Archive for November, 2008

26
Nov
08

Subconscious holiday shirt to impress the mom

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Studly models at Lloyd's of Gastown.

Studly models at Lloyd

More studly models... I mean, Wingy and I. "Just like old times." Yeah, right.

More studly models... I mean, Wingy and I.

My Thanksgiving shirt!

My Thanksgiving shirt!

salt 'n' peppa model... there's hope for me yet! (all photos Andrea Butterworth)

all photos andrea butterworth

You never know what the subconscious is up to until you do. That’s the beauty of the subconscious.

This Thursday, Nov. 27, is going to be my first ever American Thanksgiving. It’s a big deal down there, apparently, whereas here in Canada it’s like, nyeh, whatever. I mean, this is a holiday with its own Conan O’Brien skit. Add to this the fact that I’ll be meeting the Texas Twister’s mom for the first time, and on her own turf—a town called New Hope, in Pennsylvania. Plus apparently Connie (the Twister’s mom) is a terror. No boyfriend has ever gone back for a second Thanksgiving.

So tonight, I went to the official launch of a men’s clothing store in Vancouver’s increasingly trendy Gastown area. Lloyd’s of Gastown takes its name from Lloyd Hill, who bought up quite a stretch of Water Street, the cobblestoned thoroughfare that is the main trunk of Gastown. Upstairs is Francis Hill, after Lloyd’s wife, who now owns much of the block (Lloyd has passed away). Lloyd’s is downstairs, underground, in an old bunker that hasn’t been used for much up until a year ago, when renovations began. The grotto-like space, with one wall brick and another old stone, is a low-key, funky but chic setting for the clothes: Ben Sherman, Kenneth Cole, Bugatchi.

Wingy showed up—he’d invited me in the first place—and introduced much of the crew, including store manager Nathan, owner Francis, and Tim, whom I think might manage the store upstairs, named after the matriarch. Stephanie and Andrea were taking pictures (which hopefully will appear here sometime tomorrow) and three human models stood in as mannequins.

Between conversations, I zeroed in on a shirt, a white number w/ red pin stripes, candy cane-ish. I almost didn’t buy it when Nathan said it was “perfect for the holidays” (the Winnipegger in me recoiled at the idea of buying something that could be worn only one month of the year) but then I thought, well, it’ll be the perfect dress shirt for American Thanksgiving, and the intimidating Connie. I even bought a tie to go with it.

The thing is, I didn’t even know what I was doing until I was talking to Stephanie, the photographer, about the shirt and why I was buying it. As I told her my story she said, yeah, it was a great shirt. And that I should “flirt with her [the Twister's] mother [Connie].” Gee, that’s why I bought the shirt (and tie)—so  I wouldn’t have to.

21
Nov
08

Girlfriendland

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With the Texas Twister out of town for the last week, yours truly has been living the life of a bachelor—”batching it up,” as a bachelorette friend calls it. What does this look like, you ask–pizza boxes and beer empties, an Internet history search that would put me in jail in some states? Well, sure. But it’s also meant some meandering, hungover posts to this blog.  And hanging out with some folks whom I haven’t spent time with in awhile.

For instance, last Sunday I accompanied the Professor on her mad mission to see white Jewish bisexual former-hustler now-rapper Mickey Avalon, in Seattle. On the three-hour drive down we had plenty of time to cover our usual favourite topics, which had gone largely unattended for the past few months. (Not least of all because we weren’t talking, but that’s another story.) Because we both have an inordinate fondness for Nordstrom and Elliott Bay Book Company, as well as alcohol and the town they call Sea-puddle, our ventures down south had at one time been frequent—my admission to Girlfriendland, among other factors, had prevented any such journeys since last year, I believe it was.

However, on previous excursions, we’d both been either too heartsick to do anything but check our cell phones and email to see if our callous loves had been in touch, or wondering why they didn’t care when we did, or wondering when the next callous love would come. So it was refreshing to drive south with nothing more serious on our minds than a stop at the retail mall outlet.

