Confessions of a White Male

The bus as a social indicator

2009-05-15T10:09:00.004-05:00

If I were ever to come into some real money, I hope that I would still take the bus.

Nothing keeps you in touch with the "common man" like taking the bus. For instance, I was on the #16 heading up Main Street yesterday and had the pleasure of overhearing the conversation between some gabby teen girls in the back. I turned my mp3 player way down so I could listen in without being obvious. These two girls spent a half hour on the crowded and otherwise silent bus talking loudly about their dysfunctional lives. I was by far not the only aural voyeur. In fact, their brashness forced everyone within 10 feet of them to listen in.

Girl #1 discussed how she was getting kicked off the couch she was crashing on at some random person's house she didn't really know. She described how she had no idea why she was getting the boot, and how she had bought hundreds of dollars of groceries and gave the person hundreds of dollars to stay there. This believable discourse was complemented by her statement a minute later on how she "accidentally spent" her whole paycheck on beer.

Hmmm...

Snide judgments aside, I found their conversation to be simultaneously engrossing and horrifying. Like when Girl #1 described being beaten up by her "real" dad after going to confront him about "some stuff that happened."

The psychologist in me wants to say that these were likely fabricated stories, given that they were so publicly discussed. Attention-seeking behaviour is often as unrelated to the truth as it is to public sympathy. Is there street cred in getting people to believe that horrible things have happened to you?

The humanist in me was in awe that these things really happen. I come from a completely different background than those girls (apparently), and yet there we were on the same bus, the great social equalizer. Where the drunk guy at 10am can stumble past the businessman who is on the bus because his driving license was revoked for multiple DUI's (or whatever they're called in Manitoba). Where a person wearing the same clothes for a week can sit next to someone in a fur coat (seriously!).

If you're ever in a different city, public transportation is where you will get a real sense of the culture. Of the homeless, of the blue-collar, of the advertising aimed at them.

The bus is where one can "keep it real" as the kids say, or did say at one point. It provides constant reminders of our stratified social structure. I don't want to ever lose sight of this. I have no car and no desire to own one. I had access to one before, and it made me lazy.

If you ever find yourself wondering "what the little people are doing," the answer will always be: we're taking the bus.

Music & Sex - The Balmoral House

2009-05-06T17:07:00.006-05:00

I miss the time when I lived with musicians.

When I lived at the Balmoral House, it seemed that we had a soundtrack. Live music randomly erupted from bedrooms, the basement and (gloriously) from the bathrooms. Yes, pooping songs were written. If the spontaneous music wasn't coming from one of the many dynamic Balmoral Boys, than it was from a random guest. Visitors would come over just to jam out a bit. Sometimes the music was instead of conversation, and those were the most beautiful times.

Professionals and amateurs threw a beat at Balmoral. The instruments were there to be used, whether the owner liked it or not. Sure, a few pieces got sacrificed to the party gods; they are always hungry.

Just for posterity, Balmoral was actually split into Balmoral One and Balmoral Two. Balmoral One was a semi-detached house with a hose of Balmoral girls on the other side of our walls. Balmoral Two was a stand-alone two doors down. We moved for the extra space. Shortest move I've ever had. The roommates changed a bit over time, but I experienced both depraved locales.

I cherish the memories, but I'll not live again like we did at Balmoral. We were dirty in a way I don't savour anymore. Friends rolled butt smokes out of butt smokes. Depravity and debauchery were visited weekly, if not nightly. It was a perpetually messy house, suited for people who didn't miss sleeping. It was common to be woken up by laughter, smashing glass and/or screaming guitar from directly underneath your bedroom. Or perhaps by a raucous game of Balmoral Ball - where a beach ball gets tossed at something, and then is tossed at something else. Hilarious destruction and mayhem guaranteed.

I was sympathetic to Bukowski's filthy lifestyle while I lived there. Balmoral seemed to constantly struggle against becoming a flop house. I wanted to be the dirty poet, and to some small degree I was successful. I've gone different ways since then, but I still enjoy reading Buk.

People seemed to hook up all over the place in that house. Compared to the hooking up our regular set of drop-in friends did (you're welcome everybody!), the Balmoral Boys ended up getting the least sex out of that house. Our lusty female neighbors actually had a rule about not bringing home the "good little neighbor boys." I didn't find this out until years later, which is too bad because I could have saved myself a lot of effort. Sure, the Balmoral girls and boys are still friends today, probably because of that rule, but I still think they could'a broken us off just a little bit.

Sex and music often went together at Balmoral. Living in a smallish house with five or six people (and however many people were living on the couch) meant that sound had no real barriers. Pretty much everything was a shared aural experience. Music was a necessary buffer in both the bed and bathroom. Sometimes that wouldn't be enough though. A neighbor from across the back lane once told us that he could clearly hear the coitus that came from the window on the north side. I told him that my room was on the north side. Apparently music doesn't muffle through an open window. That's okay, I make my own music.

Often, sex at Balmoral had to be timed to when jams were happening just to get some privacy. It worked the other way, too. At some 5 a.m., a few party stragglers and myself were being goofy and slapping down clumsy beats in the living room. There was a bedroom right off the living room, and the person sleeping there decided it was time to shut the party down. He commenced to loudly fuck his girlfriend. Like, "I'm taking special pains and pleasures to grunt" loud. Sure, it took us almost 30 seconds to get up and leave, but we skedaddled before somebody said something creepy.

