wall in Washington, D.C.

The Throne


It is getting really hard to guess what the other person is up to when you greet them. I prefer to come over the top and shake regular, but again, others may employ a different strategy. I guess my point is, until we establish a bond that may warrant a secret, Complicated Handshake, when you and I meet next, lets do it the regular way.
  As I write this, I sit in the Happy Landing Lounge at YVR waiting for my younger brother to touch down on the 7:12 from Fort St. John.  You will see few complicated handshakes here in the airport. You will see those who have been apart for some time. You will see them smiling with their eyes and faces, arms open. Women hug, men shake hand, and maybe a loose arm around the shoulder.  For some folks its been too long. Others, maybe mother-in-law types, not long enough. If you were here right now, you would see two brothers meet each other in just a few minutes.  We’ll shake each others hands. Like our father taught us. Wedge the thumbs. Fingers around the bottom of the other person’s hand. Grip firmly. Shake vertically. Repeat as needed.

Oh! Here comes Shithead! In closing, I guess I should ask you, who’s hand do I have to shake to gedda drink around here?

Guilty Pleasure Drink

"Well we all have a face 
That we hide away forever
And we take them out and
Show ourselves
When everyone has gone..."
Billy Joel - The Stranger




You ever get into someones car and they JAM the CD player off, or switch the song really quick when it starts playing? They were listening to it at high volume as they pulled in and were probably singing but now there is someone else around and they are sure the song is not fit for public consumption. At least, they don't want you to KNOW they listen to it. It could be a genre or it could be just one song. Could be from the seventies or from a movie soundtrack. Its definitely CHEESY. Could be Lionel Richie. Could be Backstreet, we don't know. At home, you shake it in your bathroom with that song blaring, singing into your hairbrush. You stop.You look at yourself. You wonder what the fuck you are doing, because you realize you have a $125 Karaoke machine downstairs WITH AN ACTUAL REAL MICROPHONE ON IT. You tell your reflection you'll be right back. Okay, here goes. Restart song. You imagine singing this song in front of a crowd of millions, and you hope they are either punching the air with their fists or quietly shedding a tear in silent admiration, holding their lighters aloft. Does anyone out there have a guilty pleasure song that nobody knows they like, but when you hear it, you wanna sing? You know the one I'm talking about, you cheeseball. Feel free to post anonymously... Let er rip. Failing that, who's head do I have to duct tape my headphones to and blast Kenny Loggins' "Meet Me Halfway" at vol. 11 to gedda drink around here?

Robot Cashier Drink

Everyone can rejoice now when visiting their local supermarket. Instead of waiting for inept teenagers to ring your items in, now you can wait for inept customers to do it! While I'm less likely to get owly with a biker ham-handedly jamming his club card number in than the pimply 18 year old who used to run the till, I still believe that the level of frustration can be the same, if not greater. With the till we were corralled down these corridors between US magazine and a wall of  candy bars and that twilight zone between the impulse gum and the horoscope scrolls is the point of no return. These self-checkouts are set up, usually in groups of four, two facing two, often with little or NO SUPERVISION! Can we be trusted? No, for one cashier hovers around on standby waiting for frustration levels to rise enough that she comes to help us, but for that, we're on our own out here. There is a soothing female voice that lets you and everyone else know that you have an UNIDENTIFIED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA and to PLEASE REMOVE it, as well as offering you the obligatory pleasantries such as "please" and "thank you". (They grasp the concept of gratitude?) I guess my main problem with these tills is actually that jobs have been replaced by machines, save for the mother hen standby cashier, who was obviously the one cashier with the most seniority of the 4 who got canned in order to make way for the rise of the machines. She says hello and has a smile on, but as she probably prepared for these tills to arrive on the scene, perhaps I should ignore her completely in preparation for her inevitable departure. It would be incredibly rude however, and may result in an UNIDENTIFIED ITEM IN MY BAGGING AREA. This whole situation begs the question, who's head do I have to beat my 7-digit club card number into after buying the ingredients to Ol' Tone's Po' Boy Goulash to gedda drink around here?

Bartender of the Week drink

Steve "Young Man" McLeod - Shark Club Langley - Sept. 26th


For the first bartender of the week, I gotta go with my own home bar and a mate that knows how to slang a drink. This cool as a cucumber bottle jockey is quick with a joke, or a light of your smoke and gets me my drinks for free. He's got deft hand for the mixed drinks and a seventh sense about when your brew is low. A sly wit, an eye for the ladies, (especially his  own) and a disdain for middle management puts Young Man in first place. Show up, test his mettle and his almost encyclopedic knowledge of movie lines... www.sharkclubs.com

Eugene Mow at Central City Brew Pub in Surrey - Runner Up.

Stop by an wish old Euge congratulations on his recent marriage to local beauty/celebrity Tash Busch. Whatta team these two make. Eugene runs the bar here at Central with a certain panache not found in your run of the mill local pub. Quick with a kind word and a devillish grin, its always a pleasure being served at Mow's Tavern...

www.centralcitybrewing.com

Some of us DID have to work this weekend... Here are a few pics of the friends and festivities...

