Well, wasn’t that a party: GOtoGAL hits the stage with S.T.A.G.E. Vancouver
Either I am doing something very right or very wrong, because it seems that I am being invited to much classier parties than those to which I am accustomed these days. Most recently, last Thursday to be exact, I was invited out to the premier party for CHEK TV’s newest sitcom, GOtoGAL. The show features Adera Angelucci in what she described as a cross between “a lifestyle show and a sitcom.” S.T.A.G.E. Vancouver threw the party at The Waterfall Building, 1540 W. 2nd Ave.
The “wine & canapés” started at 7pm. As per usual, I found myself downtown about two hours early and waiting for someone. She sent me message to let me know she’d meet me in about half an hour. Standing at the corner of Granville and Georgia with time to kill means only one thing: The Lennox Pub. It’s only ever one or two beers and I almost never sit, but many an urban adventure has begun exactly the same way.
I put back a quick pint and retake the corner. My “date” arrives about the same time the VPD are proving what a green city Vancouver is trying to be by making a traffic stop on foot. We try to decide which bus to take, made more difficult now that advertising seems to have replaced all transit maps at the bus stops. We figure the one that says “Granville” is probably a pretty safe bet.
After a quick stroll down Fir St. and a related discussion about what Venice smells like in August heat, we arrive at The Waterfall Building. It’s a block or so west from Granville Island and a charming locale. Central enough to be easily found, yet secluded enough that the sounds of the city don’t drown out your thoughts. They have a waterfall for that.
The crew from AVEDA are giving quick touch ups to the hosts and, later on, arriving guests. My friend heads in to see if her help is required, appearing again only to make off with my lighter. Not one to stand around aimlessly, I head across the street to take pictures of a charming, community garden nestled in a long decommissioned rail bed.
I return just before 7, and tuck myself into the line-up to sign in. My friend expresses concern that I may not be on the list. I assured her that I’ve RSVP’d. I say this with a grin, because this same friend was supposed to put my name of the list for VIP access to a Serena Ryder show during the Olympics… Supposed to… Anyway…
I skip the AVEDA hair treatment, though I must say the guests that did partake of a quick fix seemed to be enjoying the attention. All the grooming was needed for the red carpet entrance complete with event photo by Christa Madison Photography. I’m usually happy with a beer and a place to nip off for a smoke but the ladies at S.T.A.G.E. Vancouver (Kylie Mattu and Cait McDonald) had obviously put some thought into how to give all their guests the star treatment that night.
I went off in search of the bar. Inside the room BLENZ had set up to supply the non-alcoholic fare. To say that “wasn’t my cup of tea” would be a horrible pun but what is done is done. Let us move on. They had five wines to choose from (3 red, 2 white) and I managed to sample a couple as drink tickets kept magically appearing in my jacket pocket.
Four tables for people to stand at and a small stage were set up. Other tables ringed the room but one was for the DJ (DJ Emenes from MiB Roadshow), one was for a Qoola frozen yogurt display, one for BLENZ, and one for some items being silently auctioned. I almost put my name down for the tutu and the dog training. One of which I need; the other would make a great souvenir of the evening.
The room wasn’t cluttered but the room itself seemed small. It may have been the white walls and dull floor; the postmodern “blah” was broken by the several charming, flower displays (by Garlands Florist), but oddly enough, when the room filled it was actually a near perfect size to accommodate every guest.
The food started making its rounds. The following day, I emailed Heather Wright of Louis Gervais Fine Foods and Catering for the menu:
Caprese Crostinis: heirloom tomatoes, bocconcini, and fresh pesto served on a baguette crostinis and drizzled with balsamic crema
Prawn Brochettes: in a soy, sesame marinade
Nugget Potato Bites: steamed nugget potatoes filled with a crisp bacon & fresh herb aioli
Smoked Paprika Popcorn: displayed in Chinese to go boxes to be placed on each table
The food kicked ass. I even got my very own box of popcorn. There was also a great plate of organic, low-fat cheese from Energy Essentials making the rounds and I found myself strategically placing my cheese-lovin’ butt in its path a few times.
Outside having a smoke, a couple of the guys from KIA, also an event sponsor, wanted to know why I was taking pictures of my food. We ended up discussing why Rick Perry won’t be the next President of the United States. Go figure.
A little, red scooter from Cycle BC and two KIAs also sat in the courtyard and I was leaning on one when introduced to Daniel Sabina of Showmax Event Services. They’d supplied the lighting for the evening. He was impressed to hear that I’d once worked for Westsun Lighting (decades ago) and had almost been killed by one of Bryan Adam’s road cases.