Life was dirty back then. Deliciously so. I realize that I am only aware of about half the things that went on, but some things are best not explored too deeply. Especially the sometimes mysterious happenings of the old Balmoral Houses.

Balmoral, you dirty old bird!

Movie dissemination: Punisher - War Zone (From an Ennis persective)

2009-03-22T21:20:00.005-05:00

Peel my face off and put it on a pizza before I have to watch that again.
I don't usually do movie reviews, but I felt an outrage I hadn't felt since the first Harry Potter movie. This review is way too long as a result.
Whenever one watches a movie based on pre-existing characters, one has to vanquish all thoughts of the reference material and try to go with it, lest they drive themselves crazy.
I tried to do that with Punisher - War Zone, but they kept shoving Garth Ennis in my face and laughing! That made me mad. Ennis' material should not be fucked with.

(In some sort of weird reclamation of the name, Ennis put out a miniseries called Punisher - War Zone not long after the movie. The series was completely unrelated to the movie. Ennis' P-WZ was the veritable cap on the toothpaste tube of his prestigious run. [P-WZ is ALSO the title of a Punisher series from the early 90's, in case you were wondering.])
In case you don't know who the fuck Garth Ennis is, he's a right narsty fuck, crude as an overheated hooker and sick like dog soup.
Ole Garth-from-outside-Belfast wrote the best Punisher issues ever. Ever. They were entertaining, violent and above all, funny.
All the while, Frank felt real. He didn't have super powers like he apparently did in the movie when he jumped a thirty foot gap between buildings, and later punched through someone's skull.
To distinguish Ennis' Punisher from the movie, they will be called Frank and Ray, respectively.
So why is this important that they're different? Why am I being so picky? Like I said, they kept waving Ennis in my face.
First off, the movie opened with a Marvel Knights logo. Ennis was the only writer to take the Punisher through the Knights imprint when the movie came out; therefore they set the scene for an Ennis-tacular experience. Way to let us down.
Nearly every bad guy character was named after an Ennis creation, save for Jigsaw who's been around for a while. All the those characters were taken from the MAX series, not the Marvel Knights one. Hm.

I shouldn't say "taken," because "loosely inspired by" works better. Very loosely.
Ennis creates memorable, unique characters who defy stereotypes. Those loafs of bad acting bearing the Ennis-graced names in the movie were entirely unremarkable. Oh, wait. Ink had a coke habit. Wooo, that's different and new!
Ennis' Ink got his name because he stabbed a person through the eye with a pen and kept pushing. That's the kind of guy he was. A quiet, damn scary dude capable of anything.
It was Ink's skull that Ray punched through, showing how paltry Ink's character was.
Movie Pittsy was Ink's dad and a tender guy when you got to know him better.
Ennis' Pittsy was a short sexagenarian with a permanent short fuse and tendency towards excessive violence in situations that don't demand it.
Shall I go on? Yes, yes I shall.
Soap! They almost got Soap right, but then they got him totally wrong. Movie soap was happy-go-lucky. Ennis' soap attempted suicide and slept with his mother and sister while drawing everyone's derision.
Maginty! The black Irish dude jumping all over the place! Wait, did they say he was Irish in the movie or were we just supposed to decipher that from his mixed, slipping accent and two lines of dialogue? Maginty's flying wheezleboys, or whatever they were called, had the quirk of parkour? Ennis' Maginty had quirky side that involved having people carved alive into pieces and mailing the pieces to their wife. The Maginty in the movie was scared and had no purpose. Ennis had him proclaim to be "the baddest nigger ever came outta Dublin town."
Christu and Tiberiu were was Russian in the movie, and dealt with mysterious "biologicals."
Ennis's Eastern-Blockers were anything but Russian and their biologicals were stolen women.

The same thing happened with the other Punisher movie, with Thomas Jane. They had Thomas' flatmates be lovable, happy-go-lucky and sometimes attractive people.
Ennis portrayed them as immensely pitiable people, stuck in their ruts and living for nothing but their own wasted lives.
Sounds kind of like the Punisher... Hmmm.
At least in that movie they did an alright job on The Russian. Although I was inevitably let down when they opted to not do the Ennis kill scene where Frank uses the fat guy to smother him to death.

The point of all this, and yes there is a point, is there was no need to change Ennis' ideas. They could have just as easily taken the movie characters and given them completely different names and the Ennis resemblance wouldn't have come up once. By trying to give the movie some Ennis cred, they ended up associating him with crap.
I mean, wasn't it bad enough for him when Keanu Reeves was cast as John Constantine?
A BLOND ENGLISHMAN SHOULD NOT BE PLAYED BY NEO!!!!
Though, Constantine did borrow a lot from Ennis, and didn't end up making him look too bad, lucky for them.

Similarly, it's good that the unbelievably shitty Ghost Rider movie stayed well away from the Ennis storylines. Good thing, too 'cuz I bet Ennis would have gone on a suicide rampage if he were tied to that piece of shit.

Ultimately, Ennis has been treated better by the movie scene than poor Alan Moore.
(I must say this - the porn-face love scene in Watchmen overshadowed all the good things they did.)
I'm waiting anxiously to be disappointed by the Preacher movie.

