You all remember my good pal Mr. Fork, right?
I went for lunch with Kyle at The Cup today for the first time in a long, long time. It was like being reacquainted with a delicious group of dear, old friends. “It’s nice to see you again, Hearty Chicken Salad Sandwich. How I’ve missed thee, Tasty Pasty Salad. And I could never forget you, Extra-Crispy Hashbrowns with Onions. Oh, hey there, Pickle Slice.”
This evening, Sarah Jane stopped by for a visit and brought along her little baby girl. She certainly was a cute little thing with a crazy amount of hair for being such a new-ish baby, almost like she was wearing a little baby-sized wig for little baby-sized babies. Makes me kinda jealous actually. She was ultra-quiet, too, which is always a nice quality in a baby.
Who’s Gxo’ctn-Ezh? He’s like their Rosa Parks.
I went to see the latest installment of Harry Potter tonight with Melissa and Tessa. I think it was the eleventh movie in the series, maybe? It was about Harry figuring out his best RRSP options and worrying about his upcoming prostate exam.
In any case, in the lobby and in the bathroom I noticed warning stickers posted on the walls that designating areas “For Humans Only”. They were part of a simple but clever marketing campaign for District 9, which some folks online are touting to be one of the greatest sci-fi flicks of all time. It topping 2001, Alien, Wrath of Khan or Empire Strikes Back remains to be seen but I can’t wait for this movie to come out.
From having checked out the movie’s site and new trailers just the other day, I think alien segregation stickers are probably my favourite part of its marketing. The other elements are pretty clever too: an 800 number to report aliens in human zones as well as to apply for jobs with the corporation dealing with the aliens and their technology, and an anti-corporate blog written by one of the aliens trying to warn people about said corporation. Hell, they even designed their own alien typeface to set the entire blog in, which can be translated into English on the fly with a click of a button. You can even download it for your own use but I can’t see there being much purpose for it beyond fan art/design. Maybe some poorly thought out tattoos that a rabid fan might regret in several years time.
I love it when studios put this type of effort into a campaign that goes beyond the traditional forms of marketing. I don’t know when the whole “viral” type of marketing began but I remember how weird and intriguing the Donnie Darko site was, how it really stood out at the time as being something different. Lost certainly does a fantastic job with all of their different games, websites, Hanso Foundation commercials with 800 numbers, “leaked” videos from the Dharma Initiative, and whatnot. But the unlabeled VHS tapes left on the hoods of all the cars in the parking lot outside of a theatre showing a screening of The Ring certainly has to be one of my favourites promo ideas. Definitely the creepiest one.
Prithee, bringeth thine gaze south of my doublet.
With today being the day of the annual Grant Family Reunion, last night I figured I should make something instead of leaving the responsibility of all the food contributions by my immediate family to rest on the shoulders of my poor mother. So I made some late night banana bread but unfortunately couldn’t resist the temptation of warm, soft, freshly baked goodness and ended up eating a whole bunch of it. Right before bed no less.
I picked up my sister this afternoon and drove out to Green Park, and with it thankfully being such a nice day it meant we wouldn’t need to re-locate to a church basement in fear of rain watering down the potato salads. On the way there, though, the bridge in Tyne Valley was out so I stopped to ask for alternate directions at the corner store. As I was going back to my car, my grandparents drove around the corner so I simply followed them to the park because, even though I had directions, my direction sense is so bad I probably would have gotten us lost anyway.
In true Hutchinson fashion, I figured we were going to be a bit late for the gathering of Grants (who may or may not be prone to tardiness) but only about four or five other people had shown up thus far. While everyone there was technically my family, I honestly have a hard time remembering some of their names, and with so few it made the ability to blend into the background impossible. When there’s the larger group of generally older folks chit-chatting with one another it’s much easier for me to slip away a bit or linger on the edges of the gathering, nibbling away on sweets, examining the bark on trees, or taking photos of just about anything to keep me busy. There was a nice, old Chrysler near our picnic spot whose long, shiny teal body and chrome where glinting in the sunlight and begging to have its picture taken. Thankfully, Dad and the dogs showed up not long after we arrived so I could play with the dogs and, therefore, keep small talk to a minimum. The rest of the clan eventually joined us but the reunions are definitely getting smaller and smaller with the passing of each year.
We had to wait for what seemed like forever before the food was set out, and when it finally was pic-a-nic eatin’ time I devoured two platefuls—one of proper food, one of desserts only. No post-picnic pain this year, though. Just nicely full for a change.
Later on, the nice evening beckoned me out for a walk and I came across another great classic car parked around the corner from my parents’ place. I don’t know a damn thing about cars but I know I like this shiny, red hot rod Ford GT…something-or-other. Mustang GT? I dunno. The make and the year are beyond me but the damn thing looked awesome. It also looked like it wanted to know where my car was parked at so it could go kick my car’s ass and steal its girlfriend.
I moved on to Parkside and the ballpark for a stroll, remembering so many of the classic things done and videotaped in that area when we were teenagers. Lots of stupid skits and foolish teenage recklessness that often involved some form of explosives and random acts of destruction. We also swung on the swings.
I drove out to get Melissa and her sister, Tessa, later on to get a drink and hang out for a bit at Sutherland’s in Stanley Bridge. We walked in just before closing but the girl was super friendly and didn’t seem to mind us being there. It was a nice spot, and I’d like to go back sometime for a bite to eat to see what the grub’s like.
I dropped Tessa off before I drove Melissa to her grandparents’ cottage to drop off some of her stuff. The cottage is on the same property as their house, which is now vacant since they recently moved into a home. Melissa gave me a tour of the mighty classic PEI country home that was also huuuge. There were lots of elderly-type decorations and knickknacks throughout the place to grab my attention. Of note: a fancy, ceramic foppish Elizabethan-type dandy who looked like he was indicating the impressive size of his wang hidden beneath his puffy, pink pantaloons with the flowery pattern. You know, just how foppish dandies are want to do.
