Apparently Corey Hart Drives a Fiero and he's a blogger, which is awesome. He seems to be blogging like it's 1990 or something, which is rad.
http://coreyhartdrivesafiero.blogspot.com
Facts:
-Corey Heart invented awesome.
-Corey Hart invented the Fiero.
-Corey Hart invented Corey Hart.
En Why See
New York was fun. We did lots of stuff, sold lots of Table Shox, and my Mom even gave me a haircut. Good times.
Scott saw some pigs
We saw this guy.
My car's the red one in the middle.
My new super-hero name is "Bag of Chinese food Carrying Steam Man"
The name says it all.
We saw this guy.
Evian lived on "the wild side".
Scott's first bite of Peking Duck....ever. Rachel was very proud of him.
Jeep makes "off road" vehicles.
Subways are fun.
Dom got a new bird shirt.
Scott saw some pigs
We saw this guy.
My car's the red one in the middle.
My new super-hero name is "Bag of Chinese food Carrying Steam Man"
The name says it all.
We saw this guy.
Evian lived on "the wild side".
Scott's first bite of Peking Duck....ever. Rachel was very proud of him.
Jeep makes "off road" vehicles.
Subways are fun.
Dom got a new bird shirt.
Not Many Posts
Yeah, been kinda busy with oneredpaperclip.com
You can follow along there for more info on my whereabouts and miscellaneous happenings.
I'll post some good pictures and stuff here at kylemacd.com over the next few days.
have fun.
kyle
You can follow along there for more info on my whereabouts and miscellaneous happenings.
I'll post some good pictures and stuff here at kylemacd.com over the next few days.
have fun.
kyle
Canadian Cigarette packs
Heading south tomorrow on good ol' I-87 to NYC. Gonna be there till next Wednesday. Table Shox stuff.
Probably won't be seeing any of these wonderful Canadian Cigarette packages for nearly a week!
I don't smoke or anything, this is just a roundabout way of bringing the ridiculously-awesome Canuck smoke pack warning labels to your attention.
Later, Kyle
And it's only Nov 10th
Ok, I'm not sure if you're into web design or whatever, I'm not, but I'm slowly being sucked into it. This is my traffic for goingpostal3000.com, my old site. This traffic is because pretty much all of my pictures are hosted there and 25 000 people a day just started showing up to these sites instead of the usual 100 or so. Up until yesterday, I only ever went through about 10% of my max-allowable bandwidth a month.
Yesterday I went through 50% of my enite bandwidth for November.
So I signed up for a flickr pro account and now have the painstaking task of recoding everything away from the Going Postal 3000 site. I'm sure there's an easier way to do this but flickr seems to be rad and tredy and all the mega web geeks are in there, so it's gotta be good.
Check out my flickr site and comment and stuff if you like. I'll post lots of really sweet pictures there now that it's way easier to do so.
Later
kyle
Black cats are good luck: PROOF
A couple of days ago, I made a post about a black cat that crossed my path and how this means good luck to me. I then made an attempt at 'humour' by trying to shine a positive light on all the FREE or YOU JUST WON or DEAR RESPECTABLE SIRS Nigerian email scam stuff that ends up in my, and everyone else on the planet's, email box every day. I thought it was funny, and I had a little chuckle to myself.
Then a few big time blogs somehow got their hands on the site feed for one red paperclip, posted it, and the next thing you know my phone rings and I hear: "Hey Kyle, it's so and so from (enter media outlet here) in (enter city here) in (enter coutry of choice here). Do you want to go on the air and tell you story about the one red paperclip to (enter number here) million listeners?
Needless to say, this was a bit better proof that the black cat was good luck than those shallow attempts at shine-the-best-light-on-those-spam-emails style humour I tried on Tuesday.
If you wanna fan the flames to help the whole 'trade from one red paperclip up to one house' thing actually happen, feel free to post a link to http://www.oneredpaperclip.blogspot.com at as many of these websites as you can!
In related good luck news, I always take it as a sign of good luck everytime I see a white goat. White goats are cool.
There's this lady that lives at the outskirts of Dom's village, St-Alexis-Des-Monts, who has this crazy stash of white goats, and everytime we go up to St-Alexis, I look to see if her white goats are out of the barn. If they aren't, no biggie, it's not bad luck, but if they are out - oh boy, it's blues skies for the foreseeable future.
It'll be cool to see if the white goats are out of the barn next time we roll into St-Alexis. I'll keep you posted - maybe I'll take a picture of them.
Bye for now,
Kyle
Then a few big time blogs somehow got their hands on the site feed for one red paperclip, posted it, and the next thing you know my phone rings and I hear: "Hey Kyle, it's so and so from (enter media outlet here) in (enter city here) in (enter coutry of choice here). Do you want to go on the air and tell you story about the one red paperclip to (enter number here) million listeners?
Needless to say, this was a bit better proof that the black cat was good luck than those shallow attempts at shine-the-best-light-on-those-spam-emails style humour I tried on Tuesday.
If you wanna fan the flames to help the whole 'trade from one red paperclip up to one house' thing actually happen, feel free to post a link to http://www.oneredpaperclip.blogspot.com at as many of these websites as you can!
In related good luck news, I always take it as a sign of good luck everytime I see a white goat. White goats are cool.
There's this lady that lives at the outskirts of Dom's village, St-Alexis-Des-Monts, who has this crazy stash of white goats, and everytime we go up to St-Alexis, I look to see if her white goats are out of the barn. If they aren't, no biggie, it's not bad luck, but if they are out - oh boy, it's blues skies for the foreseeable future.
It'll be cool to see if the white goats are out of the barn next time we roll into St-Alexis. I'll keep you posted - maybe I'll take a picture of them.
Bye for now,
Kyle
hits
My websites got about 100 unique visitors yesterday.
