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February 26, 2005 >> EulogyWe coasted off the highway, rapidly decelerating as the Bridgeport off ramp curled us back into the familiarity of Waterloo. It was good to be back - we had beaten the devilish Toronto 401 traffic that snared us the night before, and I was riding high on adrenaline (Chad was high on bowl hits).
The steering wheel wobbled a bit as the Tempo laboured around the particularly tight off-ramp to Bridgeport Road. She doesn't like tight turns, you see - she's developed a habit of fucking with me whenever I try to coax her into seemingly routine car-like tasks such as "Turn Right - ALLLL The Way Right." She squeals and complains and pretends like the steering wheel doesn't work anymore, but I know she's just joking.
Today she wasn't joking. As I came out of the turn, a horrible thumping noise punched up through the bottom of the car. The steering wheel felt like a broken arcade machine.
"I think we're fucked," I told Chad. We were most definitely crippled. Somehow we made it into the parking lot of Midas Muffler. As a mechanic drove the Tempo into a service bay, I had a sickening feeling at the back of my mind: "This is it. This is the sad, sad end."
Sure enough, fifteen minutes later the verdict was in.
I can't pay this. These repairs almost cost more than the car did, three years ago. Even if I found a place that doesn't rip you off as lustily as Midas Muffler does, I would still be paying upwards of $750.00. It's a no dice situation.
I always knew that the Tempo would be leaving, sometime soon. We're going to Japan and the car can't come, no matter how much it wants to try driving on the 'wrong' side of the road. It would've been sold or given away, a death trap that I would inflict on my secretest of enemies or bestow on fearless friends.
The Tempo has seen its fair share of craziness. It's been ridiculed and derided for its purple tinted windows, crashed into embankments and snow drifts, raced against undercover detectives, raced against hot lesbians on the highway, raced against stodgy elderly couples in PT Cruisers. It was nicknamed Air Force One at one point. I can't remember why.
The car has survived decrepit tires, dangling exhaust pipes and unrollable windows. She's had a tough life under my uncaring ownership and I will miss her dearly. I'm thinking about donating her to a local high school, where they'll fix her for cheap and maybe some student will choose to revive the spirit of the Tempo, to drive her into glorious life once again. Slim potential is a far more comforting prospect than having my poor car crushed into a tiny metal cube at the auto wrecker's.
Goodbye Ford Tempo.
Posted by Chris at 04:30 PM >> Commentations (6) | Permalink
February 25, 2005 >> Hastefaced
I'm all over the map this week and unable to put a decent post together. I have so much work to do but I like the way that Reading Week shaped up in the end. Maybe I'll get something done this weekend. Maybe...
Goin' to Oshawa. No comments.
Posted by Chris at 02:10 PM | Permalink
February 22, 2005 >> Gonzo is gone
I'm watching Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, which is predictable and yet still very necessary.
Posted by Chris at 12:09 AM >> Commentations (5) | Permalink
February 21, 2005 >> Scripted Smashing
The script for Nobody Loves You is now online for those who:
a) Didn't come to FR!NGE - shame!
b) Saw the play but had no fucking clue what was happening because they were drunk and giggling the whole time.
The script may help clarify, but it's missing a few golden moments that were spontaneously created during rehearsal - the Superjump High-Five, for example, and Kyle's rant about unilaterally running over people and Shetland ponies in America's automobile. Those were moments created by impulse and somehow it doesn't feel right to record them after the fact.
>> >> >> >> >> >> >> >>
Chad just found an archaic monitor and keyboard in one of the Spider Rooms while he was cleaning out the basement. It seemed obvious that we had to bash them to pieces with baseball bats. The scene of the crime was chaos, letters and numbers and glass and circuits flying everywhere as we punished technology for outdating itself so damn quickly. Smashing is fun and the aftermath was gory.
Posted by Chris at 03:23 PM >> Commentations (0) | Permalink
>> Highway 401
Today I drove Carly to Lester Pearson airport.
At around four, the weather was okay. Air Force One was in fine shape - for a Ford Tempo at least - which means that the little Service Engine Soon light was on and I felt like I was driving a bumper car around an ice rink. No spectacular billows of smoke flowing out the front of my hood this time, thankfully (although they look pretty cool).
We talked about cakes decorated with candy penises and frosting vaginas. We talked about San Francisco and why it's gay and how many lesbian bars happen to be down there. Results inconclusive, but somehow San Francisco has become a beacon of flamboyance in a nation turning dull and sober with religious retardation. It's a Good Thing.