Local singer/songwriter, Laurell, woos the crowd with a short set. Her CD, "Can't Stop Falling", was in our gift bags.
Star of GOtoGAL and Guest of Honour, Adera Angelucci, thanks the crowd and introduces the premier episode.
While out in the courtyard, either Kylie or Cait (and sometimes both) would go whizzing past in that speedy non-run only women in heels seem to be able to pull off. I think if I were ever to hire an event planner, I’d want them running about making sure that everything was perfect. Having your event planner go running past with a first aid kit or a fire hose would be slightly disconcerting, but as it happens, the only issue of the evening was a tripped fuse.
While the crowd was watching the premier episode of GOtoGAL (I admit, I wasn’t), I was outside chatting with Harv Puni, “Hollywood Harv”, the event’s MC. Kylie walked past, smiled, then cocked her head to the sound of silence coming from the main room. She poked her head inside for a moment, popped back out, then threw a beckoning finger towards Hollywood Harv. “Come with me.” They both disappeared inside. Cait waltzed past in the other direction with a power bar and moments later the show was up and running again. Kylie re-emerged, a little frazzled. This was S.T.A.G.E. Vancouver’s first event and she was stressed. I explained to her that I thought it was going well and that from experience, most of the event planners I knew (one in particular) would have gone into cardiac arrest by now, so she was doing just fine. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that though. One look at the face of any of person in attendance would have been enough to know that people were enjoying themselves. I do think she appreciated the kind words though. Event planners, by the very nature of their job, are the only people guaranteed to never relax and enjoy the parties they throw. I had a great time even though I had to leave somewhat early…
I told her I had to make my way elsewhere. She thanked me for coming and gave me a gift bag. I said goodnight to my friend and got into a short, but animated, conversation about Romanticism.
So, to S.T.A.G.E. Vancouver I say this:
If the leaving words spoken by one of your guests are, “And now my fair friends, I must off into the evening in a would-be tuxedo, with a gift bag and a camera in search of strippers and an Arabian princess” you probably threw one hell of a party.
SWAN[K!] Song
When I was 15, I went to Europe with my parents. We took the “Grand Tour” and I found myself face to face with the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I also found myself in another of my bell-ringing arguments with my father. At the end of it all, stubborn and moody, I refused to climb the tower with the other tourists. A couple of years later, the tower was closed to the public for safety reasons and I had missed an opportunity that was truly once in a life time.
Twenty years later, I was at a sold out show at the Commodore. The Town Pants were having their first Boozapalooza to celebrate their 10 year anniversary as a band. I didn’t miss SWANK! that night; I kind of got so drunk that I forgot them. Unlike Pisa’s stone banana, however, it was an omission I could rectify.
Boozapalooza
The release party for Campfire Pslams remains the best album release party I have ever attended. The Railway club was filled with well wishing friends and partiers who got exactly what they came for. SWANK! played an acoustic set, followed by their friends singing karaoke versions of the songs from the new album (the karaoke disc came as an extra with the actual CD). The evening was capped off with SWANK! blowing the doors off the club in all their amplified glory.
SWANK! circa 1996
Why the nostalgia?
This Friday (Oct 1, 2010), SWANK! will play their final show. After 18 years of wearing out dancing shoes the world round, SWANK! are powering down the amps for the last time. They’ll be closing the second of the Sound Lounge Presents Concert Series with The Jardines and Jonathan Todd.
The Jardines will be playing with the full 8-person compliment on stage and Jonathan Todd, a stranger to me, who managed to wow the socks of Kirk Douglas recording at the Sound Lounge; not an easy task to be sure. It is destined to be an evening of Vancouver music legend.
In Ireland 2006
I lost my only chance to see Pisa from her leaning tower. I’ll be damned if I miss my last chance to see SWANK! perform as a band. For those of you who find this the first, last, and only chance to see SWANK!, do yourself a favour and head down to the Anza Club this Friday and write yourself into legend.
The Sound Lounge Presents
SWANK! w/
The Jardines & Jonathan Todd
Friday, October 1, 2010
The Anza Club
3 W 8th Ave
Vancouver, BC
(604) 876-7128
Tickets: $10
The History of the Hipster
The common mosquito, in its current form, is over 95 million years old. Despite its many eons of bothering the hell out of others and the sad truth that it probably isn’t going to go away any time soon, we still feel the need to complain about it, them. This is not hard to believe of course; they are annoying as hell and generally don’t provide a whole lot in return. Some would argue the same could be said of hipsters. I’m deciding. Granted they haven’t been around for 95 million years. Contemporary hipsters can be traced back a decade or so. But, as I will explain, there have always been hipsters, the parasitic culture gentrifier.