In one of the bathrooms, there was an old bicycle horn, very circus clown-like, so I gave it a couple of quick honks while I was in there, and then feigned ignorance to hearing anything when Melissa asked me if I had heard a weird noise. Well, she believed me and got kind of freaked out but decided we should go investigate. When she looked outside, I slunk away for a second to grab the horn and then hid it behind my back. When she was thoroughly lost in her investigation, not paying any attention to me whatsoever, I honked that loud bugger of a horn right behind her back. Needless to say, I scared the living hell out of her, and that’s something I can’t help but die laughing from any time the pay off is that satisfyingly good. I honestly don’t even feel that bad when I pull off a simple but effective trick like that—even though I probably should. It’s just too damn funny (and easy in her case), especially since she thought I was so convincing when I played dumb about the honking. Oh, gawd. I’m proud of myself for that one.
When it was clear she wasn’t going to kill me, we grabbed a few things and hung out in the cottage for a bit. I thought about trying to scare her again when I left for the night but decided I didn’t want to be murdered if I were to be caught.
Giving new meaning to the term Swingers.
Patrick came over this afternoon and poured a couple of life casts of Vincent Price for me and Nathan. They look awesome, and now I just need to figure out where I’m going to hang mine up. “Terrible thing not knowing where to hang your Vincent Price face from when he played Dracula all the time.” Don’t ask.
With Vincent’s faces setting, I rushed out to Ch’town for a college reunion of sorts with a small gathering of folks. It wasn’t for my class specifically—we actually didn’t have our ten year, I don’t think—it was mostly for people in the year after but a bunch of us were all chummy in both classes so we all mixed together. I met up with April, Jason, Debbie, Corey and his wife, Karla, Heather and Keith at the college for a bit of a tour from April, who now works there as an instructor for the Interactive Multimedia Course.
I’ve visited the new Graphic Design digs several times over the years to attend advisory committee meetings but I was able to get a look-see at all of the other media departments and the rest of the college which has changed quite a bit since I attended. But even after all of the renovations, the classic production office for the college was still in the same spot, and they still had the same old paper cutter we’d sneak down to use all the time. Heather was delighted to demonstrate for us how to not use the cutter properly.
Heather and Keith told me that they recently acquired a whole bunch of metal type from—get this—a type foundry near Montague (of all places) that closed a few years ago. A type foundry on PEI? What?! How come no one told me about this? How come we never visited the damn place when we were all in college? Not only that, when the guy closed up shop, apparently one of the big foundries bought out his designs and he had an auction for all of his equipment. When no one came to buy anything, he brought drawers and drawers of metal type to the DUMP! Heather and Keith caught wind of the typographic abandonment, rescued what they could, and are now proud owners of cases of metal type. I would kill to get my hands on a full case of metal or wood type; all I have are a few bits and pieces from Nathan’s dad’s old print shop. In the back of my mind, someday, I think I’d like to have my own small press or hand-letterpress so I can learn more about traditional printing methods. Having a stockpile of free, discarded cases of type collected from the dump certainly would make loading up a press with type sometime in the future a whole lot easier—not to mention, cheaper.
Even if I never get a press, the type looks amazing and still has other functional uses like good ol’ hand-stamping, or simply used in ornamental way if it can’t be put to good use. I came across a custom glass-top table once online that was built with a type case below the glass. It didn’t come with the type, you’re meant to fill the case with type yourself, but it looked pretty swell in the photo with rows and rows of metal letterforms. It was pricey, though, and buying type to fill the drawer certainly adds a whole other level of cost to the initial table purchase.
After coming to the realization I would never get to see what was undoubtedly PEI’s one and only type foundry, I calmed down and then drove down to Peake’s Quay to meet up with everyone for dinner. Brian and his wife were there and a few more people showed up that I didn’t really know, or even remember for that matter. Heather and Karla made a quick stop on the way to the restaurant where Heather bought me a t-shirt with a weirdo likeness of the Queen Mum on it but as a monkey, and in velvet no less. Sweet.
Our food arrived and my BBQ chicken pizza wasn’t very good, and I gathered neither was anyone else’s food. Since this was my first time eating there, it means I can cross Peake’s off my list of places to try in Ch’town and looks like I can also cross it off the list of places to eat at again. Thumbs way down.
The same group from the college tour minus Debbie headed over to Dairy Queen for some dessert. I got a Peanut Buster Parfait even though I was telling myself the entire time I was standing in line to order it that I didn’t even want it, or even really like them in the first place. It has way too much chocolate syrup and turns into a big, gross, sugary mess. One less layer of chocolate and peanuts would be fine. Get that bottom layer outta there, DQ, and then you’ve got yourself a tasty, well balanced ice cream treat. I’m not a big fan of DQ anyway so why am I even giving this the amount of attention that I am?
We left and headed over to Jason and April’s for the rest of the evening but me and the ladies first headed over to the nearby park with the crazy playground. I climbed around on the equipment, and then Heather showed me the big swing that teenagers apparently screw on.
Back at the house, we sat around eating gummy bears and playing Wii and into the, ahem, wee hours. Their cat, Precious, let me rub her belly forever. Now that’s my kind of kitty: one who never, ever tires of attention and especially never tires of lots of belly rubbing action.
So, shitty pizza and parfaits aside, it was a great night overall and it was nice to see the college bunch again.
Will It Tape a Show for You When You Go Out?
My scanner bit the dust so I’ve been looking for a good deal on a good replacement. I found an all-in-one Epson Stylus Photo RX680 printer/fax/scanner/thingamajobby which means I can get rid of my crappy, good-for-nothing, frustrating, ink-guzzling, piece of shit Epson inkjet while I’m at it. Good fucking riddance. I hate inkjets with a capital HATE. The inks are too expensive and the shoddy print heads never seem to get properly clean and then end up leaving everything I print with streaks and gaps. I think I’ve used up more ink in my last couple of printers just cleaning the fucking things than I did actually printing stuff. Even though this new contraption is still another inkjet printer I’m hoping it lives up to its reviews which were generally high and quite positive. Got a good deal on it, too, so I can’t complain about the price at least.