Did I mention that Ray didn't resemble Frank at all? Must have forgot.
Ray damn near cried at a couple of points. The closest thing Frank did to crying was kill more people, and then kill more people. I mean, that's how a man cries, right?

That's how Punisher - War Zone makes me want to cry.

Spring is kicking winter's ass!

2009-03-20T19:21:00.006-05:00

Winter's officially buggering off for a while, and I've realized something. I've had the least fun, most enjoyable winter of my life.

If you think that's confusing, think of how I feel! Basically, I have 3 or 4 sleds lined up by my front door, yet the total number of times I went sledding = 0. I even set up a night of bog-togganing (as we say it around here) and all my rides punked out and I couldn't go. I heard about how much fun it was from those who did show up... and yes, I could have taken the bus, but I really dislike taking the bus with huge sleds to fumble with, and I can never find the route to garbage hill on the first try.

If you're not from Winnipeg, garbage hill is a literal hill made of garbage with grass on top. It's the highest peak in town and the only reasonable place to go sledding. There's a few other places but none as high as mighty hill o'refuse.

The Assiniboine river has been defrosting for a couple weeks now. First the snow melts on top, creating puddles that look like open water. Then the ice cracks and leaves treacherous moats on either side of the floe. Then the floe breaks up and clogs up around our bridges, locks and dams. Why am I describing the method of ice melting? Because the total number of times I walked on the frozen river this year = 0.

And I love walking on the river. Some of my favourite nights have been walking along the river, going home after having a few drinks somewhere (usually the Forks). It's wonderfully quiet, peaceful and yes, even serene, thank you very much.

Like the sledding, yes I had total control over how much I spent time there, hill or river... but I was generally preoccupied. That's how I had the least fun winter, by missing some of my favourite activities.

Winnipeg is great because you can put your head down during the winter and just study/read/play music through it. When you poke your head up (as I'm kinda doing now) it's spring and classes are over! I've kept my head in my writing this winter, and that's how I had the most enjoyable winter.

I've been writing hard-core for The Uniter since September, covering news mostly but getting in the ocassional funny Comments piece. I've also been writing stories and poems for my Creative Writing Class. AND, I've been having the most fulfilling correspondance with a fellow journalist/writer I met in Saskatoon.

I met her during the Canadian University Press (CUP) national conference (NASH). This event is worth a few thousand words in its own right, but that's for another time. I'll say about a dozen about it now, as a teaser: Jonathan Goldstein, drinking, networking, drinking, Jesse Brown, drinking, Uniter insanity, drinking and road trip!

This is me & Joe with our game faces on at NASH.

It's amazing how much a good correspondance can perk you up. Receiving a letter is like winning a prize. I just happen to have found an excellent prize-maker. Fabiola, thank you.

In summary, spring rules; winter sucks; I love writing.

Totally irrelevant, and loving it!

2008-11-16T00:57:00.010-06:00

I Googled my name today.
We all do it, let's just accept it and move on.
I found a few little bits and pieces that make me a little notorious, but nothing controversial. I found the article about the breakfast connoisseurs; I found my name mentioned in the obituary for my grandfather; I found my name at The Uniter (I better!); and I found my name in Memorial University's newspaper (The Muse, which at first seems like possibly a better name than The Uniter).
At first I got Memorial mixed up with Providence, the seminary near Niverville. I didn't know Providence had a school newspaper, let alone one interested in picking up my shit. Well, turns out Memorial is in St. John's, Newfoundland.
Awesome! I love Newfies, and not ironically. They're great people, and the fact that one of my articles could possibly have been read by them gives me a small giddy feeling.
They pulled one of my articles that was circulated by The Canadian University Press and used it as filler, likely to plug the hole left by some story cut at the last minute.
Still though, I feel accomplished. Maybe when I return to St. John's some day, somebody will buy me a beer. I like Newfies, and I like beer too.
So yes, this is me rambling on about how cool I am. This might be a good time to note the title of this blog.
Anyways, being read by Newfies may not make me cool, but I think the fact that some guy quoted me on ZoomIt does. ZoomIt is (as I just found out) a news/blog page where people slather stories on the wall to see what'll stick. Well, apparently I stuck. It wasn't just a forwarded version of an article, it was introduced with:
"Andrew McMonagle thinks..."
That's funny, because I DO thinks!
If you care at all, you can see it here.
And it wasn't even an article, it was my Uniter blog! People read blogs! YOU READ BLOGS!

I never knew that.

Has this ever happened to you: you go to bed, can't sleep so you get up, Google your name and blog about it?

Ever get scared about the compressed gas canister keyboard cleaners? I'm scared if I hold the trigger long enough it'll just blow. Not the high-chemical sub-zero cleaners, but just the CO2 cartridge ones. I'm totally afraid, and I used to play with them in my friend's pellet gun in high school.
Hey, another reason why I might be cool! That's two!