A Time article, written almost a year ago to the day, outlines the modern hipster. Dan Fletcher describes them as “smug, full of contradictions and, ultimately, the dead end of Western civilization.” This may be a bit harsh, but it’s not the first time it has been said.
Herb Caen, a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, coined the term “beatnik” in 1958. Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg were not amused. If you read the Beat writers’ work, you’d know they almost always had jobs and worked very hard to play very hard. Kerouac was admitted to Columbia on a football scholarship, a strange crossover for the King of the Beats. They did not create a scene, but drew attention to it. This is the invitation, the opening of the door that beckons to all the hipsters. In a letter to the New York Times Ginsberg wrote, “if the beatniks and not the illuminated Beat poets overrun this country, they will have been created not by Kerouac but by industries of mass communication which continue to brainwash men.” When Ginsberg wrote of “Angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,” I suspect he was referring to those who came before, those who were the scene, not the ones who made it. Even the French Revolution was going along swimmingly until Maximillien Robespierre hijacked the Committee for Public Safety and kind of ruined it for everyone. Hipsters have existed everywhere.
The term “hip” is from the jazz clubs of the 30s and 40s. Before that, the etymology becomes a little hazy. Suffice it to say, to be “hip” meant that you were in the know. To be “in the know” now is not very difficult, especially in the digital age, when music and image are swapped like so many hockey cards. I think what angers a lot of people is that the hipster culture isn’t a culture; it’s a flea market where culture is bought and sold. Fletcher writes, “…instead of creating a culture of their own, hipsters proved content to borrow from trends long past.” Indeed. I once had a 15 year old kid tell me that I was responsible for Kurt Cobain’s death because I “didn’t appreciate him.” I didn’t have a calendar on hand, but simple math revealed that he would have been two years old when we killed Cobain and not even an egg-seeking sperm when “Bleach” was released. That’s probably why I don’t remember seeing him at a show.
You would never go to the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C. dressed as a veteran if you were born in 1987. The Black Label Society had to cancel a show in Manchester because of threats of violence from a local motorcycle club. The club argued that BLS’s use of “rockers” on their jackets was an insult to any 1%er who’d actually earned them.
So is there anything actually wrong with a parasitic subculture intent on the lifelong search for cool? If there is, I blame Henry V. His Saint Crispin’s day speech called out all the “gentlemen in England now abed” and called their “manhoods cheap.” Essentially, if you’re not at the party, if you’re not hip, you suck and should think yourself “accursed.” Maybe that’s a bit of stretch. We are a society of consumers, of course, but cultures are supposed to produce as well. The true danger of a parasitic culture is not what it feeds on but how it feeds.
If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, a sentiment first expressed in the 3rd century BC by some Greek guy, then it doesn’t actually exist except in the abstract. We must see it for it to exist. This would also imply we should look for it. But if our search only extends as far as what someone else has told us is beautiful, the buck stops at the “industries of mass communication” Ginsberg railed against.
Candace Pert was responsible for discovering the opiate receptor in the human brain. In a 1981 interview with OMNI she stated, “Heroin bludgeons the opiate receptors into submission, functionally shrinking them.” In other words, if we keep outsourcing our opiates (she also stated that most drugs have less potent, natural analogs within the human body) our bodies can lose the ability to use our own; if we never leave the house, we become dependent on the deliveryman. This is the danger of the cool-seeker who doesn’t actually look. Hunter S. Thompson takes a similar stab at Leary’s Acid Culture in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, calling them “a generation of permanent cripples, failed seekers, who never understood the essential old-mystic fallacy of the Acid Culture.”
I too am a cool seeker. I too am a hipster in some aspects. But I want to believe that I replace that which I mine from the depths of culture in equal measures. I write about culture and society not to hand down truth from on high but to inspire you to take up the search as well. As Shakespeare wrote in Love’s Labour’s Lost, “Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye, / Not utter’d by base sale of chapmen’s tongues.”
So we continue to swat at the hipsters buzzing around us. They’re not going anywhere though so get used to them. As for yourself, art can be art for art’s sake but cool shouldn’t be cool for its own sake. Cool is the blind faith of the unoriginal. At least that’s what I heard.