It could be I’ve just been using cheapo, bottom-of-the-line inkjets all these years so I should have expected shit printing and overall quality. Could also be the fact that they sell printers cheaper than the ink that’s inside of them so a garbage pile of plastic can’t really produce wonders now, can it? At least they don’t still use multiple colours in one cartridge any more. Replacing the whole thing when only the cyan is out? What a racket that set up was.
I’ll see how this fancy multi-function apparatus works out over the next few months but I just hope it doesn’t fall into the same shitty printer category as the others or suffer from “Blender/Flashlight/Toaster/Apple Peeler/VCR/Skill Saw with an Alarm Clock and 5-Disc CD Changer Built-In” syndrome.
Where 19th Century Poupées Meet The Speedway.
Melissa invited me to join her sister, Tessa, step-mom, Jill, and little brother, Liam, who were visiting “from away” for trivia at her work tonight. After taking some photos of a boat in the harbour, I arrived at the pub uncharacteristically early and figured I might as well order me up some grub. Despite being in a restaurant, said ordering turned out to be no easy feat. I wasn’t exactly impressed by the service as I sat there waiting for a menu forever and then sat there forever again waiting to place my damn order. If they had been super busy then this wouldn’t have bothered me all that much but there was hardly anyone in the joint at the time, and sitting there by myself, staring at the wall because I have nothing to pre-occupy me gets old real fast. Oh, well. The food was good at least.
I ordered some spicy baked oysters (making that the first time I’ve actually eaten oysters but I still don’t think I’d try them raw) that were pretty darn good, I must admit. Damn good even. I added some sweet potato fries to my order and then a bowl of rum raisin pudding with ice cream for dessert. The pudding was also in the “damn good” category but kinda spendy considering what it was and that a scoop of ice cream was another buck on top of the already seven-dollar dessert.
Trivia ended up being fairly enjoyable even though we only tied for third place. I’m hoping to do better next week when Melissa hosts it and I fully expect her to ask questions only about things I know like Lost, website design, Apple products, Freakazoid! and Man or Astro-Man? songs.
Jill and Liam were visiting from Ottawa and, almost like they picked up a Chance card in Monopoly, there was a hotel error in their favour and they received a big cottage instead of a little one. We stopped in there for a little while afterwards for a chat, some chips, and cheese and crackers. I was jealous of their nice biggee-sized cottage after I was given the tour of the place. I’d kill to have a two-storey cottage like theirs on a nice piece of land, except down by the shore. I suppose once I win big in the lottery I can look into getting just such a cottage, plus my own go-kart racetrack. Back at her place, Melissa and I actually discussed having the racetrack become an art installation where the barrier tires along the track are replaced with rows of porcelain dolls and that there would be an antagonistic mystery driver, sort of Mario Kart style but all creepy-like. He’d zip around, interfering with other racers, all while dressed in a big frilly dress (including a petticoat), little black shoes and white stockings, white satin gloves and wearing a giant porcelain doll head with creepy dead eyes. You know, the kind of heavy-lided eyes that open and close with a faint thock when the head is moved about. Hey, it’s my fantasy money! I’ll do as I damn well please with it!
Oh, and this is me in a sexy, auburn wig.
“Houseboat insurance? Not with that haircut!”
Thankfully, I managed to get into the dentist today to have my toof fixed. Unfortunately, he also found a cavity while doing the repair job which makes two cavities I’ve had filled in as many months. This had better not become a trend. I cannot afford this trend. Not to mention I dislike getting cavities anyway and dislike having them filled even more. But who doesn’t? No one says, “Please, Mr. Dentist, could you drill away at my tooth for a bit then give me a big bill? I do so love the dusty smell of burning enamel and dentin!”
This evening, I ended up meeting with a potential client to put together a 700+ page textbook by—say it with me—the end of the week. Yes, that is four whole days from now. The idea is pure insanity and I don't even know if it’s possible. Probably not. As I biked over to the meeting, it had just rained but the sun was now out and creating a giant rainbow that arched high and wide over the ball field. It made for an even more beautiful evening, an evening of sun showers and giant claps of thunder…?
Now, I’ve always found sun showers to be rather pleasant but still a bit odd in a way. They seem to be one of those quaint, happy phenomena that little girls, ponies and fairies enjoy as they frolic in fields of tall grasses, daisies and marigolds kissed by the warm, sparkling rains blessed by the laughter of unicorns. Gut-rumbling thunder booming down over and over again, however, from sunny, blue skies filled with white, puffy clouds? Well, that’s just confusing and, quite frankly, a bit ominous.
To try and beat the humidity after my meeting, I spent a some time by the waterfront up on top of the yacht club cooling off as much as I could. But on the way home, as soon as I get a street or two away from Water Street on a humid night, it’s like walking right back into a sauna. Temporary relief by the water is nice but it would be great to have a bit of that cool air wafting up even a few more streets to reach my windows. To get that sort of natural cooling effect from the water's breeze, though, I may have to look into doing the MacGyver thing and start living on a houseboat. Riggs from Lethal Weapon lived on a houseboat, too, but I think it blew up at one point. And actually, now that I think about it, MacGyver’s houseboat burned down so now I’m thinking that living in a houseboat may not be such a smart idea after all. Then again, maybe that sort of stuff only happened to houseboats in the ’80s…and to action stars…with feathery mullets. Right there, that’s a triad for tragedy without a doubt.
I wonder, did Relic’s houseboat ever succumb to a fiery fate? He did live on a houseboat during the ’80s after all but he had neither a mullet nor a reputation or accreditation as an action star, despite owning a jet boat and being a beachcomber.
Soylent Green is people-topping!
I tested out the new-ish grill in the backyard that Nathan recently rescued from some wasteful twit that replaces his barbecue every year instead of simply cleaning it, or so I was told anyway. I grilled up some pork burgers which actually doesn’t sound all that appetizing for some reason. Pork. Burgers. Hmm. They were tasty, though. Very tasty indeed but, to me, hamburgers has always seemed like a more appropriate term since they’re actually from a pig while real-type hamburgers are decidedly cow-based. If only the historical connection for that word were based on another German port city. I can see the use of Frankfurt’s name causing an obvious problem with the sausage folks so that one’s out. I particularly like the sound of Bremenburger, though, or even Brunsbüttelburger, Cuxhavenburger, Ueckermundeburger or (my personal favourite) Wilhelmshavenburger. But Hamburger it is. I wonder if that’s what people from that city are referred to. Google? Men are referred to as Hamburger, you say? And the ladies Hamburgerin? Interesting.