Carly packs way too many shoes for a week long trip. SIX PAIRS. She explained this: "Well, I have sandals because it's warmer, heels for when I want to wear my long pants..." and so forth. I guess this makes sense, but it still doesn't, at the same time. Still, they are all neatly packed in rows in a mini-suitcase, and it makes me laugh.
Once I hit the 401, I remembered that I haven't had windshield washer fluid in my car in like six months. I remember this every time I go on the highway actually, but somehow it never seems to help. Because I still don't have any fucking washer fluid. I push the button and the wipers mash dirty car residue all over the window. No fluid.
So I'm peering through like some kind of ostrich, trying not to kill us both, and the radio is playing eight Green Day songs in a row and Carly tells me about her sister who ate six bars of Ex-Lax (????) and then we're at the airport. It's efficient and well labeled. Lester Pearson must be proud to have such a bustling centre of metal birds named after him. Carly's off, six pairs of shoes in hand, and I'm on my way back and a storm hits.
It's not a very bad kind of storm, and actually I was kind of liking it, because snow is just as good as washer fluid for cleaning that damnable windshield. But then came the flurries and the wind and the paranoia and the sea of brake lights and sensibilities kicked in. I looked at the radio clock and tried to decide when I would be back at home, away from this neverending stream of automobilia. I guessed 6:30. Always round to the nearest half hour.
Somebody in an SUV tailgated me for a while. It was one of those times when the fast lane is somehow going slower than the middle mundane one, and I wondered why this motherfucker didn't pass me and fuckin' plug away if he was in such a rush, instead of harassing me. I always like to attribute the worst characteristics to drivers in these kind of situations, so I pictured Mr. SUV as a smug suit on a cell phone: "What? WHAT? Hold on Larry, some punk kid in a fuckin' Tempo is going too slow for my big beefy troop transporter here. Why won't he drive faster?? ... Larry? Oh yeah, yeah, buy those little bastards from the slave trader. We're bumping up sneaker production this week, and we also need more meat for the company barbeque."
So this infant devourer comes in real close and his oversized headlights are staring in at me, boring a hole in the back of my head. This is really too much, so I calmly lift my right hand and give the SUV the finger. Fuck you, Sport Utility Vehicle. Fuck your gas guzzling and your bulk. I don't know why people do these road-rage-y things, much less myself - I mean, it's crude and offensive and probably unnecessary - but it made me feel infinitely better. I don't know if Mr. SUV saw me, but he backed off a bit and I was smug in my immoral victory.
Now I pictured an old man, muttering to himself about How I Never and These Disrespectful Kids These Days and Shocking. It's nice that most old people will be less and less like that conservative, disapproving stereotype in the coming years, although I doubt old people of any generation will ever enjoy getting the finger. Maybe they should learn not to follow so goddamn close.
The storm was hitting its full fury as I pulled back into Waterloo. I was sliding a bit, fishtailing down Bridgeport, but that was all right. You get extra points for hitting people with the back end of your car. If your car has saw blades that come out of the hubcaps like a James Bond special, you can pretty much guarantee a shitload of points. Sadly I had a score of zero as I pulled back into the driveway, five minutes after my 401 guesstimation. Maybe next time.
But wait, is he talking about the points or the time guessing thing?? Is he going to go on a wild rampage of revenge, forever scarred by the evil manipulations of SUV Jack-off Man and killing pedestrians left and right??
Muahahahaha!
Posted by Chris at 01:13 AM >> Commentations (2) | Permalink
February 17, 2005 >> Jesus the negotiator
I added some more stuff to the Others page because Meegan and Jen were looking a little lonely all by themselves.
I also uploaded last week's column.
But now to the real issue:
If Jesus Christ descended from the heavens, basked you in the radiance of his benevolent smile and handed you a contract to sign, would you read it first?
Posted by Chris at 08:43 PM >> Commentations (4) | Permalink
February 16, 2005 >> Musical moment
I am rather enchanted with A Perfect Circle's new eMOTIVE cover album, particularly their version of Elvis Costello's Peace, Love and Understanding.
It's a very methodical song and has been stuck in my head for hours, especially the end where the violin forces its way to the forefront.
Anyways, since I have more bandwidth than the average bear, I figured I would share this wonder with y'all - click here to download the MP3. Hopefully the RIAA won't come and put me in jail for this rampant act of terrorist file-sharing.