Did I mention that Google also found a few people with my name in Ireland? Big surprise, right? Well, McMonagle's actually NOT that popular a name out there. There are quite a few derivatives but the ones that are spelled the same as mine tend to cluster around county Donegal. Easy to see where the name originates, eh?
Regardless, I found a census listing a Andrew McMonagle as a roman-catholic, 64-year-old married illiterate farmer who was "head" of the household.
I know, I know, it's like my twin. Don't worry though, that census was from 1901. I probably have nothing to fear in the way of competition from my 174-year-old namesake.
I also found another census from who knows when, listing somebody with my grandfather's name with mine as the middle. Daniel Andrew McMonagle, who apparantly didn't have kids but was uncle to somebody who's name got mangled to McMunagle, which is how most people pronounce it anyways.

Ok, I'm boring my self now.

By the way, if anybody noticed that I'm writing this in newspaper format, you get a geek point.

There was also an Andrew McMonagle who is a member of the kazoo appreciation society, but I swear it's not me.

Minneapolis ain't so bad.

2008-08-18T13:58:00.000-05:00

My recent trip south of the border (no, not the one I took on your mom) opened my eyes a bit. I don't like to consider myself a nationalist racist, but I felt I was on the verge of it as I found myself in the midst of Americans, and black people.

Wait, wait, wait. Before you get offended, I use the term 'black people' because I hate trendy terms like "African American" or "Darkie." Seriously, just read and take it easy.

Ok, the whole thing is, I'm from Winnipeg. Winnipeg has a significant black population, for sure, but not like in the U.S. Again, I don't want to generalize for the whole country, I was just in one northern state, but the differences between my home city and this one was huge. In Winnipeg, you're likely to hear many accents walking down the street. People come from all over the place, and all over Africa. Winnipeg just doesn't have a huge 2nd generation black population like in Minneapolis. I walked through the streets just in awe of how many black people there were, and how few Aboriginals. Welcome to America.

I felt like a bumpkin.

Bumpkin Andrew: "Gawrsh, lookit all the tall buildings and coloured folk!"
Rational Andrew: "Don't be a tourist. You've seen black people before."
BA: "Hyuck! Lookit that girlie's bum! I can put my beer on it!"
RA: "While it is a spectacular ass, stop staring."
BA: "BT is a terrible TV network."
RA: "Agreed. It's like Jerry Springer, without the white people."
BA: "Where'z all the Indians?"
RA: "On the posters for diversity."
BA: "Guhh... them folks talk like on MTV."
RA: "Some people do talk like they're on MTV."
BA: "Yee-haw! American hamburgers are dirt cheap!"
RA: "And did a number on my colon. Cheaper sickness, hooray capitalism."

That's basically what went on in my head the whole time I was in Minneapolis. Using their weird, monochrome money and admiring their fantastic public art had me of two minds, which gradually became one.

"Minneapolis is way cool."

The downtown may be a slew of clothing stores and square kilometers (Canadian units of measurement kick ass!) of indoor parking lots, but it has some foliage and some quirkily-designed buildings. There seemed to be a statue on every corner of some figure, from Mary-Tyler Moore to Charlie Brown. I mean, a city that produced both Prince AND F. Scott Fitzgerald (along with Brandon and Brenda Walsh, ha!) can't be all bad.

Anyways, the point is that I had my eyes opened, remember?

I met a lot of good people on my trip. I was on a working vacation, acting as caregiver for one of the people I support at my job. His vacation, his money, our fun. This meant that I didn't get to explore the city like I really wanted, but I now have the inkling to come back sometime and do so. People everywhere reacted very positively to our presence, when at times it could be challenging to them. The people on the buses we rode to/from the city were especially kind. On the crowded bus on way down from Winnipeg I chatted with several fine people who took it upon themselves to be as comfortable and accepting as they could be. On the way back to Canada the bus was sparsely populated, but nobody minded the random grunted-words and snorts coming from the back on the bus. I felt very at ease myself.

Not once during our trip did we encounter any kind of overt ignorance or intolerance. Hey, how about that! You mean, TV sensationalizes human behaviour? Wow, what a revelation. Time for a bumpkin moment:
BA: "Ya mean... TV isn't the world?"
RA: "Shut the hell up."

Yes, while I maintain that the American populous can come off badly when portrayed in certain ways, we should really not be scared of our southern brothers. Cuz that's what it is, isn't it? Fear. We're scared of being invaded, scared of being shot and scared of being Americanized. As if Canada is perfect.

I've been to the states several times in my life and I never had scary incidents like the ones I've had in Canada. Winnipeg is, in fact, feeling like more of a scary place to live these days than ever. Again, it IS sensationalized by the media, but I live downtown and feel a little chill sometimes while walking home at night.

So, it's Americans 1 and personal ignorance 0.
How did that happen?

Winnipeg is best viewed from the seat of a bicycle

2008-08-06T10:14:00.001-05:00

Riding down the cheese-grater-like streets of Winnipeg is never boring. Whether you run into friends, see interesting homeless people or just enjoy the heavily-treed streets, biking is always a pleasure.

Take today for example, I had probably the most macabre experience of my life while biking home from work this morning. As I was trucking Northwards on Waverly, I was distracted by organs lying on the side of the road. No, not the instrument, the things-that-should-be-inside-of-other-things.

Specifically, I saw a heart on the sidewalk. Just a heart. In whole. Just sitting there, bespeckled by flies.