Since that term’s already being used for food and a portion of the male German population, maybe something else would be more suitable for pork burgers and sound a little tastier. Pork patties has alliteration on its side but it still sounds kind of yick. I’ll have to give this some more thought. Or not.
In any case, with a couple of those bad boys grilled up and slapped with some cheese and a bun, I was all set to sit back and watch The Mighty Hercules from my crappy EP-VHS-to-DVD rips while I ate the saucy grilled goodness of the other white meat. For a long, long time now, I’ve been hoping X 1010 that they (whoever “they” may be) release that favourite Olympian cartoon from my childhood remastered to DVD like they did with Spider-Man. Hell, back in college I even designed my own The Mighty Hercules packaging for VHS tapes. If it does get released, I’m glad it will likely be on several discs as opposed to several dozen cassettes. Bloody VHS.
My dinner-time TV viewing then switched to Family Guy which was on cable, which meant commercials and lordy I hate watching TV with commercials. They either bore me outright in most cases or quite often madden me to the point of yelling at the screen. One commercial was for Pizza Hut (or “The Hut” as they refer to themselves now in all of their lameness), advertising their “restaurant-style” pasta dishes. In the style of a restaurant? Pizza Hut IS a restaurant! Why does it have to be restaurant-style if it’s from a restaurant in the first place? Do they mean “good restaurant-style” or “restaurant-style as in the kind of restaurant that most likely won’t cause diarrhea after eating there (but this stuff will anyway)”? You’re not doing yourself any favours by suggesting that you’re anything other than a restaurant, Pizza Hut. I’ve eaten at your establishment before, and you need all the help you can get.
On the topic of semantics, I’m thinking Pizza Hut and Greco should, for the sake of honesty, begin referring to their pizza as“pizza-style pizza”. Their highly processed pizza pies are mighty terrible as far as pizza goes and really only serves to give good pizza a bad name. Their pizza is kinda sorta in the “style” of actual pizza, in that it’s a flattened dough-like substance covered with a red, saucy liquid and plastic cheeses. Then they toss about various other ingredients like those with such mouthwatering labels as “beef topping” and “bacon topping” (both are actual terms from Greco’s menu), and then oven baked before being delivered in a cardboard box with a teeny plastic table in the center for support.
Granted, a slice every now and then (but usually only when on the verge of starvation) really hits the spot but it can’t be long before the word topping starts to proceed every other ingredient they offer, à la green pepper topping, onion topping, or (ew) mushroom topping. There’s already that crappy butter topping at the cinema and I’m fairly sure that when the day comes that all actual toppings like salami, chicken and olives end in topping I’ll have to just stop eating altogether.
Wait until they have whipped topping topping.
I Like My Chicken How I Like My Women…
Man, what a waste of a day. I overslept and didn’t make it to the market. In fact, I didn’t do much of anything because my bridge finally let go and my tooth went plink-plink in the sink-sink when I brushed my teeth. The idea of making public appearances with my hobo smile didn’t appeal to me all that much. So without any need to worry about chowing down causing a fake tooth to break off and not feeling particularly inclined to cook anything for myself, I got me some Wendy’s and cookies from Tim’s and chewed away with abandon. I tried that new Sweet & Spicy Asian Chicken which was passable for what it is (fast food boneless chicken wings trying to be vaguely “ethnic”) but was certainly a far cry from its foolish “fancy restaurant” portrayal in the commercial. If that’s not false advertising then I don’t know what is. Upscale dining my foot.
I watched The Last Man on Earth and even though it didn’t have the impact I thought it might I still liked it, especially the opening shots that 28 Days Later paid much homage to. You can’t go wrong with Vincent Price. I thought the idea for the ending was much stronger than the retarded I Am Legend remake. That was all out awful. I also watched The Lives of Others which is an amazing film. I had been meaning to rent it for a long time and I just so happened to find it sitting on the shelf in the living room. Convenient. It’s such a well made movie with an über-strong script and performances. I definitely need to watch more movies starring Ulrich Mühe.
“My mullet, it covers Mother Russia.”
I squeezed into Sharon’s car with Marcus, Greg and Nikkie, and we all headed up to Maid Marian’s for dinner. I hadn’t bothered going since they opened a couple of weeks ago because my mom (who runs the dining room) told me it’s been crazy busy. That’s to be expected with any new restaurant, I suppose, but especially one with piles of food for little money. The hubbub had supposedly calmed down a bit now that the new restaurant novelty had worn off a little but it was still pretty damn busy when we got there. We didn’t need to wait for a table, though, and before long I had a chocolate shake in front of me.
While we waited for our food, a worker was wearing a path in the floor between the kitchen at the back to the cooler at the front of the restaurant, walking past us each time with a pie in either hand. Not just regular pies but giant pies topped with mounds and mounds of whipped cream or thick browned crusts. It would soon prove to be a very effective form of not-so-subtle persuasion.
My hot chicken sandwich was only so-so and, while the helping of potato wedges was both generous and tasty, dipping those tater slices into the gravy proved somewhat difficult due to it being jiggly and congealed from being served at room temperature. Not deterred by the glut of food in my gut, the visions of floating pies in my head spurred me into ordering a slice of coconut cream pie. There were lots of dessert choices to be made so everyone at the table ended up with a slice of something or other. My slice of pie must have been at least four inches tall, albeit two of those inches were solely whipped cream (not even the good kind) and so, really, it was a big waste and all for show. It proved to be a chore to finish that slice after a big, gravy-soaked meal—a small pile of whipped cream being the only evidence there had been pie on the plate to begin with.