Then last night, while we all slept, Boing Boing and digg caught wind of one red paperclip and posted a link to it on their sites.
My websites got more than 20 000 unique visitors today.
Needless to say, this makes blogging a lot more fun. Later. Kyle.
Then last night, while we all slept, Boing Boing and digg caught wind of one red paperclip and posted a link to it on their sites.
My websites got more than 20 000 unique visitors today.
Needless to say, this makes blogging a lot more fun. Later. Kyle.
Black Cat
A black cat just crossed my path on my way home. Now, the current popular superstition is that this is bad luck, but my outlook is a little different.
The first 25 years of my life were spent in the vicinity of black cats. My parents got Ebony, black cat #1 before I was born. When they brought me home from the hospital back in good old 1979, Ebony arrived at my bedroom with a present.
A mouse.
Ebony crossed my path daily and brought hundreds more presents to the family right up until she packed it in eight years ago. Within a matter of months though, black cat #2, Diva, came on the scene and she's brought nothing but good luck - and presents.
So, to all of you who think black cats are bad luck, I say phooey. Black cats are good luck. That's it. Hang on, I'll prove it, let me go check my email...
Guess what was in my inbox!
-Get a complimentary Sony VAIO Laptop!
-Market Research Get an Ipod Video on us!
-Find out how you could receive a Free PS3 when they become available!
--Designer Accessories You could be stylin' with new LV accessories Get them free!
-Designer purse You could get a LV purse and matching wallet we'll pick up the tab!
-Get a Sony VAIO Laptop on us!
Wow, 2 FREE Sony VAIO laptops, FREE IPOD, FREE PS3, a FREE designer purse, and FREE designer accessories! I told you black cats were lucky. This is perfect, I've been holding back on purchasing designer accessories. Now I know why!
The first 25 years of my life were spent in the vicinity of black cats. My parents got Ebony, black cat #1 before I was born. When they brought me home from the hospital back in good old 1979, Ebony arrived at my bedroom with a present.
A mouse.
Ebony crossed my path daily and brought hundreds more presents to the family right up until she packed it in eight years ago. Within a matter of months though, black cat #2, Diva, came on the scene and she's brought nothing but good luck - and presents.
So, to all of you who think black cats are bad luck, I say phooey. Black cats are good luck. That's it. Hang on, I'll prove it, let me go check my email...
Guess what was in my inbox!
-Get a complimentary Sony VAIO Laptop!
-Market Research Get an Ipod Video on us!
-Find out how you could receive a Free PS3 when they become available!
--Designer Accessories You could be stylin' with new LV accessories Get them free!
-Designer purse You could get a LV purse and matching wallet we'll pick up the tab!
-Get a Sony VAIO Laptop on us!
Wow, 2 FREE Sony VAIO laptops, FREE IPOD, FREE PS3, a FREE designer purse, and FREE designer accessories! I told you black cats were lucky. This is perfect, I've been holding back on purchasing designer accessories. Now I know why!
Generator BLOW-OUT
Hey, I hope this new site “does the trick” for you.
It’s been a long time since I first thought about dropping goingpostal300.com in favor of a simpler domain name. Fun times.
I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I’m still trying to trade the Honda EX 1000 generator I got last month. The generator is awesome. 1000 Watts of fun. I’ll be in Montreal until Thursday night then it’s down to New York for five days or so. I’d really like to trade this generator this week. I just haven’t had the time to put it to proper use, like for hosting a rager out on an acreage. That needs to change. I thought about using the generator to power my computer while I'm in construction mode around here, just to get in the spirit of things, but it turns out Dom doesn't like gas fumes, so that option's out.
Anyhow, pass word around, somebody’s gotta know a cool cat down in NYC who needs a 1000 Watt generator. Tell 'em they can read all about how I got my grubby paws on it at oneredpaperclip.com Bye for now, Kyle.
It’s been a long time since I first thought about dropping goingpostal300.com in favor of a simpler domain name. Fun times.
I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I’m still trying to trade the Honda EX 1000 generator I got last month. The generator is awesome. 1000 Watts of fun. I’ll be in Montreal until Thursday night then it’s down to New York for five days or so. I’d really like to trade this generator this week. I just haven’t had the time to put it to proper use, like for hosting a rager out on an acreage. That needs to change. I thought about using the generator to power my computer while I'm in construction mode around here, just to get in the spirit of things, but it turns out Dom doesn't like gas fumes, so that option's out.
Anyhow, pass word around, somebody’s gotta know a cool cat down in NYC who needs a 1000 Watt generator. Tell 'em they can read all about how I got my grubby paws on it at oneredpaperclip.com Bye for now, Kyle.
Sweeping Changes
Finally got around to making some big changes to my internet presence. Over the next little bit, goingpostal3000.com will become kylemacd.com and I'll create independent sites for one red paperclip and Message in a Barrel. The site might be down over the next few days, so don't fret, just a little old fashioned website maintenance going on.
Here's temporary drafts of the new websites (these are superhack right now, but will get better and better)
http://www.oneredpaperclip.blogspot.com
http://www.kylemacd.blogspot.com
http://www.messageinabarrel.blogspot.com
Let me know what you think needs to go on these sites. The domain names will be:
http://www.kylemacd.com
http://www.oneredpaperclip.com
http://www.messageinabarrel.com
(goingpostal3000.com will be buried deep in the earth, I pretty much just used it cause it was the first name that came to mind, don't ask why.)
I really want to get independent RSS feeds going for all these sites. Rumour has it that syndication is sweeping the nation, and I want to get swept up in the fun.
In related sweeping news, a bunch of us, including Dom, me, Matt and Fanny went curling last night. It was awesome.
Yes, this is a head or tails MACHINE. Leave it to the curlers to blow minds. Leave it to the curlers.
