Mundane Conversations

My Friends,
   In keeping with my commitment to being open to new experiences, I agreed to do some bar-tending at a local music festival this past weekend.  I had visions of mingling suavely and charmingly with well-endowed and predatory older women and refined gentlemen such as myself while I served them drinks and collected large sums of tip money for my troubles.  Perhaps I should have paid closer attention to the email which specified that I would be working in a beer tent.  It was a somewhat more...how do I say, plebeian affair than I had imagined it would be.  I do not wish to sound elitist; I am the last person who should cast stones in regards to drunken messiness, but I have to say I was a little crestfallen when I realized I would be doing less schmoozing and more beer-can opening.  In fact, three straight hours of beer-can opening.  In their quest to attain Henry Ford-like levels of efficiency and expediency, the organizers of the festival had broken down the serving of beer into three discrete phases:

1) The first group kept the coolers stocked with cans of Brava (it really is "the beer of summer" apparently)
2) The next group took the cans from the cooler, opened them, then placed them on a table
3) The final group (two older woman of above-average endowment, although I can't speak on their predatory nature) picked up the open cans and presented them to the customers after receiving their drink tickets.
 
   And so it was I was thrust into the center of this well-oiled machine, given the lofty task of expediting inebriation by popping the tops off of beer cans, the veritable linchpin of the whole operation.  Being something of a roguish anti-hero, I was less than thrilled with the monumental responsibility which had been thrust upon me; kind of like Han Solo on Hoth.

I had decided to stay and open beers, but the bounty hunter I ran into on Ord Mandell changed my mind.

But, like Han, I ultimately decided to aid the rebellion/festival organizers and I was similarly frozen for my troubles.  Let me explain: we all love to reach into a cooler full of icy water, grab a beer and crack it.  But do you have any idea how cold icy water is?  Let me tell you: it's cold as ice.  And when you reach into it several hundred times over the course of a few hours, it makes the whole concept of grabbing a cold one become a chilling shitty prospect.  In fact, some years ago, Men's Health had an article about pain and suggested that a good way to test your threshold was to reach your hand into similarly icy water and see how long you could hold it there.  So maybe I'm just a pussy, but after a few minutes I was in a bad way: my fingers managed to be both numb and in pain simultaneously, and the repetitive action of popping the tabs only served to exacerbate the situation.

   But what was most notable about the experience was the company.  Now, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret here: popping beer cans is monkey-work.  With my university degree and professional training I was incredibly over-qualified.  Not so for my partner in this endeavour.  Not to say he didn't possess the mental faculties for repetitive labour (on the contrary he seemed to be expert in many matters irrelevant to the job at hand), but he could not work and talk at the same time, and faced with the choice between the two he opted for the latter every time.  What was worse was that he was an up-close talker and stared at me while he talked with all the intensity of a simian eyeing a banana.

   For my part I really did try to be interested in what he was saying, but you can only hear about one's guitar-strumming calluses and their benefit in the realm of beer-can opening so many times before you just stop caring.  And then to be shown these calluses repetitively, well it was all I could do to keep an interested smile pasted on my face.  Relief came when he went on a poo-flinging smoke break which lasted the rest of the evening, leaving me free to observe the endless parade of drunk, middle-aged men trying to be smooth with the bartenders while ordering their Nth beer.  

   Now I don't profess to be a "people-watcher," mainly because it seems like a pretentious claim to make, as if the people-watcher is somehow above the drama of day-to-day life, watching the mere mortals from his privileged position at the right hand of God, he alone privy to some masterful and benevolent design from the almighty.  However, I do sometimes watch people, and in this case I viewed many a drunk/fat/short man make overtures to the cougars I was working with.  Asking for Molson Canadian or Heineken when they fully knew we were only selling Brava may have been funny the first time but it got stale quick.  I admired the ability of the ladies to act as it it was the first time they heard it every time.  Then there was the gentleman who played the psychic, putting his beer ticket on his forehead and divining that he was there for a beer.  Now I'll admit that this approach was somewaht more original and even amusing....the first time!!  After five times, I was thinking "Jesus dude, go sleep it off!!"

   My reverie was interrupted by the approach of a young lady with a bottle-opener tucked in the strap of her tank top.  After seeing it in my peripheral I looked at it, then at her, then back at it, finally discerning what it was.  It was a harmless glance to me, but to her an invitation to accuse me of giving her a weird look.  Now, being no slouch at chatting people up, I can recognize that she was attempting to use the most insignificant little gesture as a segue into a conversation.  Friendly guy that I am though, I bit, not knowing that her accusation would be the most interesting thing she was going to say.  