While the meal was alright, nowhere past good by any means, you certainly get your money’s worth if you rate your meals by weight and volume alone. I didn’t spend more than twenty bucks after tip on the entire mess of food, and that was with the addition of sides and substitutions and a shake. That’s what Maid Marian’s is pretty well known for after all: diner food (a lot of it) that’s good and cheap, and gigantic slices of pie.
Bellies full, we went to Source for Sports so Sharon could bring some pie to her beau, Leigh. I looked at sneakers designed for and perhaps even by space men, and Marcus noticed a box for an inflatable toy ball kids can bounce on. The box showed a boy with a mullet doing just that but I couldn’t help but notice his extremely ugly geography shirt so Marcus took a picture with his Blackberry for me. I then tried on various hats and shoulder pads, wishing Marcus would have done the same so we could have walked around the store together, each with big shoulders.
I went for a long walk later on to both work off some of my dinner and to take advantage of the nice, warm night we were getting for a change. I ran into my programmer pal, Steven, some of his buddies and their dog, Buddy, on my way back. We discussed the lame, classic, and shitty parts of Summerside existence at length then went our separate ways into the Summerside night.
Too blah to do much of anything once I got home, I watched some Conan and then spent some time looking up info on Phillip Morris, Altria and Kraft Foods. My arguments with Melissa the other night got me thinking about other corporations with branching brands under their mega umbrellas. Turns out my personal boycott of Kraft, Post Cereals and other products I knew to be owned by Phillip Morris could have ended back in March 2007 when Altria spun-off Kraft Foods, now an independent company.
I thought I had done a pretty good job sticking to my boycott these last several years, not wanting to support a cigarette company, but it turns out a few foods slipped through into my basket from time to time. The obvious Kraft culprits were out—Dinner, Singles, Miracle Whip, Peanut Butter—and others I knew of like Honey Bunches of Oats, Cracker Barrel Cheese, Mr. Christie products, and Toblerone. However, one product I thought was safe from that corporation’s yellow-stained fingers was Pocky. Who knew my beloved Pocky sticks would end up being owned at one point in time by Kraft in Japan?! Not me, apparently.
So, needless to say, I’m glad I found out that Kraft is free of Altria/Phillip Morris’ grasp so that I can go back to buying things like Grey Poupon, Easy Cheese, Velveeta and Vegemite. Wait, I never bought any of those things before but now I can try the array of Philly Cream Cheeses I’ve avoided so long, pick up a box of Triscuits for a change, or even mix up a batch of Tang for the hell of it. I may have missed out on certain favourites in recent years but I have found that I’ve tried other brands I may not have normally purchased and that “generic” and store brands are often as good or better than the big brand names anyway. One of my arguments from the other night was that part of a consumer’s power is their choice to buy or not buy products as they see fit. However, the no names are in many cases made by the big brands anyway so boycotting Phillip Morris/Kraft now appears to have been a mostly useless practice on one level. The attempt on my part to be a more responsible consumer was most likely all in vain seeing as my Yellow Box Macaroni & Cheese Dinner money was probably making its way into Kraft’s (ultimately Altria’s) deep pockets prior to 2007. Still, I’d rather be a slightly informed consumer rather than a totally uninformed one.
After all that, though, I think I need some Oreos.
Afraid the Tooth Fairy will come looking for me.
I made an unfortunate decision tonight. I decided to have a granola bar for dessert and halfway through enjoy the hearty snack bar I heard a nasty crunch as I bit into a big, honkin’ almond in the middle of it. I should have known better than to buy that kind of granola bars and now part of my bridge is cracked and one of my fake teeth is loose. The trick now is trying to go all weekend without cracking the rest and ending up with a hockey player smile. Of course, I had to do this on a Thursday night. My dentist is closed on Friday and I might not even be able to get in to have this frickin’ thing fixed at the first of the week.
This happened one other time on a Thursday night at a very inopportune time. I had to call another dentist who wasn’t closed and tell them it was an emergency for me to get in on Friday because I was having family portraits taken on the weekend when actually it was only because I was meeting a girl the next night. That wasn’t the case this time around, unfortunately, so my need to lie about it didn’t seem warranted.
I went to trivia right after this happened tonight, hoping to talk to Karen (who happens to be my dentist’s receptionist) about pulling some strings to get me in on Monday. She ended up having some sort of an argument with her brother in the parking lot and went straight home.
What shit luck today. We didn’t even place in trivia.
John A. MacDonald is a hussy and a harlot.
I picked up Melissa and made a run up to grab a bite to eat at The Gahan House in Ch’town. I needed to eat somewhere other than the five choices that had been exhausted long ago in Summerside. She ordered some sort of spicy peanut stir fry dish that actually wasn’t all that good. It wasn’t the least bit spicy and not even a stir fry really. There may have been peanuts though. I’ll give them that. I got a pesto pizza with chicken, bacon and feta that, compared to Melissa’s order, was conversely delicious and exactly as described. Dessert followed: Chocolate Caramilk cheesecake. It was kinda on the smallish side but was extra good so that made up for it—even the whipped cream was great. How often is the whipped cream great? I’d have to say it came with the best dollops of whipped cream I’ve ever eaten. If they had their whipped cream as a stand-alone dessert I would order it. A big bowl full of it with whipped cream on the side.
Looking for something to do, we checked out the new Alibi Lounge next to Baba’s. It stood out as quite a different spot to me, being oddly decorated for my taste. The room had ample space, the staff was nice and no one bothered us. All plusses in my book. As an added bonus, they served the same take-the-roof-off-your-mouth ginger beer I remember drinking with my friend when we were kids. He’d nab a couple every so often from his dad’s stash in the fridge, and we either thought it was actual beer or pretended it was. Either way, it removed a couple of layers of flesh from my esophagus.