Here's temporary drafts of the new websites (these are superhack right now, but will get better and better)
http://www.oneredpaperclip.blogspot.com
http://www.kylemacd.blogspot.com
http://www.messageinabarrel.blogspot.com
Let me know what you think needs to go on these sites. The domain names will be:
http://www.kylemacd.com
http://www.oneredpaperclip.com
http://www.messageinabarrel.com
(goingpostal3000.com will be buried deep in the earth, I pretty much just used it cause it was the first name that came to mind, don't ask why.)
I really want to get independent RSS feeds going for all these sites. Rumour has it that syndication is sweeping the nation, and I want to get swept up in the fun.
In related sweeping news, a bunch of us, including Dom, me, Matt and Fanny went curling last night. It was awesome.
Yes, this is a head or tails MACHINE. Leave it to the curlers to blow minds. Leave it to the curlers.
Bois
Unlike yesterday, I didn't write a single rhyme today. Unlike yesterday, I didn't write 250 rhymes today either. However, unlike yesterday, today I DID stack 6 cords of wood in Dom's Grandma's basement. 6 cords of wood is a lot.
Bois is french for wood.
Brisebois means 'Brokenwood'.
I guess every time Patrice Brisebois steps onto the ice, Quebecois TV announcers cross their fingers in the hope that he will break his stick so they can unleash their latest hilarious isn't-it-so-ironic wisecrack Brisebois-breaking-his-stick comment. Although, this would only ever occur on a station like SRC and it'd be in French and Brisebois might not use a wood stick, so the chance that any of us will ever witness such an event is extremely low.
Which, of course, makes it so much more awesome.
Cord.
Oh yeah, I'm also pretty upset with this shirt. Some people are so mean.
Bois is french for wood.
Brisebois means 'Brokenwood'.
I guess every time Patrice Brisebois steps onto the ice, Quebecois TV announcers cross their fingers in the hope that he will break his stick so they can unleash their latest hilarious isn't-it-so-ironic wisecrack Brisebois-breaking-his-stick comment. Although, this would only ever occur on a station like SRC and it'd be in French and Brisebois might not use a wood stick, so the chance that any of us will ever witness such an event is extremely low.
Which, of course, makes it so much more awesome.
Cord.
Oh yeah, I'm also pretty upset with this shirt. Some people are so mean.
Rhyme Time
Been writing rhymes all day long. Not sure why, I've never done it before. Just downed a few cups of coffee in the morning and never looked back. Maybe it's Tom Green's new rap album with beats by one of the Dust Brothers that put me in the mood. Yeah, you could say I'm definitely in an upbeat, comedic white guy rap mood. Mix The Beasties with Beck and add a bit of Tribe Called Quest jazz rap flavor to the mix, and that's where I'm at. I think I'll start a hip hop outfit. We'll be called Followers of the Old School and I'm MC MacD. Anyone else in?
Here's a sample of some rhymes of the day (in no particular order)
Win the World Series
Like the Soxes
With a Jack Russell
You can hunt foxes
A seagull ain’t an eagle
And a beagle ain’t a lamb
If you wanna eat toast
Then spread the jam
Like a liger I’m bred
For my skills and magic
I’ve heard you rhyme
It’s pretty tragic
Like hanging with people
Who make me think
Like hanging with people
Who make me drink
A Colt 45
Is a quality gun
The Portuguese
Make a nice bun
A Colt 45
Is a quality beer
If you buy a jet
Get a lear
A canker for a wanker
And a chore for a bore
We got a lot of rhymes
We got rhymes galore
If you wanna sleep late
You gotta hit snooze
The puck’s in the net
And you’re gonna lose
Up and down
Side to side
Slow moving vehicles
Are usually wide
Back up sit down
You’re making me frown
I went to Burger King
They gave me a crown
Got a thick wallet
Like George Kostanza
Everything’s in it
It’s a total bonanza
Checking you out
Like a cashier
You drink cider
I drink beer
If you think my rhymes
are predictable
I’ll end the next line
With orange
Nothing rhymes with orange
Not apple or banana
Like to eat fruit
And piranha
Hiccup in a pickup
Tan in van
Don’t like the song
Then push scan
Always like to drive
A Subaru
You’re just a nail
And I’m a screw
When I eat an apple
I always hiccup
My teeth are clean
From their 6 month chickup
40s on credit
At the depanneur
Don’t call her sister
Call her soeur
Check the mic
Check it real real good
You gotta check the mic
You really really should
So break up the fight
And go close the light
It’s the end of the night
And I wanna get a bite
Cold in the winter
Hot in the summer
The chicks in the clubs
Might give you a hummer
It’s all done now
It’s over you see
You paid the cover
I got in for free
Seen lotsa chicks
Wearing a scarf
Seen lotsa dudes
Cold watched them barf
Diversionary tactic
Measures are drastic
A big cup of coffee
Will make me spastic
Not many Kyles
Have stood where I’ve stood
Grew up in a house
Made outta wood
Go buy a Toyota
Go buy an Echo
Buy some insurance
Buy it from the Gecko
I like to smoke
cig-a-rettes
When I wager
I win all my bets
Lite Brite
Lite Brite
Drink some Jager
And start a fight
Yeti pizzaghetti
From the himalaya
Know lots of chicks
Are you a playa?
Got a picture of an eagle
On my back
A big Poutine
Makes a great snack
Got an auto
J’ai un char
Jean Leloup
Il joue de la guitare
If you stuck around this far, then you might find this next bit intriguing. It's the lead in to my new biased skiing vs. snowboarding tribute song called Four Edges. I haven't started writing it yet, but I have the lead in:
"This goes out to all the mid 1990s snowboarders out there. I’m talking about all you firefighter pant-wearing, 1985 Ford Escort with the Alice in Chains Jar of Flies tape stuck in your aftermarket Alpine faceplate tape deck at the Mount Baker banked slalom where everybody's still upset about Kurt Cobain with your freshly shaved head sitting on your ass in the park bumming smokes from a teenager, dude. This next one goes out to you."