Dustin Cross Drink

I met Dustin Cross down at the Sheraton Wall Center for drinks with the rest of his real estate team. Its funny how much you forget. I haven't seen Dustin in 19 years, but we picked up right where we left off. Telling stupid jokes and making each other piss ourselves laughing... Dusty and I used to chill in his room reading Mad Magazines for hours on end, howling with laughter. We hadda few brews at the hotel lounge, then fucked off to this little Irish pub down Burrard a few blocks. He gave me a lowdown on what had been goin on in Regina since I'd left, and I told him the shit that I've been up to. All in all it was a fucking fantastic night with an old buddy that I didn't realize how much I'd missed. There was a time in my youth that Ol' Dusty D and I were rarely apart. I considered him one of my solid friends back then, when solid friends were tough to come by, and I feel the same now. The only bummer of the evening was that my camera died, so all I had was my shitty cell phone camera. I got one pic anyway. If there is any one reason to head back to Regina for my 20 year reunion, Its to see Dustin... Thanks for the memories man! NO DICE! So my question is this... What old buddy do I have to sit around, get drunk and have non-stop laughs with to gedda drink around here?

Shut Your Fucking Mouth Drink

I cannot stand it when I am being introduced to the staff of a new job and the boss/manager/acting assistant to the traveling secretary says, "We work hard. We play hard." Really. Oh, this sounds like a place I wanna work. That doesn't mean anything. Work hard? I don't have a colege education! I'll make do! Its not a fucking salt mine for god's sake. And play hard. You wanna play hard, come out with me and the Miserable Bastards on a Wednesday night! For openers, pal, your staff doesn't even like you. Sure they get together, but you aren't invited. You are stuck in that manager/buddy delusional twilight zone. If one or more of your employees has a bang on impression of you, you are not well liked...  Work hard/play hard my ass. I must have heard it about 20 times. 'Course, I've had a lot of jobs. None of them were going anywhere though. So I ask you, what middle management do I have to be the thorn in the side of to gedda drink around here?

High School Buddy Drink

Gonna meet the one and only Dustin Cross, an old high school buddy. Its been 19 years. We'll be downtown at some low-rent dump havin a few drinks. Pics to follow... 'Til then I'm gonna do the usual Thursday thing. Hang out outside the courthouse shouting, "A man is DEAD! What are you gonna DO about it?", at whoever walks out the door... Who do I have to saddle with crippling guilt to gedda drink around here?

Ex girlfriend drink (part 2)

Well, I got what I SUPPOSE were the rest of the goods back. A serious tug-of-war over something that could have been solved ages ago. My question is this. Who do I have to be glad I never had a kid with to gedda drink around here?

Ex girlfriend drink (part 1)

Months ago, after being unceremoniously kicked out of the place I shared with my girlfriend, her 2 kids AND her mother, I was on the hunt for a new crib. Single again, I would begin anew and  would buy all the things I'd left behind. Anything is replaceable... With the exception of about 6 or 7 THOUSAND pieces of LEGO that had been in my family since, like, the seventies. I realize my older brother has a one year old that would love these in a few years. I cannot face the slings and arrows of my family members when they find out that the LEGOS are gone, especially to a young lady they were none too fond of. Not a chance.  I call her, no answer. Leave message. No response. I finally show up to her work. "Sorry, I've been busy...", she mutters. I tell her I need them back ASAP, and I need her to separate MY LEGOS from her sons LEGO. Since I'd lived with them, about 2 years, he has collected maybe 3 sets of LEGOS. Batman and stuff. Not old school LEGO. We know the difference. Well, she won't have time! I tell her to take care of it and then, in a moment of weakness, I say, "Take 2 months. Sept. 20th I'll be by to pick up the LEGOS and any other stuff I left behind." Now, 2 months is a long time. Lots of LEGOS though. Shouldn't be a big problem. Sept. 20th rolls around. She has 2 kids, whom I love dearly, a mom and a new boyfriend. You can either choose to have these people there, or not have them there on the 20th. Easier for everyone if its just you and me, right? Nope. Its better for her to have everyone there. No worries. Ol' Tone handles it like a champ and shakes the new guys hand. Accepts hugs and kisses from said kids. A hello and a smile from the mom. Dog licks face. Clearly I was an unconscionable BASTARD when I lived here. ANYWAY, the ex and I joke around while the kids try (and succeed!) to impress me with new moves they've learned since I've been gone. Cartwheels, jumping on one foot, somersaults, you know. Well. Adios. I tell the kids that I miss them, and they respond the same way. I'm off. I am home and I go through the stuff and the LEGOS I get back are pictured. Seriously. about 800 pieces. I know they are toys, people. I know people have lost Zillions of dollars in divorces and all that. Its just that these belong to MY family, not hers. I call her up and she proceeds to tell me that she forgot to do it until last night, at which point she got her son to do it. She then acts as if the whole thing is a joke and for me to relax. I tell her that I will come and take ALL the LEGOS,  regardless of who they belong to, if she is gonna screw around. She says she'll have em ready by Tuesday. We shall see. My question is this, people. Who do I hafta not  screw around on but  just get so incredibly bored and disgusted with fucking so she THINKS I'm cheating and will wonder  why I never come to bed at night and when we DO have sex, I fake a few orgasms (no, it wasn't just the one she caught me faking) with to gedda drink around here?

Whose close relative or best friend's head do I have to shave a few lines from the script of "The Untouchables" into to gedda drink around here?

Whose address do I have to mail seven of ten of his own fingers to after cutting them off with my moms pinking shears before dragging him bleeding through South London streets, finally cauterizing the wounds with the dash lighter from a Ford Econoline, slap him in the face, bundle him up nicely so he doesn't catch a cold on the way to the airport, get him a one way back to his hometown of Cleveland where I've placed nude photos of his girlfriend around his crummy one bedroom apartment to gedda drink around here?

Gedda Drink

Who do I have to screw to gedda drink around here?