Besides reconnecting with the Prof, I renewed my acquaintance with Wingy. Once the terrors of the Vancouver party circuit, he and I have both since fallen off the radar due to, yep, Girlfriendland. Me more so than he—Wingy’s still been getting out to shows, no common denominator too low (he even went to the Backstreet Boys and Celine Dion). On Tuesday night we hit the town, hard, and it was just like old times—his business card magically appearing in hands and wallets as he worked the room, as though he was some kind of he’s some kind of advertising-sales David Copperfield, him complaining I misquoted him on the blog (he should be so lucky), copping a goodbye kiss and hug from a co-worker of mine and her friend, picking up the bill at the Bin. Oh wait—that wasn’t just like old times. I suggested we pick up the tab for the four of us (me, him, Cheryl from my work and Jen M.) just to see him squirm.

Then, last night, I hit a couple of places with Cassandra W. We met last year, I think it was, at a customer appreciation night at Blushing Boutique, her friend’s clothing store, and had kept in touch since, occasionally running into each other, or meaning to. I was hoping to get some good dirt from her for the blog, but we spent the first part of the night, at Moxie’s Grill (for which I had a gift card from last week’s Bocuse d’or dinner) talking about the male ego (it exists) and PMS (you know you’re in Girlfriendland when…) The second part of the night was scarier; FHS Events, a social network, had partnered with Drambuie for something called the Drambuie Den at Bar None, a Yaletown nightclub where the men are all balding and the women all wear heels. What can you have Drambuie with, you ask? Club soda, lime juice, whiskey—the latter for a Rusty Nail. We lasted an hour, part of which was spent dancing to the frustrating mix of the DJ’s mash-ups (surely one of the worst trends to ever hit DJ culture, though what do I know, I’ve never even been to Ibiza). Dropping her off at her friend’s West End apartment, Cassandra said, “Don’t get too girlfriend-ized!” It may, however, be too late.

19
Nov
08

City of metrosexuals

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I knew when I left the pad last night I was making a mistake. But the man they call Wingy would not be denied, and so what was supposed to be just an hour-long outing turned into an all-evening affair. It started like this: the downtown location (there are three of them) of Blo, situated on the second floor of the Four Seasons Hotel, was having a “Bro Blo” promotion. Blo is an innovative styling service that specializes in a blow-dry-set, no cutting or colouring involved, thus preparing your hair for a night on the town. Wingy was already there, a big cheesy grin on his face and his Jewfro wet, when I arrived. I was introduced to Kristy (or is that Christie?) Gunn, my stylist. Following a hair wash and scalp massage, Miss Gunn blow-dried my hair while we discussed the styling racket. Blo, open just over a year, is still enjoying success, particularly among groups of women who like to stop in on their way out for the evening, but hadn’t quite caught on, even in this city of metrosexuals. (Guys are a lot different in Vancouver than Edmonton, where a lot of them are “rig-workers”–i.e., oil industry types, she said.) Maybe it was the neon-pink decor, which even hardened metros might find a little scary. Even scarier was what Wingy said to me later: “There’s no one else I could have come here and done this with.” Uhm, that’s reassuring.

Anyway, I get ahead of myself. Drinks at the Yew Restaurant next door followed, along with a chat with the Blo inner circle, owner Judy Brooks, her daughter Devon (Devin?), token dude Val Litwin. Also met Samantha, manager or Yew. She’s married now and, like everyone who has made the leap from singledom to domesticity, was happy to talk about her dating experiences when she learned I write for Lavalife. Apparently, Yew is starting a new bar menu aimed at singles who don’t want to get food stuck in their teeth, if I got the details right.

Wingy was on it, I don’t think there was one person I exchanged cards with who didn’t already have one of his. In his chatting he’d discovered another happening in town, the opening of a new Japanese restaurant. It had been ages since Wingy and I had an evening like this, and so it was that half an hour later we were shoulder to shoulder with a flood of people at Miku. I have to say, the owners went all out; a traditional Japanese blessing ceremony, taiko drumming, and a red-hot, jumping jazz trio. I could’ve done without the 7-minute promotional video depicting the imported Japanese staff disembarking from an airplane and into a waiting limo as though they were the arrival of the G-7 leaders but hey, that’s just me.