Here's a sample of some rhymes of the day (in no particular order)
Win the World Series
Like the Soxes
With a Jack Russell
You can hunt foxes
A seagull ain’t an eagle
And a beagle ain’t a lamb
If you wanna eat toast
Then spread the jam
Like a liger I’m bred
For my skills and magic
I’ve heard you rhyme
It’s pretty tragic
Like hanging with people
Who make me think
Like hanging with people
Who make me drink
A Colt 45
Is a quality gun
The Portuguese
Make a nice bun
A Colt 45
Is a quality beer
If you buy a jet
Get a lear
A canker for a wanker
And a chore for a bore
We got a lot of rhymes
We got rhymes galore
If you wanna sleep late
You gotta hit snooze
The puck’s in the net
And you’re gonna lose
Up and down
Side to side
Slow moving vehicles
Are usually wide
Back up sit down
You’re making me frown
I went to Burger King
They gave me a crown
Got a thick wallet
Like George Kostanza
Everything’s in it
It’s a total bonanza
Checking you out
Like a cashier
You drink cider
I drink beer
If you think my rhymes
are predictable
I’ll end the next line
With orange
Nothing rhymes with orange
Not apple or banana
Like to eat fruit
And piranha
Hiccup in a pickup
Tan in van
Don’t like the song
Then push scan
Always like to drive
A Subaru
You’re just a nail
And I’m a screw
When I eat an apple
I always hiccup
My teeth are clean
From their 6 month chickup
40s on credit
At the depanneur
Don’t call her sister
Call her soeur
Check the mic
Check it real real good
You gotta check the mic
You really really should
So break up the fight
And go close the light
It’s the end of the night
And I wanna get a bite
Cold in the winter
Hot in the summer
The chicks in the clubs
Might give you a hummer
It’s all done now
It’s over you see
You paid the cover
I got in for free
Seen lotsa chicks
Wearing a scarf
Seen lotsa dudes
Cold watched them barf
Diversionary tactic
Measures are drastic
A big cup of coffee
Will make me spastic
Not many Kyles
Have stood where I’ve stood
Grew up in a house
Made outta wood
Go buy a Toyota
Go buy an Echo
Buy some insurance
Buy it from the Gecko
I like to smoke
cig-a-rettes
When I wager
I win all my bets
Lite Brite
Lite Brite
Drink some Jager
And start a fight
Yeti pizzaghetti
From the himalaya
Know lots of chicks
Are you a playa?
Got a picture of an eagle
On my back
A big Poutine
Makes a great snack
Got an auto
J’ai un char
Jean Leloup
Il joue de la guitare
If you stuck around this far, then you might find this next bit intriguing. It's the lead in to my new biased skiing vs. snowboarding tribute song called Four Edges. I haven't started writing it yet, but I have the lead in:
"This goes out to all the mid 1990s snowboarders out there. I’m talking about all you firefighter pant-wearing, 1985 Ford Escort with the Alice in Chains Jar of Flies tape stuck in your aftermarket Alpine faceplate tape deck at the Mount Baker banked slalom where everybody's still upset about Kurt Cobain with your freshly shaved head sitting on your ass in the park bumming smokes from a teenager, dude. This next one goes out to you."
My Perblogative
The only thing I remember how to play on the piano other than that 'knuckle-rolly' blom, bloom, bloom thingy is the bass line to 'My Perogative' by Bobby Brown.
Arrived early for my 3:30 doctor appointment today and cracked open a 8 month old issue of Macleans to learn that Tommy Lee, Bobby Brown and David Foster’s wife are all about to get reality TV shows. Just as I was thinking how historical the issue was in the fact that each reality show is surely off the air forever, I looked up at the clock to see it was quarter to 4. Rolled into the receptionist's counter and inquired if I’d been overlooked or if Dr. Boudeau was just running late. She asked my name and told me I was early. I was confused, “do you skip that whole turn back the clock thing in this hospital?” “No”, she replied, “your appointment with Dr. Boudreau is tomorrow.” Waved goodbye and thought about how the much funnier it will be if my appointment tomorrow is for memory loss.
But it’s not.
I don’t think.
PS
Got my driver's license 10 years ago today. Me and Pa drove Grandpa's automatic Dodge Colt out to good ol' Mission BC where I passed with flying colours. Time flies when you're driving fast.
Arrived early for my 3:30 doctor appointment today and cracked open a 8 month old issue of Macleans to learn that Tommy Lee, Bobby Brown and David Foster’s wife are all about to get reality TV shows. Just as I was thinking how historical the issue was in the fact that each reality show is surely off the air forever, I looked up at the clock to see it was quarter to 4. Rolled into the receptionist's counter and inquired if I’d been overlooked or if Dr. Boudeau was just running late. She asked my name and told me I was early. I was confused, “do you skip that whole turn back the clock thing in this hospital?” “No”, she replied, “your appointment with Dr. Boudreau is tomorrow.” Waved goodbye and thought about how the much funnier it will be if my appointment tomorrow is for memory loss.
But it’s not.
I don’t think.
PS
Got my driver's license 10 years ago today. Me and Pa drove Grandpa's automatic Dodge Colt out to good ol' Mission BC where I passed with flying colours. Time flies when you're driving fast.
Shagadelique
Every year on June 24, the Canadian province of Quebec celebrates its "national" holiday, La Fete de St. Jean Baptiste. Booze is drunk, fireworks are launched and people raise their fist in what is arguably the strongest show of inebriated national pride for any territory on the face of the Earth not officially a nation.