It caused me to pull over and turn around to investigate. I was thinking to myself that I watch too much CSI and that it's probably nothing, but nope! It was definitely a heart. I got up close and saw that it most certainly was fist-sized and I pondered what kind of horrors have occurred. I remembered biking to work yesterday and noting what seemed to be an arm-shaped object in a garbage bag on the side of the road. Similar to today, I dismissed my dismemberment dreams as the fanciful thoughts of one who watches too much fictional forensics, but now I was wondering.

I mean, a freaking heart was just lying there!

I pulled out my phone and dialed 911 but didn't hit send just yet. I broke my trance-like stare at the organ and saw what I missed in the middle of the road. There was a Canadian goose smeared along the road, mere feet away that I somehow blew by without noting. I guess one can miss all sorts of things while contemplating horrors. Winnipeg is not without its horrors these days... dare I mention the bus decapitation, the tazer death, police shooting death, stabbing at the Icelandic Festival, etc... Winnipeg can be fucked up. But back to the heart of the matter (heh).

This goose, in some incredible movie-effect moment, got clobbered by a car in such a way that it's heart flew out of it's body perfectly intact. Nothing else did so, no intestine, no beak, just the heart. I can't imagine what it would have looked like to witness this bird's death. I almost picture a pedestrian being struck by errant organs and continuing on, pretending nothing happened, but really they are scarred for life. I almost am, but at this point I'm still intrigued.

So anyways, I satisfied myself that it PROBABLY wasn't a human heart and that the flattened goose wasn't just a coincidental happening (such things happen on CSI all the time) and went home. Not without taking some pictures with my camera phone first, of course. What's the point of having a macabre moment if you don't record it? When I got home I called the roadkill cleanup crew, and they said they'd already gotten a few geese out there and it was probably already gone. I tried to emphasize the importance of the heart lying there, but the man on the phone took no heed. Apparently that's nothing new.

Roadkill can take a nearly infinite number of forms, I presume. Seeing a stray organ is nothing new to these seasoned scrapers.

I wanted this blog to be more about bike riding in general, but so far I've focused mainly on the heart thing. I wanted to report on the uniqueness of biking from West Kildonan (North Main) and the variety of smells that one encounters. I did this the other day and was treated to the delightful scent of prairie grass for the first minutes as I started towards downtown. It was especially sweet as I could smell it from right on Main Street. Well, it wasn't long before the fetid stink of rotting tree leavings in the gutters overpowered any sweetness around. The sour stench of discarded leaves, sitting water and the bodies of millions of canker worms plague the city these days, and all summer really. After that stink set in, I was getting closer to the North End, home to an altogether different set of scents, few of them appealing. Even early in the morning, the stumbling, homeless population of the North End are trudging around, leaking ethanol and sporting crusty clothing. Nothing compared to their breath, I assure you. Leaving the North End, car exhaust is the predominant stench as the business sector approaches. Construction dust, hot tires, sewer gas, One Great City.

But I'm serious when I say I like Winnipeg. This is a new thing for me, I've always treated Winnipeg as a temporary home, not getting too attached to it. Truth is, I've been attached for years but wouldn't admit it. True, there are plenty of other places I've been that I like more, but Winnipeg is comfortable, it is inexpensive (largely) and it is home. There, I said it. I do still plan on leaving again.

See, my favourite hobby is leaving Winnipeg. I've done it plenty of times before, and I plan on it at least once more.

Will I do it from the seat of a bike? We shall see. Until then, I'll continue my 30-minute commutes to work from downtown and breathe deep the air when it's not full of sewer and hearts.

Shedding some weight

2008-04-02T15:37:00.000-05:00

This is the last week of the school year for classes. Many have exams right up to the end of April, and then some others will go on to spring session until late June.

Ha ha.

My final assignment is due in exactly one week then I don't have anything else to do academically until September, and I like it that way. I did spring session last year and found it to be completely gruelling and unlikable. Even if it's a class you like, spending 4 hours a day, 5 days a week in it will wear your appreciation down.

The final project that I have to do is for my Creative Writing class. The assignments for the class were to write 2 short stories, and then polish one of them up until it sparkles. I am polishing and polishing right now and submitting to people for review. So far my story's garnered some fans. Here's a snippet.

"But poor Avi, man, that guy stores up stress like others collect records. Around age 11 he started walking like he has a lump of coal between his butt cheeks that he’s trying to turn into a diamond. Seriously, the guy just stopped moving his arms when he walks, keeping them locked at his sides like the Transformers toys we used to play with. He walks using only his legs. His torso remains perfectly still which I just find eerie. It’s like he moves on wheels, and don’t even ask about him going up and down stairs. How do you not bounce with the stairs? It’s his special gift… that, and paranoia. That lump of coal, not-yet-a-diamond, seems to feed him fucked up ideas of what people are thinking. He never talks to anyone else but me so he has no idea what’s really going on. Poor Avi. Sometimes it’s all I can do not to giggle when he glides down the halls at school, not looking anyone in the eye and on the verge of sweating as he always is. His neck is so tight that it could be used to split wood on."

Avi is a character I stole right from the hallways at school. I had noticed him around many many times and he always made me grin. The story is really character-centric, not so much plot-centric, but it still works.

Funny thing is, I just read most of the story to my class the other day, and today I saw my Avi inspiration and I can't help but think his gaze rested a little long on me. My own paranoia says that he found out I exploited his less favourable traits for my own gain, but I know that's not likely. I have no idea who the real guy is or how people would know to tell him, but he DOES have a distinctive way of carrying himself. It's not so far fetched, is it?