It was so packed inside (the high-ceilinged interior is all whites and blues, very modern to go along with restaurant’s fusion theme–sushi made with seared fish and French sauces) that snagging the odd morsel of food proved to be quite a challenge. However, I got to meet three of the Smart Cookies (a group of Vancouver women who have written a book about how they turned around their debt-ridden financial situations) and ran into co-worker Cheryl (or as Wingy called her, “Sharon”) and her friend Jen M. The four of us ended up at the usual spot, Bin 942, which has changed alarmingly in decor and staff since the last time Wingy and I stopped by for a bite.

The Bin was as far as “Sharon” and Jen came; they left for their respective homes and Wingy struck out on our own, heading towards the Commodore to see songwriter John Hiatt. On the way we stopped in at the Space Bar, a place neither of us had ever been. With its murals of astrological signs and white furniture, it was space-y enough I suppose, though the lack of customers gave the name an unwanted double meaning. (To be fair, it was only Tuesday night.) We struck up a conversation with the bartender, originally from Lithuania (I don’t know why I find that detail interesting) before going on our way. The Hiatt concert was perfect, in that we walked in mid-way, I heard three songs I wanted to hear, and we left. I think Wingy’s parting words were, “Are you sure you don’t want to come to that winemaker’s dinner tomorrow night?”

Considering I’m up at six in the morning writing this because I can’t sleep due to my hungover state, I think the answer to that one is… well, we’ll see.

17
Nov
08

The slap heard across the bar

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Categories: Shawn

Let me tell you, it was quite a shock, getting slapped last night. Getting slapped wasn’t such a shock, just that it wasn’t my girlfriend doing the slapping, but a friend’s girlfriend.

First, picture being at one of your favourite annual events, a party where you catch up with old friends, enjoy great music, get a little (or a lot) tipsy, and maybe get up and sing a song or two yourself. Guided by Robots is a yearly fundraiser in which a local (Vancouver band) takes over the intimate confines of a basement, living-room-size bar and plays songs by late, lamented indie-rock darlings Guided by Voices, then hands the microphone over to whoever wants to sing while fronting the band. Imagine yours truly, getting up there to sing, sometime around midnight, after the beer had been flowing, not to mention the double rums. After a song, I’m sitting with this friend’s girlfriend, whom I’ll refer to as F’sGF, mostly out of sympathy or duty—she left the boyfriend (my buddy) at home, she doesn’t know anyone else at the bar, she doesn’t even know the music the band is playing. (How she got it into her head to come here tonight, the first weekend night she was feeling “restless,” as she put it, in a couple of months, I can only imagine–she saying, “Gee, I really want to go out tonight,” and my buddy, laid up with a sore shoulder, saying, “Well, why don’t you go to such-and-such, Shawn’ll be there,” thinking at least she’d be somewhere where she knew someone.) Then along comes my friend the Professor. Now, the Professor can, when she puts her mind to it, offend people. Sometimes she even does it accidentally. But I didn’t see anything with what she said to F’sGF: “Where’s X [boyfriend]? Usually you’re a part of a unit.”

F’sGF: “That’s a weird thing to say.”

The Prof: “Is it? All I meant was I usually see you with X.”

This is where I decide to jump in. “He wouldn’t get up off the couch for this. This isn’t one of his favourite bands. Now, if it was Death Cab for Cutie…” at which point I started doing an imitation of Friend X complaining about his hurt shoulder. At which point I felt a slap on my cheek, hard. I was stunned, to say the least, as was the Professor. But at least I was getting used to being slapped thanks to the Texas Twister, who has made it standard operating procedure whenever I say something she doesn’t like. Gathering my righteous indignation, I stammered, “You’re out of line!” Girlfriend of Friend X apologized profusely, but the damage was done. She grabbed her stuff and left, leaving the Professor and I to stare at each other in disbelief.