This year, while celebtating St. Jean with hundreds of festive Quebeckers at a raging house party in suburban Montreal, I overheard a friend, Anaïs, say something to the effect of: "Elle a shagé avec lui, pas plus" (Translation: She shagged him, nothing else.)
Now this piqued my interest. I pushed the dirty shagadelic thoughts of a celebrating Quebecoise from my mind and thought to myself: Did Anaïs just use "shag" as a French verb? In the past tense? I'm not sure about you, but back in my day, when we learned French in school, they never taught us how to conjuagate the verb "shag." No, in the wonderful French-learning world of english speaking public school, shagging was definitely out of the question. Especially in the past tense.
Fast forward to four days later. I'm in New York minding my own business and finishing up the remains of my 99 cent McChicken on the side walk on some quiet street in the West Village when who do I see? None other than the man responsible for a generation of native French speakers who euphemistically describe faire l'amour, Mike Myers.
So, of course, I stroll up to Wayne/Austin/Dr.Evil/Shrek et al, shake his hand, praise his work, get a pic and provide him with a business card for this website. All in all about the most surreal and awkward 60 seconds of my life. Funny how one minute you can be lost in your own thoughts enjoying low-priced processed poulty and another you bump into the person responsible for embedding the lyrics to Bohemian Rhapsody into the mind of every person born after 1977. It's not every day you meet a living legend. But some days you do. Or did. There's that past tense again.
Anyhow, Mike's probably the most normal guy I've ever met. Scarily normal. He was even with his wife who stood on the corner, tapped her her toe and checked her watch. Eeerily normal, but in an absolutely unforgettable kind of way.
Did I tell him about his linguistic influence on the masses of Quebec? Alas, no. I forgot. Call me evil if you will, call me not worthy if need be, but remember, be thankful for good old words. That's the beauty with writing words instead of speaking words: Forget to bring up that fun little anecdote about some random overheard french conversation during a chance encounter with a multi-talented pop-culture influencing catchphrase creator? You did! Well then just get yourself in front of a computer and fire the words in there exactly how you imagined. And this time, include the word "alas" without receiving an Austin Powers-strength judo chop from a man wearing a wedding band.
And, be able to write, "You put the wrong emPHAsis on the wrong syllABle." while completely alienating all but the hardcore Mike Myers fans.
This year, while celebtating St. Jean with hundreds of festive Quebeckers at a raging house party in suburban Montreal, I overheard a friend, Anaïs, say something to the effect of: "Elle a shagé avec lui, pas plus" (Translation: She shagged him, nothing else.)
Now this piqued my interest. I pushed the dirty shagadelic thoughts of a celebrating Quebecoise from my mind and thought to myself: Did Anaïs just use "shag" as a French verb? In the past tense? I'm not sure about you, but back in my day, when we learned French in school, they never taught us how to conjuagate the verb "shag." No, in the wonderful French-learning world of english speaking public school, shagging was definitely out of the question. Especially in the past tense.
Fast forward to four days later. I'm in New York minding my own business and finishing up the remains of my 99 cent McChicken on the side walk on some quiet street in the West Village when who do I see? None other than the man responsible for a generation of native French speakers who euphemistically describe faire l'amour, Mike Myers.
So, of course, I stroll up to Wayne/Austin/Dr.Evil/Shrek et al, shake his hand, praise his work, get a pic and provide him with a business card for this website. All in all about the most surreal and awkward 60 seconds of my life. Funny how one minute you can be lost in your own thoughts enjoying low-priced processed poulty and another you bump into the person responsible for embedding the lyrics to Bohemian Rhapsody into the mind of every person born after 1977. It's not every day you meet a living legend. But some days you do. Or did. There's that past tense again.
Anyhow, Mike's probably the most normal guy I've ever met. Scarily normal. He was even with his wife who stood on the corner, tapped her her toe and checked her watch. Eeerily normal, but in an absolutely unforgettable kind of way.
Did I tell him about his linguistic influence on the masses of Quebec? Alas, no. I forgot. Call me evil if you will, call me not worthy if need be, but remember, be thankful for good old words. That's the beauty with writing words instead of speaking words: Forget to bring up that fun little anecdote about some random overheard french conversation during a chance encounter with a multi-talented pop-culture influencing catchphrase creator? You did! Well then just get yourself in front of a computer and fire the words in there exactly how you imagined. And this time, include the word "alas" without receiving an Austin Powers-strength judo chop from a man wearing a wedding band.
And, be able to write, "You put the wrong emPHAsis on the wrong syllABle." while completely alienating all but the hardcore Mike Myers fans.
Fantastique
My girlfriend Dom and I moved to Montreal in May of 2004. My parents, who live in Vancouver, came to visit us that August. By July, I’d convinced them to stay with us instead of a bed and breakfast.
“Okay, here’s the deal: you buy us a bed, and stay with us. We need a bed, but you can use it while you’re here. The bed will set you back 200 bucks, 250 max. A week at a bed and breakfast or hotel will cost you 400, minimum. You’ll save money, and we’ll get a bed. It’s win-win!” Dad considered the proposal for a moment, and said, “Sounds good to me. It’s a deal.” I was stoked. We needed a bed. “Sweet, I’ll go get the bed today. And some breakfast.” We laughed. After all, it was funny. But then there was a moment of silence on the line. He came back on the line, cleared his throat, then said in a quiet, worried tone,
“Kyle, you’ve got a fan, don’t you?”
He had reason for concern. He was in Vancouver. Vancouver was in the grip of a “Catastrophic Heatwave”, he said, “I tried to buy a fan today, but couldn’t find one. All the newscasts say that they’re sold out everywhere. I looked all over town for one. There isn’t a single fan for sale in the entire city. Even IKEA is sold out.” What a Catastrophe. His tone of voice suggested the military was about to be called in -- the specially trained fan-carrying heatwave response unit of the Canadian Military.