Posted by Chris at 01:06 PM >> Commentations (2) | Permalink
February 15, 2005 >> Look the other way
Lately I've spent far more time catching up on people news than news news. When I'm idly clicking around the internet, I look for blogs and stories written by friends and other people like me. The CNN MegaNewsBloc falls to the wayside; no longer an IE Favorite, its hegemony unsampled. I choose to fish the vast deep seas instead, never sure of what I'll find but always confident in its authenticity.
Somehow online lives seem more genuine than the detached efficiency of corporate news. Somehow I feel as though I learn more about the world from people like Tudor than the endless procession of sterile reporting that builds a dark mural of 'what's important'. I want to read opinion and experience, not muted objectivity. I'm always looking for something that looks, feels, tastes, smells and sounds more real.
And, as Chad knows, the obvious follow-up question at work here is "What is reality?", delivered with the serious pretention that only a film major can muster and quickly drowning in laughter from the rest of the class. Because reality is clearly this, here, now.
Real is us and not them.
Posted by Chris at 04:47 PM >> Commentations (3) | Permalink
February 14, 2005 >> Valentine's Day
Startlingly appropriate:
Posted by Chris at 01:51 PM >> Commentations (3) | Permalink
February 12, 2005 >> Social fabric
I have realized that the nights you expect the least from consistently end up being the best. Somehow last night's Brick Brewery tour turned into trekking back and forth across Waterloo, a checklist of things to do at Mike Morris' house (get ass slapped by stranger - check) and finally, inexplicably, the drama created by a dying bunny in a box. It was one of those evenings where the randomness never really comes to an end, and trying to explain it all would just be redundant and pointless.
So I won't.
But have you ever noticed that this phenomenon works the other way, too? If you hype up your plans or dare to get excited for what appears to be a surefire good time, you're fucked. You'll forget your ID. Someone will throw up on you. The Powers That Be will rain a litany of curses down on your hubris-y head.
Expect nothing and you will receive everything.
Posted by Chris at 01:41 PM >> Commentations (5) | Permalink
February 11, 2005 >> Coulterized
For those who disapprove of Ann Coulter as much as I do, click here to see her look like an idiot.
We'll give you love without the affection.
Posted by Chris at 04:53 PM >> Commentations (4) | Permalink
February 10, 2005 >> Waking life
Did you ever have one of those nights that seemed to stretch on forever, where the dreams kept on coming and you kind of didn't want them to stop?
And when you woke up, you made a conscious decision not to go to class so you could dream some more?
11 hours. Yeah, maybe I'm weird.
Posted by Chris at 01:58 PM >> Commentations (4) | Permalink
February 09, 2005 >> Rushed out the door
FR!NGE Festival Oh-five gallery is online, largely thanks to the constant houndings of Tessa (shout-out!).
Oh, and here's the Cord review for Nobody Loves You:
An intriguing, unusual play produced by the director who swept last year's "Fringe Oscars," Nobody Loves You is a reflection on relationships and Valentine's Day. While running far too long for a FR!NGE play, Nobody Loves You builds itself up well to the final confrontation, holding the viewer's attention throughout. The use of a backdrop screen seems superfluous until it is deftly worked into the final scene, making itself an integral part of the performance. Strongly written and well-acted, Nobody Loves You is an enjoyable stage show overall.
**** / 5
I can dig it.
Posted by Chris at 09:49 PM >> Commentations (5) | Permalink
February 08, 2005 >> Question.
How much corporate money would it take for you to willingly name your firstborn child Pepsifootlocker?
Posted by Chris at 01:39 AM >> Commentations (8) | Permalink
February 07, 2005 >> Video games OR What is reality?
Anyone remember the game Rollercoaster Tycoon?
You got to build your own theme park and design devious rollercoasters. I had a habit of doing horrible things to the poor patrons of Satan World (my park) because, well, you know, they're not real. I would put exits from rides directly over a pit of water just so elated families, happily skipping along and gushing about how much fun they had, would immediately fall to their doom and drown. I made rollercoasters that launched screaming virtuosos off the edge of a canyon, where they had the thrill of their lives before promptly exploding into vapor at the bottom. I ran coasters without testing them first, accidentally creating head-on collisions that forever smeared the good name of Satan World in the public eye. I may be a sadist.