Border Towns: Myth v. Fact when it came to my passport[s]
Someone once told me that the United States doesn’t recognize dual citizenship between the US and Canada. That didn’t sound right to me. Guess what… it wasn’t. The United States most certainly recognizes dual citizenship between our two countries. You only run into problems if, when you became a citizen of Canada, you meant to renounce your US citizenship. For myself, I didn’t. In fact, becoming a Canadian citizen was a passive act for me. While I sat (or stood) doing whatever it was I was doing on my 24th birthday, I became a Canadian citizen.
I was born in the US – Greenwich, CT to be exact. I have often joked that having been born in Greenwich and raised in West Vancouver, BC, my snob pedigree is perfect. Both my parents are Canadian (born and raised in the Kootenays) so I was considered a Canadian citizen born abroad. Because I lived in Canada when I reached the age of 24, I became a full Canadian citizen.
When I applied for my Canadian passport, I needed a guarantor’s signature, and those of two references. For my US passport, I just needed my birth certificate (stamped with the seal of the issuing State) and picture ID. I used my Canadian passport. Which leads me to myth number two: The US won’t allow you to carry two passports.
BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. Thanks for playing.
The woman at the US Consulate in Vancouver told me that when arriving in the US, arrive as an American. When arriving in Canada, arrive as a Canadian. That’s two passports kiddies. Surprised me too.
Lastly, though it pains me to say it, these idiot Tea Partiers might actually have something with this smaller government thing. It took two and a half weeks for my Canadian passport to show up and about two hours to apply for it. My US passport took me less than 45 minutes to apply for and arrived a week and a day later. Of course, when it comes to government, if the US can figure out healthcare and education for its (our?) citizens I’d be willing to wait another ten days for my passport.
keeping positive.
The only thing worse than being sick is being dead - that and “Jersey Shore.” In an effort to keep my spirits high, I have decided to look at the upside and write about all the good things that come about as a result of the world famous, head cold. So, here is the silver lining that is slowly dripping out of my sinus cavity:
A) People don’t know what a sap you are: Because your eyes are watering so much, they can’t tell if you have a cold or if you just watched the episode of “Highway to Heaven” where the little girl with leukemia gets to swim with the dolphins after replacing her prosthetic legs that were lost in the horrible school bus crash caused by her family swerving off the road to miss Terry Fox running with a box of puppies.
B) Drugs: Nobody wants you to go to work and make them sick too so you get to sit at home watching the walls melt.
C) Better seats on the bus: These days one sneeze/snort combo and you’re riding in style with a whole section to yourself until another sick person gets on and your section kind of turns into a leper colony.
D) Lots of hot showers with no guilt: It was Mother Nature and her germs that did this to you so the bitch can suffer with you for a day.
E) Soup: Soup is awesome. Let’s all just admit this and move on.
F) Oprah: She’ll be gone soon. You better try to get in some “me” time while you can. See “A” above.
G) You have at least one day of bossing your roommates around: They’ll put up with you for one day because they want the same treatment when they get sick and one look at you and they know they will.
H) Cherry Halls: “Dissolve one tablet slowly in the mouth as required.” *Crunch* Next…
I) Pajamas: I have long been a supporter of the notion that one not get dressed should they not need to. Pajamas are the shit, even you have to have several pairs on call with all the joyous night sweating that goes on.
J) The Fever: Suckers all over the world shell out good cash for designer drugs to feel the way you do the night you have the fever. Fever dreams are so intense that being sick is almost worth it for that exact reason. Bon Voyage!
Relationship advice
I don’t ACTUALLY freak out
it’s fine until I start thinking and thinking about it
I’m actually insane
Did I mention I love mail?
Somewhere in New York, two women are laughing themselves silly. Maybe it’s because of the Valentine’s Day card – “I think the best time to get cards is a week or so after the holiday for which they are intended… It adds an element of surprise… Surprise!” – but I have a sneaking suspicion that it has more to do with the other contents of the package. The drawing, poem, and letter were greatly appreciated but their service to our wonderful city did not go unnoticed. Seems they, like everyone else in the world, have perceived that Vancouver is having a little problem with the “Winter” part of our Winter Olympics. I love mail.
I see dead people
I try not to dwell on the death but every once in a while a memento mori (reminder of death) comes floating through your field of vision. One of Facebook’s more annoying little traits is a list that pops up in the upper right hand corner of your home page, telling you what an awful friend you are. It tells you you haven’t connected with so-and-so in such-and-such a time and that if you weren’t such a self-centred bastard you would send people messages once in a while. I have two friends who are on this list quite a bit but there is a very good reason I haven’t sent them a message: they’re dead.