One thing I that kept rolling around in my head when I was in the new lounge was how there used to be an Indian restaurant with a delicious buffet in this spot. Where the bar now stood, that’s where the buffet was at. The counter with the chewy fennel seed / Goodies breath freshening mix you could spoon into your palm after paying for your meal once stood where our table sat. This place may have ginger beer, fancy wallpaper, chandeliers and girly pillows on benches but it will never have creamy butter chicken, fresh na’an bread or a friendly, old Indian dude who tells you what all of the dishes are made of. The only thing lamer than the Indian restaurant being replaced by a faux-fancy lounge is Baba’s charging two bucks to get into open mic night at 1:00 am. I know it’s only two bucks but it’s also one in the morning. It’s also open mic.
Melissa decided to suck face with our nation’s first prime minister on a bench downtown. You’d think a public make-out session like that would turn more heads. Ol’ Johnny boy is probably up to that sort of thing all the time.
Dabbers & Debaters or Marx Didn’t Play Bingo.
Bingo night! Melissa and I headed down to Bingo World (a.k.a. The Friendly Bingo) in hopes of winning some cold, hard cash. We settled into our seats with our dabbers and cards in hand, spread them out over the table and then dabbed the night away. At times we each got within two or three numbers of a bingo but never once got to shout out a proclamation of being a big time winner. That’s always kind of a let down, a tease really, but it was something to do and killed a couple of hours with some mild excitement. What more can you ask for in this town, right? Plus, the Hot Balls poster will bring amusement to even the most dour of spirits.
We decided to grab a drink at Dooly’s afterward and ran into D’Arcy and his brother, Joey, who were sitting around doing the same. We chatted for a bit and after the McNally brothers left, Melissa and I ended up discussing (read: arguing) about why and how consumerism will be the downfall of society. I tried for a long time to make the point that, despite all of the bad, there is some good in advertising, and also that she’s delusional if she thinks she can just skip out on consumerism somehow and still be a ”successful” artist in commercial or financial terms. This argument and arguments in similar veins went on (and on and on) until the joint closed, then subsided in the car ride home, and then started up again at length back here. My guess is that we continued to frustrate and annoy each other endlessly for the better part of three hours, and I’m not entirely sure if either of us managed to make the other see our point of view.
However, I was made well aware of the fact that the Dove “Real Beauty” Campaign promoting healthy, natural body image and the contradictory ads for Axe Body Spray that objectify women are both for brands owned the same company, namely Unilever. Am I surprised? No, not in the least. Though, I do find the idea of a dude made of chocolate having his arm ripped off by a girl in a passing car pretty funny.
Grill. Eat. Moan. Eat More. Sleep. Repeat.
The weekend of endless food continued with yet another barbecue at Shawn’s tonight, though, it was a smaller affair this time around. Besides the two couples from Halifax, it was just me, Luke and Nathan stuffing our faces at the McNally homestead this evening. There was much less grilling going on as everyone but me was filling up on steamed mussels. I had another steak except this time it had been soaking in a Coffee-Flavoured Peppercorn Marinade that was good but not quite the tasty success that my firecracker steak from the night before had been.
Luke brought a big pot full of pasta salad made using the now not-so-secret recipe a certain someone gave him that was on the menu at a certain café we all used to frequent together quite a bit. That side dish sure brought me back to many a classic lunch hour meal at said café that I nearly considered as a second home for a while.
We piled into cars after the meal to get us some Frosty Treat for dessert. This involved standing out in the fall-like weather to get ice cream then eat it in our cars as the cold mist started filling the air.
Hey, July. Some nice days and warms nights would be most welcome right about now.
King of The Grill, Licensed to Grill, Grill or Be Grilled, Grill Sergeant, or Dressed to Grill.
Despite the unsummer-like weather, a barbecue at Shawn’s went ahead as planned. The foul weather gods be damned! A big group showed up which meant there was a considerable amount of meats of ranging varieties slated to hit the grill. It was readily apparent to everyone that a seriously considered and expertly devised plan of action was needed to ensure all meats were grilled properly and in a timely manner.
There was only one man present who would be able to masterfully devise and implement the most effective grilling strategy. That man was Shawn McNally. He possesses a gift when it comes to propane and fire, tongs and meats. His grilling schedule went like clockwork. He had the grilling methods down to a science. His technique was nothing short of an art form, truth be told. He methodically grouped and grilled everyone’s food with brilliant orchestration and flawless execution. He somehow made it appear effortless, though, and in the rain, no less! It was barbecue mastery at its finest.
My steak had been soaking up the spicy goodness of a firecracker marinade recipe I stumbled across and, thanks to the exceptional wizardry of Grillmaster McNally, it left his blessed barbecue grilled to a state of indisputable perfection. I’m not a religious person but what Shawn can do with a hot grill is enough to make me believe that miracles really do exist.
Following the mythic barbecue, Shawn, Bobby and I headed up to Karen and D’Arcy’s place for a party they were having for Michele’s birthday. We arrived to find her and a bunch of friends sitting around rather quietly despite the guitars, flipping through song books, while D’Arcy and Jimmy were in the basement smoking and listening to blues. I wanted to avoid that smoky dungeon so I took a seat in the living room where the several near-strangers sat until the quiet and awkwardness forced me to retreat to the basement (I’ll take lung cancer over social anxiety any day).
There we stayed for most of the night as people became progressively drunker, as the cigarette butts filled the ash tray to overflowing, and as Shawn relentlessly badgered D’Arcy by repeatedly proclaiming him to be a terrible host. I needed to escape upstairs for a break and to eat some food that Michele’s friend, Julie, had made for the party (not that I needed any more after the barbecue). There was chili and chowder, fresh biscuits and an amazing, dense homemade chocolate cake, plus brownies that Karen had baked on top of all that. I was needlessly encouraged to eat and, after sampling everything except the chowder, you’d think I’d not be want for anything else to eat that night. Your assumption would be wrong, though. At the prospect of Terry showing up after he got off work with free leftover slices from Michael’s, I figured I’d be hungry enough by then to have at least one slice. Sadly, no slices had arrived by the time we left. I was slightly disappointed, slightly relieved.
I need a collective noun for a group of McNallys.
Shawn and Bryanna are visiting from Halifax this weekend with her twin sister, Alyssa, and her boyfriend, Mike. A bunch of us, including Shawn’s cousin, Bobby, headed down to China Star for the requisite Chinese food feed to sate Shawn’s cravings. As stragglers arrived at the restaurant, the group ended up growing so much that we had to combine three tables to seat everyone properly, or as properly as we could. It got pretty cozy in the back part of the dining room.