Anyways, the point of this post is not personal reflection on my horrible character flaws. The point is that I am now illegally in possession of Rollercoaster Tycoon 3! It's pretty much the exact same old hat from a gameplay experience; snazzier menus, complete camera control, blah blah blah. All buzzwords! The important thing is that you can now ride your rollercoaster creations in 3D. It's pretty well done... you can look around (as far as a person strapped into a seat can look, that is) and hear people around you screaming as the coaster goes through drops.
In fact, it's so good that when I tried to revert to my sadistic ways - running a coaster without testing it first - I felt a little bit sick when the car rumbled to a halt near the top of a loop and started sliding back down the track. As the virtual people around me screamed, I tried to look behind us to see whether we were going to die but the harnass restrains wouldn't let me. Just before I could bail out of the Ride Camera mode, we smashed into a second car trundling up the lift and exploded horribly. Instead of laughing maniacally like I would've in the original Rollercoaster Tycoon, I stopped playing. I had somehow connected with the poor victims of my subpar engineering, and I felt a tiny bit responsible for their deaths. When I forced them to go through 11 full loops in a row, it wasn't just them getting sick and dying from G-force. It was me too, sitting beside them and watching the sky and ground trade places.
I am as of yet undecided as to whether empathizing with tiny polygon people is insanity or not. I really hope video games don't start making me a more moral person.
Posted by Chris at 06:31 PM >> Commentations (6) | Permalink
February 06, 2005 >> Call it aftermath
It's very bittersweet, this conclusion to FR!NGE. We're finished, done, kaput - many of us for the last time because we'll be leaving Laurier soon. We're a fairly large block, the fourth year Fringies, and as the afterparty drained and the adrenaline died down, I couldn't help but wonder what will happen to the festival without us.
It hit Marta the hardest, this sharp finality (alongside the wine), but I think all of us felt the knife twist. There's something about FR!NGE that makes it so very worthwhile; the sense of sparkling creativity and innovation at work, the fierce-yet-friendly competition, the overwhelming respect for the talents of others. Everyone shares the wave of elation that follows a performance, and everyone bonds in knowing that we've all thrown countless hours into writing, planning, memorizing, rehearsing and beating actors with sticks. It's special, and perhaps indescribable. I'm not sure why I'm even trying.
It's difficult, this whole conclusion, because while I wouldn't change a single thing about my FR!NGE experience this year, I'd still choose to do it all again from the very beginning.
Still, looking backwards is rarely the best perspective. I'm grateful for the things I've learnt and accomplished through FR!NGE and the sassy individuals I've met. I loved the camraderie, the do-it-yourselfness of the festival. I loved... well, I already sort of mentioned that it's a little difficult to express fully. And I have hope for the future, hope that I'll get to be part of something like this again sometime. This isn't death, it's evolution.
But I'll still miss you all, at least for a while.
Posted by Chris at 08:09 PM >> Commentations (1) | Permalink
February 03, 2005 >> The stench of Error
This is how I spent my 16 Century Lit class today.
And as she lay upon the durtie ground,
Her huge long taile her den all overspred,
Yet was in knots and many boughtes upwound,
Pointed with mortall sting. Of her there bred
A thousand yong ones, which she dayly fed,
Sucking upon her poisonous dugs, each one
Of sundry shapes, yet all ill favored:
Soone as that uncouth light upon them shone,
Into her mouth they crept, and suddain all were gone.
Posted by Chris at 04:49 PM >> Commentations (6) | Permalink
February 01, 2005 >> Flusteration
So I don't get flustered very easily, but I think it might have happened today. I was sitting in a side balcony in the Theatre Auditorium, computer dangling precariously off the edge of my lap. My right hand was jabbing away furiously at the arrow keys, trying to advance and retract my way through a series of Powerpoint slides that require precise timing but were settling for vague approximations. My left hand held a script that was always a page or two behind where it needed to be. It didn't really matter anyways because the lights kept going out and I couldn't see a goddamn thing. Voices poured through my headset and actors on stage were yelling unintelligible blurbs in my general direction. In the middle of this whirlwind, I believe I may have been flustered.
Flustered is a hard thing to explain. It rests somewhere between frustration and frantically dodging bullets in a Mexican firefight. Every second seems crucial, every decision far more important than it has a right to be. It's a barrage, but not one that you wish you weren't a part of. It's a slow motion action sequence without the slow motion.
Hmmm... according to dictionary.com, flustered is defined as "thrown into a state of agitated confusion". That's it. Simple. Categorical.
I always thought it was so much more.
So what was I feeling then?
Posted by Chris at 07:28 PM >> Commentations (4) | Permalink