I actually have three dead friends on my Facebook Friends list but I am assuming the third hasn’t been dead long enough for Facebook’s automatic “lousy friend” system to pick up that no one sends him personal messages anymore. Oddly enough, all three of them are musicians as well. I’ve had other non-musical friends die before but it was before the invention of Facebook and though the dead may retain their Facebook pages, they rarely start them.
Hardy Hansen was the last to go: Cancer. He fought it hard but death will always win out in the end whether it hits you with the first or third pitch. Hardy had been singing in musicals dating back to 1955. I met him at karaoke a few years ago. It is no secret to anyone that Hardy annoyed the hell out of me on even the best of days. The fact that he did annoy me is unimportant (it isn’t that difficult). What caused him to annoy me was important: he always wanted my opinion.
In his later years, Hardy parlayed his appearance and singing voice into a sweet little Sinatra Tribute gig. He’d break out the bow tie for Cancer fundraising events and contests. He really was pretty good. But he was always a little uncertain of himself - Should he do this song and that gesture? After a while it got annoying but I always respected that he wanted to be all he could. He just wanted to be good. Well Hardy, you were.
I met Paul Preminger when he was drumming for The Smugglers. The first time I went to The Town Pump, I was underage and using his ID. His laugh could fill a stadium. It was more of a good-spirited cackle, actually. His father found it strangely fitting that such a caring and giving person should die of an enlarged heart. Paul and I hadn’t seen each other much in the years before he died, but it was, ironically, Facebook that allowed us to reconnect. I still see Paul everywhere. But I don’t hear that laugh anymore and that is how I know he is really gone.
If Paul was a shock, Mike was a crime. Mike Gurr, another drummer, hadn’t even made it out of his twenties when an tour van accident in Manitoba punched his ticket. Admittedly, I didn’t know Mike as well as his other friends and I feel bad that we never got the time. But we did have time together and I still shudder to think how much of that time was spent in the van that would eventually be his death. Mike’s death was one of the moments in my life where I stopped and took stock, then decided what direction to head off in. I guess I can thank him for that too.
Hardy’s site hasn’t been picked up by the Facebook bots yet, but it will. When he does, Hardy will be another “friend who doesn’t visit anymore” who periodically checks in with me to see what mundane fact I am throwing up on Facebook that day.
Most of you are familiar with my workspace but I wonder if you have ever seen these: a hand-drawn picture of Mike, The Smugglers’ first 45, and a bow tie. Facebook isn’t the only thing that remembers.
don’t you gimme no lines and keep your hands to yourself
The following is a verbatim transcription of a chat we had this morning. I have the greatest friends in the world and I am determined to slowly prove to all of you that this is indeed the case. Deliciously out of character but a smile generator nonetheless. It is definitely the “cute shit my friend says to me on Facebook Chat.”
Friend – :S
i feel bad.
Baron – why?
sick
or did you do something stupid again?
Friend – haha
read the link [to a review of a recent show, at which, she kind of started a fight]
Baron – your fight?
nice
Friend – i feel really bad
how stupid of me
hope that didn’t ruin her show for her [the reviewer]
Baron – Does she know it was you?
Friend - no
Baron – dare ya to tell her. Tell her why too! Some douche getting all pushy and feeling you up so you let him have it
Friend – i donno if i was right or wrong in doing that, but damn
the great letter writing campaign of 2010
Keep your eyes peeled and watch those mailboxes. The Great Letter Writing Campaign of 2010 has begun! I am going to try and write a letter a day to all my friends on my penpalio list for at least a few weeks. Some of you will be getting postcards from Toronto even though I am not longer in Toronto. I had some left over and didn’t feel like wasting them! If you’re not already on my mailing list, you can send me an email to baroncameron@gmail.com with your address and I add you! Snail mail rocks!
Ugly stuff
Okay, so I usually spend my days searching out beauty (well, that and stupidity). Today I have done the opposite. Hellachella, Queen of All Things Internet-y, is holding a contest to see who has the ugliest stuff. Below are my two entries (As a blogger, I’m allowed THREE but I don’t have a whole lot of ugly stuff).
Weird fish towel holder (I have THREE of these babies). When we tore out the bathrooms, I kept these:
I have no idea who/what this is supposed to be. Generally speaking, I find the Japanese to be a very beautiful people but I am at a loss trying to explain what the hell this is:
Check out Hellachella’s Ugly Contest HERE
What do I get if I win? This piece of sheer awesomeness.
bar stories
Is every bar story true? Of course not, but who really cares anyway? Movie director, John Ford, famously said, “When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.” A-freakin-men. Bar stories are meant to be entertaining and fun. People who come to the bar and only talk about downer shit should just stay home and sit around in their underwear drinking with their cats. Last night, during a bar story moment, a friend told me the best cop story EVER.