I however was in Montreal. “No, we don’t have a fan.” Mom picked up the other phone, “Honey, you just make sure there’s a fan there for us when we get to town.” I tried to cool their nerves, “Chill out mom, it’s not that bad,” And then added a cocky, “Actually, it’s been a pretty cool summer out here.” I could picture her face, a comment like that would make it twist into disbelief. She snapped, “Just go out and get a fan.” My Dad wouldn’t take any of my B.S. either, but he had a different approach, “Hey, big guy, you’re a big guy now, right? Why don’t you just go out and buy a fan?” His tone of voice suggested that I would become the fan-buying man he knew I’d one day become, as if it was my destiny. I think he was just jealous I could actually go out and buy a fan easily from a nearby store. Knowing his style, I was surprised he hadn’t ordered a container of fans from China and tried to corner the red-hot Vancouver fan market. I’m sure he’d thought about it.
If you haven’t met my folks already, let me introduce them. My Dad, Ian, has done well in the import/export business, and my Mom, Colleen, recently retired from teaching primary school. Both are fervent minimalist maximalists. Their motto is: If there’s a problem, go to IKEA and buy minimalist furniture -- the more the better. They just built a new house and if you go there and can find a single item of furniture, or bedspread, or thick wooden clothes hanger, or kitchen utensil, or painting inside the entire house not purchased at IKEA, you are officially my hero. They should change their names to Bjorn and Volvo. Neither of them drives a Saab, but that’ll change the day IKEA puts them on the shelf.
Mom’s idea of me growing up is buying Scandinavian furniture in my spare time. My idea of growing up is leaving home so I can spend an afternoon strolling along the sidewalk fishing clothes hangers out of a box on the street. Metal clothes hangers. Free metal clothes hangers.
They called me with one week to go. A cool rain fell on Montreal. Within half a minute, the long-distance guilt trips began to rain down from west coast. If I was trying to be a lame-o ‘punny’ guy, I’d have said that the guilt drips started to rain down. But I was too busy deflecting bucket-filling drops of guilt for that sort of nonsense.
“Honey, you need to grow up some time. There comes a time in life when you’re old enough to buy some nice things for yourself. Why don’t you take Dom to IKEA, I bet she’d like that. I know they’ve got fans there.”
They’d gone crazy. Vancouver Heatwave 2004 was in its third week. The evening newscasts were surely onto their fourth series of hard-hitting graphics by now. The military apparently hadn’t shown up yet. The only thing on their mind was the cool rejuvenating breeze emitted by an oscillating three-speed fan.
“Mom, look, I’ll find one. This city is a gold mine for free stuff.” Now I’d much rather slit my own wrists with a rusty hockey skate blade than spend a morning at IKEA, so I told her in a tone of voice that would satisfy her, but secretly told me I’d do absolutely nothing to make it happen, “Don’t worry, it’ll happen. We will get a fan. Trust me.”
“Well, you make sure you get a good one, not some wimpy old fan. We need a good one. I know how hot it gets back east.” She then put on her best high-pitched first-grader ‘suggestion’ tone (She was a teacher after all): “Why don’t you go get one right now?! Just think how fun it’ll be!”
“Mom. No. Just calm down. It will happen. We’ll find one. It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”
“Okay, I trust you, but, and don’t forget this: you can’t just go around finding electrical equipment in the street. It’s dirty, and besides, it might be a fire hazard.” Guilt trip tactic number one: the fire hazard. Every mother’s secret weapon. I didn’t bother telling her we didn’t have a smoke alarm. No need to ignite a fire.
A few days later, we got Max the landlord to take 20 minutes out of his busy Tuesday to bring over a smoke detector. Naturally, I did absolutely nothing to solve the fan issue.
On Wednesday evening we picked my parents up at the airport. My Dad extended his hand, but before he let it touch mine, he hesitated, pulled back slightly, and said with concerned hope in his eyes, “So, did you get the fan?”
I bit my lip and did my best to improvise. “No, but I checked the weather and it’s supposed to be cool all week. Don’t worry.”
We left it at that. The air was cool enough to keep them quiet for the first few days.
By Friday, things started to heat up, but the apartment was bearable enough not to raise more than an eyebrow of concern from either mom or dad. By Saturday though, Montreal was headlong into a heatwave capable of generating a triple digit death toll. Sweat dripped down the walls of our apartment. On Sunday morning, after one night in the heat, my dad snapped. He came into the kitchen downright cross after a sweaty, sleepless night. He looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and anger. “Why didn’t you get a fan? You know I can’t stand this east coast humidity.”
I looked up from my cereal and said, stupidly, “Well, at least we still have fans in our stores out here.” I immediately wished I hadn’t. He looked at me, his eyes narrowed.
“What’d you say?”
I knew I’d lost. I made him an offer, “Nothing, listen, I’ll get one today.” My mom’s eyes lit up, visibly excited by the mere suggestion that we might spend a day in a retail outlet that sells both meatballs and mousepads, “Maybe we can go to IKEA?”
“Well see”, I said, and looked back down at my cereal.
“Yes, we will see”, said my dad, in a way that suggested my next move would establish his feelings towards me for years to come. What I did next would prove both my responsibility and respectability, not to just myself, but to the entire family. He quietly shook his head and walked towards the back door, on the way out for his morning run. As he stepped out into the penetrating heat, he added, “You know, Kyle, there comes a time when you have to grow up. You can’t just go through life in hope that things will just work themselves out. Obviously you haven’t learned that yet.”
45 minutes later we heard him plod up the stairs. He’s usually a pretty calm guy after a run, but we knew today would be different. He’d just followed up a night in pensioner-killing heat with nearly an hour of ‘east coast humidity.’ His son had just let him down. His eldest son. Worst of all, he was about to arrive in an apartment that could’ve doubled as a Russian steam bath. We braced for the worst.