Our big group headed to trivia afterwards and, once again, sat in the worst spot in the whole room: the two back tables where the sound is terrible and everyone is spread out so much that it doesn’t make much sense to even call your team a “team”. Still, we snagged second place but the runner-up prize doesn’t add up to very much per person once you split it up between that many people…especially second spot winnings at The Heritage. Boos, hisses and thumbs down all around to lame prizes.
Our pockets jingling with the sound of loose change, we all headed up to Karen and D’Arcy’s afterward, and very soon thereafter I found myself with the hugest craving for Tim’s cookies and Timbits. Off I went with Kyle to Tim’s but, at that late hour, the pickings were pretty slim. For sharing I bought a 40-pack of the only two good kinds of Timbits they had left and then two cookies pour moi. After Kyle ran off to get his late night Red Bull, we headed back to find that mostly everyone had left while we were out. All that remained toward the end was me, Kyle, Nathan, and a well-oiled bunch of random McNally cousins. A healthy dose of drunken nonsense stories, out-of-context McNally anecdotes and inside jokes, and other giggling non sequiturs later, the decision was made to call it a night.
However, I’m predicting a repeat of much of the same tomorrow.
“A redneck here? At wrestling? Surely, you jest.”
Melissa and I went down to The Silver Fox to join Nathan, D’Arcy and his kids to watch some live wrestling in all its glory—something that’s becoming somewhat of a summer tradition at this point. The ring was set up in the curling rink and as soon as I walked in I was greeted by a big sign that read: “The Million Dollar Man” Ted DiBiase and Virgil. Turns out Ted wasn’t part of the entertainment but Virgil sure was and, not only that, the original Cuban Assassin was part of the evening’s line-up too! Classic was piling up on top of classic already!
UCW was making its way around the maritimes with its Legends Tour so there were short interviews with wrestling superstars like Leo Burke and the Cuban Assassin in between matches. Even though the segments were fairly awkward it was still awesome to finally see the Cuban Assassin in person, having only watched him on TV when I was a kid as he paraded around in his khakis, waving the Cuban flag on Grand Prix Wrestling.
The first match was between some French guy in fancy pants and (someone call the copyright lawyers) a wrestling Spider-Man, who seems to be a must-have character in these types of wrestling circuits. This time around, though, Spidey was in his black and silver suit as opposed to his traditional red and blue getup. It was actually quite a bit better than the usual pyjamas-style outfits he has previously jumped around in. The web-slinger was actually sans webs (a.k.a. streamers) for this bout, he mostly performed his acrobatics and danced about, occasionally pounding on the other guy. It was actually lame that Spidey wasn’t as lame this time. If his costume keeps getting better and he doesn’t have any super-cheesy gimmicks in the future then I don’t know if I want to keep going to see him wrestle. I mean, I’m not going to these events to experience high production values after all.
Next up was another French fella with no shirt on who took on the UCW Middleweight Champion, J.P. Simms, who (like I need to tell you) is known as “Badness Personified”. The back of his shirt even said so, so it’s gotta be true, right? Needless to say, ol’ Badness in his shiny, garbage bag pants hung onto his title and charmed the hearts of all the ladies in the arena, er, curling rink. That never was really in doubt if you ask me.
Before the third match they interviewed the Cuban Assassin whose accent was muy thick so, unfortunately, there were quite a few applaud-even-though-you-have-no-clue-what-he-just-said moments. Still, it was awesome to see him live and now I can finally cross “See Cuban Assassin in a wrestling ring at The Silver Fox” off my to-do list.
Following that so-called interview, “Lumber” Jack Johnson graced us with another appearance but this time he had with him his…dad? The old guy shuffling around behind him sort of looked like a boonies sherpa Bruno Gerussi. And who wouldn’t want a guy like that in their corner, keeping their 2x4 safe while they rassled? He looked as though he may have also been keeping a close eye on a two-four before the match.
Jack faced off against a classic of the Legends Tour: Leapin’ Lanny Poffo with his big clobberin’ arms. No wrestling match between two such gentlemen could commence without a little injection of culture, though. Each took turns reciting their own brand of poetry before they had a good throw down which led to a very lame moment when Lanny was feebly assaulted with a 2x4 by Sherpa Gerussi from outside the ring. Lame because Lanny jumped the cue and the old fella was late to the party so Lanny ended up faux-struggling to fend off a board attack before the lumber was even brought within five feet of him. However, Mr. Poffo did manage to turn things around to his favour, and was victorious over backwoods Jack and his ball-point-pen-on-a-Hilroy-scribbler-style tattoos.
Some guy named XXL strutted out next in his lame X vest and was soon followed by a true wrestling superstar, Virgil. He shook my hand and he then grabbed a wrestling game from the kid in front of me who, I think, was pretty freaked out by it and perhaps thought he wouldn’t get it back.
Before the match could start, a sketchy guy in a ball cap and black wife-beater who had been mouthing off at the wrestlers every match—very much going out of his way to do so, actually—got the reaction he had been looking for all night when XXL mouthed off back at him. Johnny Upwest took that as his cue to make a b-line for the ring, slide up and under the ropes in a jiffy and start freaking out. He got into it with XXL and then with whoever else was in the ring with him. I managed to capture some video of the guy getting pounced on by everyone, manhandled a bit and then, after being forcibly exited from the ring, he raised his arms and let out a woo. He also somehow thought he’d be allowed to go back to his seat to enjoy the rest of the night’s fine entertainment. He was promptly escorted outside.
Virgil jumped right in at that point with mic in hand to break the awkward tension in the place, doing a really good job to butter up the crowd and put everyone at ease so that the match could get started and so he could drop XXL down to a girl’s small. The announcer came out after the match and apologized for the incident and the unfortunate immature behaviour, to which one of the Tignish Terror’s buddies kept yelling out that he wanted to say something in defence of his sketchy nutcase pal. Not unsurprisingly, he was not given an opportunity to properly voice his grievances.