He’s about to get a ticket for drifting through a stop sign. The cop asks him why he didn’t stop.
“I slowed down,” is his reply.
“Slowing down is not stopping,” says the police officer.
“Close enough.”
“Get out of the car.”
He gets out and the cop holds up his Maglite.
“I’m going to start beating you over the head with this. Now, tell me: Do you want me to stop or do you want me to slow down?”
Je suis le chevalier fou
It will probably come as no surprise to many of you, that among the many eccentric items in my collection, I own a set of dueling pistols. Whether or not they are “battle ready” is a matter for the aether, but my finger remains on the trigger, always. Part of being a lover is being a fighter: If you did not love, you’d have nothing to fight for. Duels come about as a challenge, Romanticized blood-sport where honour is at stake. I fight as best I can against ignorance and injustice and relentlessly cheer for the underdog in most cases. But the sides I picked were always selected through analysis. Al-Queda may be the minority in number but you won’t find me supporting them or their tactics any time soon. One thing that is sure to cock my hammer, is someone being held down, kept back, or repressed by ignorance. Be it the jackals of organized, evangelical religion preying on the fears of the weak, or a small minded man who would rather crush a flower than let it bloom and juxtapose its beauty with his pettyness. For these things I will fight. I will fight with a passion that knows no bounds, no limit. Once my heart is engaged in the battle, I ask no quarter and expect none in return.
Quixotic? Perhaps, but when passion is involved I cannot remain in the shadows, fearing for my heart and health. I will take to the field with the words of The Rough Rider ringing in my ears:
“Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs even though checkered by failure, than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat.”
I could much easier suffer the shame of defeat than the pain of longing felt by the heart that was stirred by nothing. And for this I am a fool? Je dis “non.”
the age of style
Despite what some of you may think, I am not an entirely vain person. That does not mean, however, that I don’t care about how I look. Truth be told, even when I’m dressing down and feeling kind of slobbish, there’s still a method to my madness. There are several people out there whose style I admire. Often, when I am preparing to go out, I will dress with one of these fashion archetypes in mind.
Style Icon #1- The Bum: Jeffrey “The Dude” Lebowski
If I don’t need to get dressed, I stay in my pjs all day. If I don’t need to shave, I won’t. Soap and showers are a daily must but why dirty clothes when you don’t need to?
Style Icon #2 – The “Writer”: Cal McAffrey (Russell Crowe, State of Play)
Gloriously unkempt but still hip, the writer denotes the artistic side but also states that substance trumps appearance. It’s simple, classic, and sometimes scruffy.
Style Icon #3 – The Gracefully Aging Hipster: Anthony Bourdain
He cooks. He writes. He travels the world. He is so cool, the man shits ice.
Style Icon#4 – The Bad Boy: Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt, Fight Club)
The picture pretty much sums it up. Pitt was only a couple years younger than I am now when he shot this film. So the possiblity for this body does exist for me and men my age.
Style Icon #5 – The Rich Bad Boy: Sean Penn
When passion and wallet match in size, you look just as good in a tux as you do in scrubby jeans and tussled hair. You don’t give a damn what people think because you really don’t have to.
Style Icon #6 – The Suit: George Clooney
No one looks better in the classic suit than George Clooney. If I can look half as good as he does when I’m 50, bring it on.
I love mail
Okay, so it’s really convenient to be able to push a button and have the picture of your baby throwing up on the cat be sent to everyone you know instantaneously, but I still like getting mail. I got this the other day:
(Damn good CD, by the way. Review to follow soon)
You may notice that the address says “King of West Vancouver.” I blog about this from time to time because, apparently, my ego knows no bounds, but in 1994 I recieved my letter from The Smugglers’ Fan Club and it was addressed to: Baron Cameron, King of West Vancouver. The fact that it arrived at my address sets the precedent that I am, in fact, the King of West Vancouver.
Now, the King thing is a bit of a joke but I still like to point out that even though Grant Lawrence started it 16 years ago, when I tell people that’s my address, that’s how they send it. My friends are just as nuts as I am and I love it. My personal favourite was one addressed to “Reverend Doctor Baron S. Cameron.” I’m an ordained minister of the Universal Life Church so, along with King of West Vancouver, it is actually my proper title.