Otherwise, the night was a triumph–people had a blast, and it was more packed on this night than any of the past shows. The band even raised $1,200 for the Vancouver Rape Relief and Women’s Shelter. Next year, I’m hoping the money raised will go to a man’s shelter, however; at the rate I’m going, I’ll need it.

14
Nov
08

Thanks for the information

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Yesterday, we were taken into the conference at the community newspaper which employs me to write about local issues, like asphalt curbs that were supposed to be cement and bus stops that are too close to people’s dining room window. By we, I mean everyone who works at the paper—about 25 altogether, including editorial staff (of which I am tangentially associated), sales reps, production people, a randy receptionist. Hosts of this meeting were the bald guy who always gives us the bad news (i.e. the liaison with the corporation headquarters) and Doug, the newly appointed regional director (i.e., new fall guy).

The announcement of the meeting had come the day after the corporation let go about 340 people across the country.

My co-workers were understandably freaked out, although both editor and publisher made points of visiting the editorial room to tell everyone not to worry, the meeting wasn’t too announce layoffs, it was just a follow-up to a survey from a few months ago in which employees of the corporation were asked how the corporation could be a better employer. I believe that was also around the time some employees who attended some kind of meeting were asked to evaluate the corporation based on who the corporation reminded them of, with pictures of, I dunno, John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man, or Darth Vader. Most picked Darth Vader.

Anyway, so there we all are, crammed into this conference room, most of us having to stand because there’s something like six chairs in the room. The blinds were closed and a slide-projector turned on as the regional director showed us schematics of the corporation’s goals. Apparently, one of the results of that long-ago mail-in survey was that the minions didn’t feel that they were getting enough communication from head office, and this was how they were responding. However, with people losing their homes, jobs and Republican Party-bought wardrobe, that was the last thing they wanted to hear about.

Yet these two dudes still had to go along with their dog-and-pony show. I almost felt sorry for them. I mean, imagine flashing slides of intersecting circles as you read off lists of corporate goals, all of which basically added up to the fact that the corporation wants to make more money. Newsflash! When all people really wanted to know was if they were going to get to keep their jobs. Or at least, if something could be done about the corporation’s resemblance to a Star Wars villain.

11
Nov
08

Quantum of something

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First, the good news. Daniel Craig’s back, as is Dame Judi Dench, who seems to have an expanded role—the relationship between the rogue agent and the head of MI6 is the truest in the film, if you don’t count that between Bond and his gun. Olga Kurylenko is as stunning a Bond girl as we’ve seen in ages. The dude from The Diving Bell and the Butterfly makes a great, if pasty, villain (at last, the Bond franchise is waking up to the real enemy threatening world peace: the French!). The chase set-pieces are as action-packed and breathless as in Casino Royale, the theme song (by Jack White of the White Stripes, with Alicia Keyes duetting) is kind of catchy, and there’s a reference to one of the most famous scenes from any Bond film. The scene doesn’t quite work, but is kind of interesting in a postmodern kind of way. (For those of us who care about such things, it leads to all those pesky questions no one asks at a Bond film–namely, what universe is this happening in? Certainly not one where anyone has seen Goldfinger.)

The bad news: Quantum of Solace doesn’t have the shock of the new that Casino Royale did. The plot, such as it is, seems to simply be all the annoying scenes required to lead up to the action. Bond’s supposed motivation, to avenge the death of his love Vesper Lynd (dead at the end of CR) would work a lot better if she didn’t have a such a silly name. Solace’s plot is, at times, confusing (something about water and dictatorships), trusty CIA agent and Bond pal Felix Leiter (Jeffrey Wright) has the same fixed expression of disdain in every scene, and some of the more annoying tropes from old Bond films seem to be sneaking into this franchise reboot—the terrible puns (“A dead end,” Bond tells M after dispatching a lead) and the completely unbelievable stunts (Bond jumping out of an airplane without a parachute, and surviving by glomming onto Olga). And where Casino had some kind of cool spy stuff, such as Bond’s distracting the hotel staff while he scans the security camera tapes searching for his man, Quantum is basically straight-up action. The thing is, the Bourne franchise beats Bond at its own game by having great action AND cool spy stuff (like that scene in the third Bourne flick where our hero drops a cell phone into the reporter’s pocket to tell him where to meet).