“Look what I found!” he said, and held up the most ragged assed fan of all time. A four-foot high oscillating fan taped in the middle all crooked like, in three pieces with the safety guard off. It was the sort of fan that even the most hardened, multiple shopping cart-toting bum would pass over in disgust. It was awful, but he beamed with delight. This was his find. His pride. His baby. His fan.
Our jaws dropped.
“And guess what…it works too! I tried it out in the lobby of an apartment building down the street.”
I closed my eyes to savour the image of a mid-run, heavy-breathing, 52 year-old man crouched in the lobby of a respectable apartment building on a Sunday morning nonchalantly inserting the plug of a fan he’d just pulled from a garbage can into the wall, eyes filled with desperate hope that it might work. Sweating.
This was too good.
I plugged the fan into the wall and set it on high. A forceful blast of cool air shot from its grubby blades, instantly clearing the air. I looked over at mom and delivered the bad news.
“Sidewalk one, Sweden zero.”
Copyright © 2005 Kyle MacDonald
Don't forget to join the
“Okay, here’s the deal: you buy us a bed, and stay with us. We need a bed, but you can use it while you’re here. The bed will set you back 200 bucks, 250 max. A week at a bed and breakfast or hotel will cost you 400, minimum. You’ll save money, and we’ll get a bed. It’s win-win!” Dad considered the proposal for a moment, and said, “Sounds good to me. It’s a deal.” I was stoked. We needed a bed. “Sweet, I’ll go get the bed today. And some breakfast.” We laughed. After all, it was funny. But then there was a moment of silence on the line. He came back on the line, cleared his throat, then said in a quiet, worried tone,
“Kyle, you’ve got a fan, don’t you?”
He had reason for concern. He was in Vancouver. Vancouver was in the grip of a “Catastrophic Heatwave”, he said, “I tried to buy a fan today, but couldn’t find one. All the newscasts say that they’re sold out everywhere. I looked all over town for one. There isn’t a single fan for sale in the entire city. Even IKEA is sold out.” What a Catastrophe. His tone of voice suggested the military was about to be called in -- the specially trained fan-carrying heatwave response unit of the Canadian Military.
I however was in Montreal. “No, we don’t have a fan.” Mom picked up the other phone, “Honey, you just make sure there’s a fan there for us when we get to town.” I tried to cool their nerves, “Chill out mom, it’s not that bad,” And then added a cocky, “Actually, it’s been a pretty cool summer out here.” I could picture her face, a comment like that would make it twist into disbelief. She snapped, “Just go out and get a fan.” My Dad wouldn’t take any of my B.S. either, but he had a different approach, “Hey, big guy, you’re a big guy now, right? Why don’t you just go out and buy a fan?” His tone of voice suggested that I would become the fan-buying man he knew I’d one day become, as if it was my destiny. I think he was just jealous I could actually go out and buy a fan easily from a nearby store. Knowing his style, I was surprised he hadn’t ordered a container of fans from China and tried to corner the red-hot Vancouver fan market. I’m sure he’d thought about it.
If you haven’t met my folks already, let me introduce them. My Dad, Ian, has done well in the import/export business, and my Mom, Colleen, recently retired from teaching primary school. Both are fervent minimalist maximalists. Their motto is: If there’s a problem, go to IKEA and buy minimalist furniture -- the more the better. They just built a new house and if you go there and can find a single item of furniture, or bedspread, or thick wooden clothes hanger, or kitchen utensil, or painting inside the entire house not purchased at IKEA, you are officially my hero. They should change their names to Bjorn and Volvo. Neither of them drives a Saab, but that’ll change the day IKEA puts them on the shelf.
Mom’s idea of me growing up is buying Scandinavian furniture in my spare time. My idea of growing up is leaving home so I can spend an afternoon strolling along the sidewalk fishing clothes hangers out of a box on the street. Metal clothes hangers. Free metal clothes hangers.
They called me with one week to go. A cool rain fell on Montreal. Within half a minute, the long-distance guilt trips began to rain down from west coast. If I was trying to be a lame-o ‘punny’ guy, I’d have said that the guilt drips started to rain down. But I was too busy deflecting bucket-filling drops of guilt for that sort of nonsense.
“Honey, you need to grow up some time. There comes a time in life when you’re old enough to buy some nice things for yourself. Why don’t you take Dom to IKEA, I bet she’d like that. I know they’ve got fans there.”
They’d gone crazy. Vancouver Heatwave 2004 was in its third week. The evening newscasts were surely onto their fourth series of hard-hitting graphics by now. The military apparently hadn’t shown up yet. The only thing on their mind was the cool rejuvenating breeze emitted by an oscillating three-speed fan.
“Mom, look, I’ll find one. This city is a gold mine for free stuff.” Now I’d much rather slit my own wrists with a rusty hockey skate blade than spend a morning at IKEA, so I told her in a tone of voice that would satisfy her, but secretly told me I’d do absolutely nothing to make it happen, “Don’t worry, it’ll happen. We will get a fan. Trust me.”
“Well, you make sure you get a good one, not some wimpy old fan. We need a good one. I know how hot it gets back east.” She then put on her best high-pitched first-grader ‘suggestion’ tone (She was a teacher after all): “Why don’t you go get one right now?! Just think how fun it’ll be!”
“Mom. No. Just calm down. It will happen. We’ll find one. It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”
“Okay, I trust you, but, and don’t forget this: you can’t just go around finding electrical equipment in the street. It’s dirty, and besides, it might be a fire hazard.” Guilt trip tactic number one: the fire hazard. Every mother’s secret weapon. I didn’t bother telling her we didn’t have a smoke alarm. No need to ignite a fire.
A few days later, we got Max the landlord to take 20 minutes out of his busy Tuesday to bring over a smoke detector. Naturally, I did absolutely nothing to solve the fan issue.