Even if your letters don’t denote you as royalty, they’re still more fun than email. So if you feel like sending me a letter, I’ll send you my address. Which reminds me, I owe Jane and Lexi letters…
Jane (secret awesome heroine of this blog) sent me a puzzle letter the other day… kicks ass. Try sending someone a real puzzle by email! Can’t do it! So, buy a stamp and send someone a letter. You can imagine how you’ll brighten their day when their daily routine is broken.
“Bill, bill, bill, bi… Hey! A letter!” They’ll love you for it. Trust me!
Eww.
I’m certain I’m dying. I feel like The Horta from “The Devil In The Dark” (*If you get the reference, you’re probably a nerd, btw). My back and arm look like someone double-tapped a freckled ginger in the brain stem then left his face on me. I’m sure I have leprosy, necrotizing fasciitis, or maybe even the Bubonic Plague. On my birthday in 1665, the first case of The Great Plague was recorded in London. There’s got to be a few pissed off ghosts out there somewhere. We grow posies in our garden every year but my medical shortsightedness stopped me from carrying them around in my pocket so now I’m doomed. Not because I have the Bubonic Plague, which I’m certain I do, but because I have to go to the doctor’s office. I hate doctors. Everyone hates doctors.
I’m not sure why people hate doctors. Because when they’re not golfing, driving fancy cars, or marrying gorgeous spouses, they do take the odd moment to help people. The only GP I’ve had that I ever really got along with was a short, East Indian woman who didn’t golf and whose husband I never met. From what I understand she sold her successful practice to go into Naturopathy which makes about as much sense to me as opening a chain of U-Brews in Salt Lake City.
I head out the door into a beautiful Vancouver day, more spring than winter. Why? To go the doctor’s. Yay.
I have a 10 o’clock appointment and I am on time. The waiting room is full and I chuckle a quiet “suckers” to myself as I stride to the desk to declare that I have arrived for my prescheduled, queue-jumping “appointment.” 25 minutes later, I must stifle a disgruntled snort as the receptionist tells some poor sod that he should have made an appointment so he wouldn’t have to wait.
No one in here looks sick except for a parapellegic whose sinuses seem to have declared war on her. The others are mostly old people suffering from some “old person” ailment that I might have by the time I finally get to see the doctor. Most people sit quietly, periodically checking their watches. Most…
One character you’re bound to find in almost every Canadian city, but seems to flourish in West Vancouver, is the Grand British Dame. They always enounciate every word as though they’re telling the story about the time they “met the Queen.” This particular one, as she berates the Muslim women behind the desk, probably for reasons other than the wait, reminds me of Basil Fawlty’s nemesis, Mrs. Richards, sans the vase and intermittent hearing aid, but if you’re familiar with the episode, you’ll know what I mean.
35 minutes later and my back is driving me nuts. I didn’t put anything on it this morning so that the doctor could see my blooms in all their glory. It burns and itches. It burns and itches like those times when you’re sitting by the phone trying to remember the phone number of the last girl you slept with.
40 minutes have past and after being paged as “Basahn Campbell”, I’m sitting in the examination room. I notice a stack of script pads. Shouldn’t really leave those lying around I think to myself as I notice the shelves are packed with boxes of syringes. This would be somebody’s gold mine. I consider making a joke about it when the doctor comes in, just to break the ice, but think better of it when I remember that I’m here to get my back checked out, not get the bum’s rush because I know just a little too much about drug seeking behaviour.
As it turns out, I don’t have leprosy, or necrotizing fasciitis, or even the Plague. I can’t say I’m disappointed but, as could be expected, my inherent Romanticism pervades all aspects of my life. Turns out the mosaic de yuck creeping across my back is Psoriasis.
*Psoriasis (pronounced /səˈraɪəsɪs/) is a chronic, non-contagious disease that affects mainly the skin. It is currently suspected to be autoimmune in origin.It commonly causes red, scaly patches to appear on the skin, although some patients have no dermatological symptoms.
Apparently it can be caused by genitics (thanks Dad), smoking (thanks Dad), and alcohol consumption (thanks Dad). I get a script for two creams: one to be used in the morning, the other to be used at night. According to the doctor I should be back to my usual white pasty self in 10 days or so. He also said that I should try to get as much sun on the affected areas as I possibly can. Good thing for me the Winter Olympics are coming in three weeks, otherwise it might be snowing.