Quantum of Solace is a decent enough Bond film, I s’pose, but leaves me worried that another Moonraker, with Craig as Bond in space, might be on the horizon.

11
Nov
08

Pate faux pas

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Party Saturday night. Friends of the Texas Twister. French. Jenny and Simon—his birthday. I asked how old, but the Twister didn’t know. Certainly in his twenties. In other words, a situation fraught with possible age-related anxieties, phobias and paranoia. However, I could overcome it; simply have a good time, meet people, don’t worry about it. Drink lots, and fast. Try to avoid references to anything pop culture prior to 1990. To these people, Nirvana is classic rock, John Hughes is Orson Welles, and ‘Saved by the Bell’ is a cultural touchstone.

Anyway, the night arrives, I dress casually but not too casually, we bring a bottle of wine (did I mention they’re French?). Everyone’s drinking wine, there’s a great spread of food (quiches, cheese wrapped in zucchini, pate). I’m doing my end holding up various conversations, even going out of my way to meet people, chatting about France and whatever, when I’m helping myself to another cornichon when all of a sudden this guy comes up to me and says, “Boy, I’m glad you’re here. I thought I was going to be the oldest person at this party!”

We left shortly after.

06
Nov
08

My thoughts on Obama (because everybody else is)

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Oprah was asked to describe her feelings today, on CNN, at news of Obama’s victory. Thank God, because Oprah doesn’t get enough air time to describe her feelings.

Pardon the cynical tone. But what a lot of all these talking heads crowing about history being made and the dawning of a new age of aquarius, let’s look at the dark side of this here presidential election.

First of all, it’s going to put 90 per cent of all punk, nu-metal and hardcore groups out of business. Without a failed rightwing dictatorship to rail against, what’s left? Big-box department stores? Violence in video games?  America’s angry, sleeve-tattooed, youth will have to go into video game design.

Late-night talk show hosts are f****, too. Because, while I’m sure the Obama gov’t is going to have its share of follies, foul-ups, and gaffes, it’s not going to be anything like what we have been treated to on a 24-7 basis for the last eight years. Love him or hate him, Bush –with his sincerely wrinkled forehead, how-did-i-get-this-job smirk—was great entertainment. Unless Obama turns out to have a secret agenda to wipe-out little kittens and Australia, it’s going to be a love-in after he takes office.

And spare a tear for the gasbags on CNN. Sure, Lou “War on the Middle Class” Dobbs will be beating the same drum until every last illegal Mexican, Cuban and Norwegian has been deported, and Anderson Cooper will never be out of a job, but the pundits whose bread and butter has been a Machiavellian administration are going to have a lot less to soundbite each other about.

Nonfiction writers with a political axe to grind are SOL, too. Books about Bush, his policies, and his cronies has grown into its own mini-industry. You can’t walk into a bookstore without seeing a table piled high with serious-looking tomes purporting to tell the real story about Iraq. Actually, the Bush presidency might be the gift that keeps on giving, and it could be awhile before the craze dies down…

Okay, I’m running out of steam with this idea. A few observations, as a Canadian, specifically Vancouver, observer on the election. First, I thought it looked pretty funny at the gym about 4:30 p.m. yesterday (PST) at the gym, when everyone was craning their necks to look at the TVs mounted over the cardio equipment as the returns started coming in. I was expecting the Texas Twister to check out the action at a local brewpub, where American expats were said to be gathering to watch the bloodbath, but she ended up at our local pub instead while I watched a movie with my cousin. Appropriately, it was Tropic Thunder, which is pretty American, both intentionally and not. By the time she came home the news was in, and we went looking for a place to have a drink. However, all three places we tried in the neighbourhood had their sets tuned to poker (which, I guess, followed the hockey game), so disgusted we just came home. Maybe that’s the dark side of an Obama presidency… now, there’s really not much reason to stay in Canada.

Lou Dobbs, watch out.

 

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