Of course, people stare at me all the time, so I shouldn't be surprised. To those that I don't impress, I mystify and that makes for a lot of lingering gazes. Especially children. They sometimes don't know how to react to my long hair and big beard, and when I had dreadlocks they would be stupefied.

So, that brings me to the weight portion of this blog. I just got sheared for the spring. My winter-born curls and shoulder-length shag is now sitting in a garbage bag inside of Brava Hair Studio (for Men). They have playboys in the waiting room. You don't find that very often anymore.

I wrestled with my hair decision far too long for me to not feel prissy about it. "So, what do you think of my hair. Yeah, I know it's great. Yeah. Don't you just love it? Don't you just love me? Enough about me. What do you think of me?" So, I just went ahead and chopped it off. A large part of my wrestle was whether I should just go back to dreadlocks. I've had them 3 times before, and that itself is an argument to not do it again. My best dreads were born at the Winnipeg Folk Fest and were honed while hitch-hiking across the country that summer. I had a personal relationship with my dreads then, they were my friends. They lasted 3 years until it was time to move on. If I chose the dreadded path this time, it would not be born on the road, or at Folk Fest. I feel I would not be respecting what dreads are and that I'd be treating them too frivolously. I just didn't want to deal with hair care, one of my great dislikes in life. Dreads allow for the absense of combs, but they remain water-logged for days. My new aerodynamic 'do allows for quick drying AND the absense of combs.

The other weight aspect today is that I've now tried the famous Hot Yoga. It is phenomenal. I sweat buckets and it was alright to do it! In some gyms you feel embarrassed for sweating too much. Isn't that stupid? Embarrassed because you're working hard, which is what the gym was designed for! Maybe it's just me. Well, nobody leaves Hot Yoga without looking like they just took a swim. Everybody's in the same boat, it's wonderful. The great equalizer. I will continue to Yot Hoga and along with breaking my bike out again, I should be be lookin' pretty good come time for Folk Fest.

Anyone wanna come sweat with me?

Bio-degredation

2008-02-25T00:58:00.001-06:00

I throw a small scrap of paper into the garbage and ponder whether it will biodegrade in the plastic sack or will it be preserved like some perverted tribute to my wasteful lifestyle. I try my best... I usually produce more recycling than garbage, but the foibles of recycling are many. How much actually gets recycled vs chucked in the landfill. Have you ever seen video of a landfill? It's scary. There are many moments where I consider ditching it all and going into the woods to live a fully sustainable lifestyle. I have some friends who live in communities where they heat their houses with clever designs. I helped them build a solar-powered oven one day and was amazed at the ingenuity. However, I'm too attached to the western lifestyle of excess. I love my computer and use it daily. I like electric heat and lights.

I hope that this lifestyle is ephemeral. I hope to one day retreat to the mountains and live in a cabin with nothing to do but emulate Thoreau and write better than he. But then, if I write, who would see it? I can blog and the possibilities of readership are monumental. I like distributing my words. You can all share them, go ahead! If my words get stolen off an electronic page, I consider it a compliment. I would probably want to get them back, but still...

I am constantly at odds with my lifestyle, let alone my life. I enjoy studying Psychology but have dropped all my Psyche courses in favour of more time to write. I feel I've been using that time fairly well but have yet to receive a single penny for my wordspurts. Psychology is a happy fallback in case I do not manage to eke out a living writing, but how do I concentrate on proliferating both disciplines simultaneously? I always feel like I am short on time. Long gone is the time where I sat in front of the tv all day, and good riddance.

Every day I ride the bus I fantasize about quitting my job and becoming a bus driver. My job now is challenging and rewarding, and sometimes it's just too tempting to relieve myself of that kind of responsibility and devote myself to something with much less mental determination. I'm not saying it's unworthy to drive a bus, but I know I would relish the simplicity while at the same time mourn my potential. It does however pay more than I make now.

I just don't think I'd look good in those uniforms.

So right now I am trying to come up with a new story for my Creative Writing class. I have a character, and possibly a situation but no plot. I have to hand in a plot tomorrow, so let's hope my dreams are potent tonight.

I'm brewing a few stories for The Uniter as well which are usually very satisfying. I do enjoy seeing my name in print. One story is of a Winnipegger who has garnered a near-record-breaking advance on his novel, a cool 1.2 million. If I do get to interview him, I will likely throw myself at his feet and beg for a lesson in getting something for nothing (the book has yet to be written).

The breakfast reviews are continuing with a momentum that has no sign of waning. Thank god.

I'm starting to think obsessively about traveling and about Folk Fest. School is much less on my mind these days but my desire to leave the city is not any less palpable. It's been a few years since I was in Montreal and that's an issue. Likewise has it been a while since I've trotted through the mountains breathing air like no other. I'm trying to manifest all of this... let's see how it goes. Folk Fest is the only guarantee, as I'm now a co-organizer of my volunteer crew. I'm greatly looking forward to bossing impressionable young hippies around.

Beware!

Be aware!

Be bare (nekkid)!

That's all for now. Thanks for reading.
-Andrew

Actors, directors and revision.