On Wednesday evening we picked my parents up at the airport. My Dad extended his hand, but before he let it touch mine, he hesitated, pulled back slightly, and said with concerned hope in his eyes, “So, did you get the fan?”
I bit my lip and did my best to improvise. “No, but I checked the weather and it’s supposed to be cool all week. Don’t worry.”
We left it at that. The air was cool enough to keep them quiet for the first few days.
By Friday, things started to heat up, but the apartment was bearable enough not to raise more than an eyebrow of concern from either mom or dad. By Saturday though, Montreal was headlong into a heatwave capable of generating a triple digit death toll. Sweat dripped down the walls of our apartment. On Sunday morning, after one night in the heat, my dad snapped. He came into the kitchen downright cross after a sweaty, sleepless night. He looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and anger. “Why didn’t you get a fan? You know I can’t stand this east coast humidity.”
I looked up from my cereal and said, stupidly, “Well, at least we still have fans in our stores out here.” I immediately wished I hadn’t. He looked at me, his eyes narrowed.
“What’d you say?”
I knew I’d lost. I made him an offer, “Nothing, listen, I’ll get one today.” My mom’s eyes lit up, visibly excited by the mere suggestion that we might spend a day in a retail outlet that sells both meatballs and mousepads, “Maybe we can go to IKEA?”
“Well see”, I said, and looked back down at my cereal.
“Yes, we will see”, said my dad, in a way that suggested my next move would establish his feelings towards me for years to come. What I did next would prove both my responsibility and respectability, not to just myself, but to the entire family. He quietly shook his head and walked towards the back door, on the way out for his morning run. As he stepped out into the penetrating heat, he added, “You know, Kyle, there comes a time when you have to grow up. You can’t just go through life in hope that things will just work themselves out. Obviously you haven’t learned that yet.”
45 minutes later we heard him plod up the stairs. He’s usually a pretty calm guy after a run, but we knew today would be different. He’d just followed up a night in pensioner-killing heat with nearly an hour of ‘east coast humidity.’ His son had just let him down. His eldest son. Worst of all, he was about to arrive in an apartment that could’ve doubled as a Russian steam bath. We braced for the worst.
“Look what I found!” he said, and held up the most ragged assed fan of all time. A four-foot high oscillating fan taped in the middle all crooked like, in three pieces with the safety guard off. It was the sort of fan that even the most hardened, multiple shopping cart-toting bum would pass over in disgust. It was awful, but he beamed with delight. This was his find. His pride. His baby. His fan.
Our jaws dropped.
“And guess what…it works too! I tried it out in the lobby of an apartment building down the street.”
I closed my eyes to savour the image of a mid-run, heavy-breathing, 52 year-old man crouched in the lobby of a respectable apartment building on a Sunday morning nonchalantly inserting the plug of a fan he’d just pulled from a garbage can into the wall, eyes filled with desperate hope that it might work. Sweating.
This was too good.
I plugged the fan into the wall and set it on high. A forceful blast of cool air shot from its grubby blades, instantly clearing the air. I looked over at mom and delivered the bad news.
“Sidewalk one, Sweden zero.”
Copyright © 2005 Kyle MacDonald
Don't forget to join the
fan club!
Food stuffs
Finished up the Best Buy promo contract yesterday with a free, no wait, paid Black Eyed Peas concert. Good times. I quite enjoy the concept of getting paid to watch a concert. The BEPs schlock it up pretty heavy to sell records and sit right next to the corn on my plate, but I'd rather chow down than feed them to the dog.
So many highlights from the last few days.
Made an 18 year-old kid chose between a $50 gift certificate, a pair of floor seats to the Black Eyed Peas or ‘what’s in the box.’ Watched him choose ‘the box’ (who wouldn’t?) and get a free umbrella much to the comedic chagrin of dozens of folk who have nothing better to do on a Sunday morning at 8am but hang around outside Big Box retail.
Saw this:
And this:
Watched the official Canadian ‘actor’ for SpongeBob Squarepants triumphantly emerge with sweat on his brow from 2 hours entertaining kids in the car audio section and proceed to immediately ask my coworker Genevieve out on a date.
Listened to her shut him down.
Saw will.i.am run the drums with one hand and hold the mic with the other for a solo encore performance of “Milshake”. He could teach us, but he’d have to charge.
Asked the waitress at Resto McBay what her favorite thing on the menu was. She gave a hesitation-free reply of ‘Pizzagetti’.
Ordered Pizzaghetti.
Got paid to eat Pizzaghetti.
El Aguilla Del Norte even made an appearance at Harry's Fest of Evil.
All in all, a good few blog-free days. So much chagrin.
So many highlights from the last few days.
Made an 18 year-old kid chose between a $50 gift certificate, a pair of floor seats to the Black Eyed Peas or ‘what’s in the box.’ Watched him choose ‘the box’ (who wouldn’t?) and get a free umbrella much to the comedic chagrin of dozens of folk who have nothing better to do on a Sunday morning at 8am but hang around outside Big Box retail.
Saw this:
And this:
Watched the official Canadian ‘actor’ for SpongeBob Squarepants triumphantly emerge with sweat on his brow from 2 hours entertaining kids in the car audio section and proceed to immediately ask my coworker Genevieve out on a date.
Listened to her shut him down.
Saw will.i.am run the drums with one hand and hold the mic with the other for a solo encore performance of “Milshake”. He could teach us, but he’d have to charge.
Asked the waitress at Resto McBay what her favorite thing on the menu was. She gave a hesitation-free reply of ‘Pizzagetti’.
Ordered Pizzaghetti.
Got paid to eat Pizzaghetti.
El Aguilla Del Norte even made an appearance at Harry's Fest of Evil.
All in all, a good few blog-free days. So much chagrin.
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