Not being able to scratch an itch for 10 days might just drive me insane. Better leave Poe on the bookshelf for the next few days just to be safe.
too funny to not share
(via Bryanboy.com)
“Chris Pesto, a student from Syracuse, NY, made this funny poster in retaliation to those homophobic bible-thumper protesters from the Westboro Baptist Church. This photo brought a smile to my face.”
Mine too.
*no title
and his friend took a pic of my shoes, which, if THAT gets posted is going on my blog
(via Jak & Jil Blog)
The Cheeky Tiki Luau: Mermaids, grass skirts, and drinks with little umbrellas at The Rio Theatre
I was invited to The Rio Theatre for “Cheeky Tiki Luau: Scout Boutique Retro Fashion Show, Tropical Party, and Pop-up Shop”. Taking my shoes off at the beach is about as “tropical” as I get. When I saw on the invite that “Aloha and tropical wear is STRONGLY encouraged, vintage or not just make it island style”, I wasn’t sure what to wear. I ended up choosing my combat shorts; jungle warfare, by definition, is “tropical” and one really wouldn’t want to be wearing a grass skirt when the napalm hits.
I’ve been to a handful of these fashion shows now and they are always a lot of fun. DJ K-Tel was spinning luau tunes in the foyer and the usual suspects were milling about. Slightly less usual was Oceana the Mermaid. Gracing a bench by the entrance, she was convincing enough to think maybe Hans Christian Andersen might not have been a fiction writer.
Oceana the Mermaid and Lydia DeCarllo
The show was hosted by Evil Bastard with the aid of two “Hula Hunnies”, Coco Cinders and Lincoln Electra.
First up on the bill for the evening was Meg A Tron as “Island Girl” with her backup, Fred from Brazil. She opened with a traditional dance that I believe was about a boat and love, though I can’t imagine many Hawaiian songs being about something other than boats and love. Then she broke out the ukulele. I’ve heard her play it a few times and it always makes me smile. Her too. When reviewing the pictures from that night. I couldn’t find one that Meg A Tron wasn’t smiling in.
Next up on the bill was a burlesque performance by Melody Mangler. Melody’s routines are insanely good. She is the consummate Classic burlesque performer. Her costumes are always ornate and her routines filled with grace and seduction. Of course, it never hurts that she is also one of the most charming, personable, and stunningly beautiful women I have had the pleasure of meeting.
It was time for the fashion show. First up – Riot Clothing
And then it was time for Scout Boutique to take the stage.
And last, but certainly NOT least, Melody Mangler Designs.
After the fashion show, Evil Bastard returned to the stage with his ukulele. Playing his own rendition of Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s version of Judy Garland’s “Over the Rainbow”. It was a sincere and endearing performance. It came across as a lot more vulnerable and honest than many of Evil Bastard’s fans might be used to. He set aside his classic timing and biting humour for a moment and it was worth every note.
The burlesque performances continued after Evil Bastard’s ukulele piece. Ruthe Ordare stepped in at the last moment to fill the spot of one performer who was unable to make it. As per always, her grace and that wonderful wonderful smile make her a joy to watch every time she steps onto the stage. Before the show, I watched her rehearse the piece, the music playing only in her ears. It was spellbinding.
Closing the burlesque for the evening was Voodoo Pixie. Evil Bastard introduced her piece as “strange” but I found it to be magical. The piece was a fun and fluid number that reminded tourists in New Orleans if the dark alley you’re in smells like candle wax, burning herbs, and chicken blood, get out of that alley.
Island Girl and Fred from Brazil closed off the evening with a fun little interactive set of music.
After the show, I made my way up to the balcony to check out the “pop-up”. Local retailers set up tables to ply their wares.
Evil Bastard helps Oceana the Mermaid to the little girls’ room.
As with any night at The Rio Theatre, a great time was had by all in attendance. We all had what Corinne Lea referred to as “a kitchen party” in the lobby while we waited for the screening of “Psycho Beach Party”.
May 25, 2012 | Categories: Art, Fellatio, and Other Heady Subjects, So yeah, I'm into fashion. Sue me., Straight from The Bear's loud mouth (insane ramblings disguised as social commentary), The Loudmouth Bear Reviews (books, music, movies), [re]Discovering Vancouver | Tags: Baron S. Cameron, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, writing, loudmouth bear, humour, humor, photography, music, art, fashion, burlesque, Scout Boutique, Lydia DeCarllo, Rio Theatre, Melody Mangler, Meg A Tron, Evil Bastard, Voodoo Pixie, Oceana the Mermaid, Ruth Ordare, Riot Clothing, DJ K-Tel | Leave A Comment »