2008-01-27T22:20:00.000-06:00

I can't believe it's only been a week since I started this blog. I've done so much and it feels like I haven't touched this in a long time.

I've been doing a lot of writing lately, which is exactly what I want. Writing is an arduous process that doesn't come naturally. My skill with words may be natural but the effort it takes to sit down and pound those words out is phenomenal. Why is that?

This week I was exploring my journalistic side. I often think of Spider Jerusalem from the comic "Transmetropolitan" while I'm on assignment, though I'm not nearly as manic as he is.

I had my first interview with real professionals which was a bit nerve-wracking for the uninitiated like myself. I spoke with the director of Glengarry Glen Ross (whom I recognize from guest appearances on CSI) and afterwards was overcome with the exhilaration of the experience, as well as a paralyzing uncertainty of what to do next. I felt I had exhausted my good questions already and had no idea what I would say to the actors. I ended up sitting in the lobby for 10 minutes trying to build up my courage and come up with good things to ask. Well, I needn't have been so nervous... it turns out that actors absolutely love to be interviewed and in fact, require almost no questions to riff on at all. As I sat down with one actor, others naturally gravitated towards me and offered well-prepared quips without solicitation. Made my job easy, and I did enjoy listening to some philosophies of the stage. Most of it wasn't useful for the article at all, but as I said, I had fun.

Leaving the theatre, I could hardly believe the large mural I passed on my way to the bus (do journalists take the bus much?). The mural is a portrayal of the (currently) fantasy 'outdoor mall' sponsored by Peter Nygard. The mall has very realistic people patronizing it, and the unbelievable part is that one of the people is the spitting image of my roommate in 20 years time. I snapped a few photos of it and he is currently using the image as his facebook profile. Too funny.

Am I living the dream? I'm having new experiences and writing about them. I've been doing that for years, restricting my words to my journals, but now I have an audience. Though I may be just a volunteer writer, I'm a fucking writer.

Fuck yeah!

The interviews I did were for a preview of the show, and then later in the week I attended the opening and just now I finished typing up my review. I've never been to an opening night at the theatre before and I was worried I wouldn't fit in. I pictured people dressed much fancier than I, but was pleasantly surprised to find that there was nothing unusual about my casual pants and plaid shirt.

I was told there would only be one ticket waiting for me, but to my surprise there were two! I panicked to find a friend who could come join me before the show started in... 5 minutes, but no go.

The play was about as good as I remembered the movie being, which is surprisingly less than it is considered by other professionals. The acting was great but I just can't understand how it won a Pulitzer Prize.

After the show, an abundance of pizza and cold cuts were laid out in the lobby, another pleasant surprise. I nabbed some pizza and left, feeling cultured.

Furthering my theatre experience, we had an exercise in my Creative Writing class that involved a bit of acting. Myself and two partners drew up a small sketch based on instructions from the prof and performed it for the class. We didn't have to even stand up or anything but I was still pumped. Our dialogue was mostly improvised and thus came off as more natural than if we were reading right from a script. I have almost zero acting experience in my past, so this was (somewhat sadly) a very gratifying experience. I say sadly as there are several theatre students in the class who would consider such a bit scene to be almost nothing, but it was huge for me. We were well received.

Last night I attended my friend's 30th birthday party, touted as the "Dirty Thirties". I had a blast and though I managed to not get too drunk, I did drop my camera and fuck the lens up. Fantastic. Not before getting a few dozen great shots of people in various costumes acting silly. The party was a blast and the next morning (this morning) I cured the hangover by going to my weekly breakfast meeting. We had a fancy buffet brunch which cleared my head and had me drooling for more. I love writing the reviews for these meetings (www.breakfastwinnipeg.com plugplugplug) and am considering avenues to get sponsorship for them.

This has been a great week, and the next looks to be just as promising.

Also crammed into this week: a meeting with a nice student from China to help him learn English, and a period of time-wasting taking pictures of the inside of what I'm sure is the scariest building in Winnipeg: J. Werier Building (on Princess). If you ever go there, make sure to explore the top floors and just try to convince yourself that there's no such thing as ghosts. Every piece of crap in that building is perfect for the set of a horror movie, and seen all together, it's quite scary.

These are confessions of a white male. This is catharsis, and this is done, for now...

A duk in the water and a Frechette on stage

2008-01-21T02:15:00.001-06:00

I have a few words to say on my alias. There are still people in Winnipeg (as well as Montreal and various parts of Europe) who do not know me as Andrew and who would say "Who's Andrew?" if asked about him.

They know me as Duky, but you can call me Duk.

Yes, quack quack and all that, just forget the 'c'.

There are a couple of differing stories about the origin of my nickname, none of them interesting enough to repeat for all those cute girls who ask me about it. The common denominator is always that it was a happy accident that just clung to me like an infection. A happy infection. I was resistant at first (as one should be to infections) but I ended up accepting it. Either it grew on me or I grew into it, I'm not sure.

I've lived in a few houses with clusters of friends, and in each of them 'Andrew' was nowhere to be seen. Duk was there, and Duk is fun, Duk will party. This Andrew guy sounds boring. Consequently, the teeming masses of people who passed through those houses were ingratiated to me as my alias, and 'Andrew' shrunk away to the corner.