Leo Burke came out for an interview next and then it was on to the intermission. Jason and his gal-pal, Sandi, had shown up shortly before the intermission, leaving behind their free seats at Anne & Gilbert. When Sandi realized the play sucked, she leaned over and asked simply, “Wrestling?”. They got there at a fine time, to be sure.
Melissa wanted a photo with Virgil and so did I (obviously) so we went over to meet the man. He quickly relieved me of a twenty dollar bill after he said instead of one 8x10 glossy for $15 he’d give me two for $20. Who was I to argue with Virgil and pass up such a fantastic deal? He posed for a photo with Melissa first, then posed with me. It was kind of awkward because he wanted me to stand in front of the Ted DiBiase and Virgil sign behind him but I misheard him and that led to some brief confusion. In any case, he might as well have just picked me up and set me down where he wanted me to stand to avoid that whole fuddled exchange. He definitely had the guns to do so.
Only after looking at the photos did I realize that Ted DiBiase’s name on the sign had a typo in it. You’d think with all his money he could have hired a proofreader.
Jason and Sandi posed with him next and we all went back to sit down and admire our autographed glossies taken sometime in the late ’80s. Around that time someone kept calling for security because, apparently, the Tignish Terror had gone around back looking to cause more trouble and was promptly arrested.
Intermission ended as Riddick and his goatee got in the ring and awaited his tag team partner from parts unknown, the masked and caped Maritime Menace. Predictably, Menace was wearing his trademark pants with his “You Shut Your Mouth” catchphrase on the ass. These two would be taking on a tag team that could perhaps be best described as being, well, a little light in the loafers, as they say.
Remember when Bugs Bunny took over for Ravishing Ronald to fight The Crusher in “Bunny Hugged”? Of course, you do. That’s sort of like what was going on with the pink spandex, tutu-and-fringe-clad masked wonder, The Flaming Flamingo, and his slender, shiny companion, Goldy. One major difference, though, was that, by comparison with the effete duo, Bugs is rather macho and intimidating.
As lithe and nimble as those two might have been, they proved to be no match for Riddick and The Menace who looked like a gym-crazy bouncer and a burly, beer-drinkin’ trucker in a luchador mask, respectively
Following that questionable match-up and its political incorrectness, the main event was to feature some guy in shredded pink pants squaring off against the new Cuban Assassin. With pink pants a-fluttering and with hairy rock-hard gut action aplenty, the match was spectacular and soon took a turn for the classic.
The Cuban Assassin II had somehow become entangled in the ropes and, despite all of the ref’s best efforts to free him, he was left at the mercy of the guy in the pink, fringed tights. The humanity!
Who could possibly save a helpless Cuban Assassin Jr. from certain abuse and inevitable defeat? Oh, why, Cuban Assassin Sr., of course! It was Daddy to the rescue—and with a bad-ass rink chair in his hands no less—to frighten off Junior’s frilly assailant.
It was on. He was going to mess someone up bad with that chair. Papa Assassin came to the aid of Little Assassin but soon found himself embroiled in a match of his own, eventually emerging victorious and showing Peter Pinkpants how things were done back in the days of Grand Prix.
What a phenomenal finish to another exciting maritime wrestling event. We walked out of the curling rink still dazzled by the body slams, leg drops and clotheslines, plus the introduction of a chair or two. Melissa, Nathan and I decided to grab a drink at the bar and discovered Virgil was on the other side having a drink himself, squaring away his bill. We overheard him talking sports with some locals, telling them stories about the Million Dollar Man now being a preacher, and MDM’s son making 1.6 million in the first nine months of his wrestling career. To say it was supremely weird to have Virgil hanging out at The Silver Fox bar is an understatement. Taking a break from work, Greg showed up but, unfortunately, he missed seeing the surreal moment.
As we all left, we noticed a car full of dudes in ball caps sitting in the dark in the parking lot. It was undoubtedly the sketchy up west crew quietly waiting for a stray wrestler or two to wander outside so they could prove their manliness by jumping out to pick a fight. Ah yes, wrestling sure does bring out the very best crowds and the very best in people, doesn’t it?
Kyle Ellsworth is an inconsiderate bastard.*
I found out today from Nathan—who luckily stumbled across a poster downtown—that wrestling is happening right here in town tomorrow night. Where at? Ohhh, at The Silver Fox and I don’t think it can get any more classic than that—unless, of course, it was going to be at The Legion.
I messaged everyone to let them know about the big event but decided I should make a point of calling Kyle to be sure he was in the loop. I knew he’d be stoked to go and would be all over another night of lame-ass wrestling. I messaged Kyle’s brother, Jason, to track down his cell number because Kyle definitely would be pissed if he were to miss out on the action tomorrow night. I was a fairly disappointed in Kyle when Jason said he already knew about it and had mentioned it to Kyle a couple of days ago but neither of them would be able make it. So, that meant Kyle knew about this grand excitement days in advance and never mentioned it to anyone else! The bastard. I feel…betrayed.
Today being Canada Day, I headed down to Green Shore to sit out on the rocks and watch the fireworks with Melissa, Nathan, Desiree, Greg and Nikkie. It wasn’t a very good night for fireworks: dark clouds, cool, and windy. The hope was that the rain would stay away and not ruin the evening, which it it did, and the fireworks started up without any problems. They must have lasted at least twenty minutes, maybe more, which has got to be some sort of record for Summerside. They really outdid themselves this year; I was seriously impressed by the display. It was no Ottawa or anything but this was by far the best year for fireworks in town that I can remember.
Right at the end and with courteous timing, the mist started. It was just enough to make me cold and feel gross and damp by the time me and Melissa had made the short walk to Greg’s. Greg and Nikkie had to drive back the three blocks from Green Shore and it probably took fifteen minutes because of the traffic. The four of us hung out in the front porch for a while, Greg getting a steady stream of cryptic, no doubt drunken, texts from Marcus the entire time.
*Kyle Ellsworth isn’t actually an inconsiderate bastard.