It's been a few years now and it shows no sign of relenting. Some nicknames stick for life. I should be glad it's something complimentary and not something awful like 'ass-nose'.

FYI, to make a good nickname, all you have to do is name a piece of genitalia and combine it with another, non-genital body part. e.g. "Penis-Face" "Titty-Leg" "Dick-Cheek" "Cunt-Coccyx", etc... Or you could go the Jack Black route and stick to genitals exclusively, as in "Cock-Ass."

Since I've been at the University of Winnipeg, the number of people who recognize Andrew has grown. I've rarely felt the need to actually introduce myself as Duk, and the desire is nonexistent in class or at work. However, as soon as worlds collide and the name 'Duk' gets around, that's it.

I should really say that I do love my nickname. People can't help but smile when they say it and I like it when people smile at me. I'm smiling right now, you just can't see it and I refuse to emoticon it. I'm glad Duk is a part of my life, but Andrew enjoys being outside too.

One person who I thought would forever call me Duky is Dan Frechette.
I saw him play on Saturday at the Temple Shalom/Gardens at Grant & Wilton. Lindsay Jane played first and wowed everybody with her voice and impassioned lyrics. Dan hasn't played a show in a while, and it showed. He was his usual exuberant self but it was obvious he's a bit rusty. Don't get me wrong... that leg of his was still stomping away as strong as ever.

Dan played a lot of wonderful cover tunes for the first part and then moved into some new material, topping it all off with a few of his hits. Just before the hits though, Dan got a bit sombre. His father passed away a few weeks ago and it's understandably still affecting him deeply. He said a few words and then treated us to an absolutely gorgeous instrumental he wrote for his dad.

Then Dan played the song he wrote for Peter.

Holy shit did that hit me deep. Peter was a good friend, gone for a couple years now. The song had me, Tan and Joel crying. It's been a long time since I cried for him. I can understand why Dan played it, whether it was because we were there and we remind him of Peter or just because he still thinks of him a lot. Dan has a heavy mind these days, and understandably so.

In classic Dan fashion, he managed to rouse us all soon after and have us stompin' and clappin'. I only hope he can rouse himself and be happy.

Peter had no idea who the fuck Andrew was, it was Duk all the way.

I guess this is my little tribute to Peter, to Dan and to his dad. I hope you are all in good places, whatever that means.

I've really run the emotional gamut in this blog. Maybe it seems in bad taste to talk about something as trivial as a nickname on the same page as a mini-memorial, but I guess that's just how I roll.

Ciao for now.

Ah shit, I'm all blogged up!

2008-01-20T22:06:00.000-06:00

Why the hell would I start a blog?
Well, I love myself. What's more is I love talking about myself.

I have a friend who's actually gotten money from doing a blog, and this is just astounding to me. Fuck yeah do I want to get paid for writing! If this counts as a 'start' to a writing career, I'd be silly to miss out!

Really, this is an online journal, rather than a web log. Maybe it should be known as 'nejour' or something like that, seeing as how we're all fans of snappy abbreviations. While 'nejour' isn't snappy at all, I scoffed at the word 'blog' the first time I heard it. All it takes is common usage for a word to become legit.

This is me, talking into air. If somebody occupies that air and catches some of my words, they may be amused. Or not. The beautiful thing about a blog is that it doesn't matter if anybody reads it, I'll keep writing regardless.

So I may talk about my day, my views, what I'm doing, etc... and you may or may not care. Whatevs. It amuses me.

I'm listening to my mp3's on random. It just went from Outkast's "Bombs Over Baghdad" to Greg Brown's "I Don't Want to Have a Nice Day". Nice juxtaposition. Bombs generally make for a bad day, and Greg ain't looking for a good one.

I just came from Cousins cafe where I spent a few hours there writing. I felt like a douche bringing my laptop into a popular cafe to get some work done, but truth be known, the less-populated cafe I was going to was closed and Cousins was the closest alternative. I have no desire to be the guy who sits in the corner, silently begging to be asked "what are you writing?". While it occasionally leaks out, I do try to avoid pretension where I can.

I wrote up the latest breakfast review (www.breakfastwinnipeg.com) and did some writing for class. It felt good to just bang some words out. The veggie burger and beer also felt good, but in a different way. I ended up spending about 3 hours in Cousins, writing, eating, talking on the phone and writing some more. I haven't spent 3 hours in Cousins in years, literally. Where once I practically lived there, I'd grown weary of it and abandoned it. Nothing wrong with the place, I just o.d.'d a while ago on it. I was reminded of why I used to love it though. Sitting at the table next to me were a group of people talking about treeplanting and breakfast, two of my favourite topics. I planted for 4 years and I eat breakfast at least once a week. I couldn't resist catching them before they left and inviting them to the next breakfast meet. I'm up to my old tricks again, talking to strangers. I used to be really good at it but haven't practiced in a while. Anyways, they seemed interested so next week we may have some new faces to talk at, which is nice.

Okay, this is going to be good for the first blog. I've talked about nothing really and had some fun. I'm satisfied. I'll probably keep this on a roughly weekly basis, but we'll see.

Ever see the show 'Californication'? David Duchovny's character was implored to create a blog for a ridiculous amount of money. I've always sorta wanted to be him (or at least his characters), so here I am.

And there you go.