   She proceeded to regale with me with her master plan to buy the 32 American dollars in the tip pool at a 1 for 1 rate, not only saving money in the exchange, but also screwing the banks out of their surcharge in the process.  I congratulated her for her business savvy.  Then she told me how her Grandma had just given her $100 USD in birthday money for her upcoming trip to Connecticut and that how when that sum was added to the tip money it would "pretty much" be $150 USD.  I congratulated her on her math savvy.  THEN she went on into further detail about how if she didn't spend her $132 USD $150 USD over the course of her four-day trip she could always sell it to her neighbour at a premium, as her neighbour was of course planning a trip to the states in six months.  I wanted to remark at that point about how strong her hustle was and how if she stayed on her "grizzy" in that manner she'd be pushin' Bentleys and Maybachs in no time.  

Pictured: The girl I was talking to and what $150 USD can get you.

But all I could muster was a nod of approval, and a slight one at that.  I couldn't help it: I just didn't want to encourage her into divulging more secrets of the game.

   I left not too long after that, wallet a little heavier for the tips I received, brain a little more clouded for the banal nonsense I was made to endure, but happy that I went out, met nice (if uninteresting) people and tried something new.

Stay Thirsty

-Andre Guantanamo

Over-Ambition: The Bane of My Existence

My Friends,

   Have you ever gone to bed early wanting to crush some serious sleep so you can literally attack the following morning in a whirlwind of movement and purpose?  You set your alarm for 6 am (although you can't remember the last time you ever woke up that early) with plans to eat a light breakfast then run wherever the wind takes you, just knowing that the wind will stop blowing before your legs get tired of moving?  Then you proceed to sleep until noon and wake up a groggy mess only to answer your cell phone with the person at the other end asking why you're still asleep on such a beautiful day?  I have. 

   It's called over-ambition syndrome (OAS, if acronyms get you hot).  This crippling disorder affects me more than I'd like to admit.  Today was one such occasion where I planned to hit the bike trails and also go to the gym (even on an active day, its typically one or the other).  Then I kinda just got home from wage slavery and...fuck, what did I even do?  I got some pricing on travel insurance and filled out a contest application, but that, along with dinner would have taken a go-getter an hour.  There are four hours of my life now unaccounted for.  That depresses me :-(

   Another manifestation of OAS was at the beginning of summer when I decided that I would work an extra hour or two every day plus come in on weekends since I was getting all the overtime I wanted.  This lasted for about three weeks when I realized that my summer was too precious to spend cooped up in a warehouse, and also that OT sucks when you're the only one there with no one to talk to.  Therefore, all my long-term financial projections which hinged on a minimum 60 hour workweek were scrapped.  Incidentally, it should be mentioned that I have had a very relaxing and enjoyable summer, proving unequivocally that work is for suckers.

   The final instance of this disorder, since I am quite fond of striking deceased equines, would be the time a few months back when I decided I was some kind of industrial Gepetto, and aspired to fabricate my own metallic Pinocchio at work using sheet metal, rivets, springs and assorted junk.  The project never reached completion but it would have looked something like this:

Yeah, that's right we're talking "Starscream cool" here.  So what went wrong?  Well, the whole project started when I saw all this scrap sheet metal laying around at work and decided I could make a bitchin' totally ungay sword using tin shears, a grinding wheel and my recently discovered knowledge of the rivet gun and its multitudinous uses (like riveting for example).  I proceeded to fashion this sword using Cloud Strife's buster sword from "Final Fantasy VII" as inspiration.  For those who didn't spend the better part of their adolescence looking for a way to resurrect Aeris, that sword looks like this:

While the sheet metal was a pain to work with, I met with all the success that an untrained, first-time swordsmith with a limited set of tools can presume to hope for.  It was this success which was damning to me, as it convinced me that I should proceed to create life...or at least an oversized, jagged, metal action figure which could wield the mighty sword (I know, give the guy a rope and he wants to be a cowboy).

   Let me just take a second and reiterate the word "oversized."  The sword was originally designed to fit in my hand and be swung like a machete.  For a "me-size" machete to double as a "toy-size" sword, even a longsword, we'd have to be talking about one big damn toy.  And so it was, I defied the conventional wisdom of designing weapons to fit those who wield them, and began brainstorming the specs for a wielder not only strong enough to carry the sword, but large enough in comparison to it so that he didn't look like he was over-compensating for anything (see figure 2).

   I think you know how this ends.  I ended up bringing my sword home to show my friends then realized that it wasn't cool dragging a two foot sword around town.  Hell, its not even practical without a sheath.  This realization that I had spent hours (oh yeah, all told, it took probably five hours to get this bad boy done once I factored in tracing, cutting, drilling, riveting, stamping and grinding) on something that was completely impractical and of far too much sentimental value to even sell, kind of soured me on going forward with the Starsream/Pinocchio abomination.  So the fabled "Sword of Boredom at Work" now sits in a place of prominence above my desk, a constant reminder that I should keep my feet grounded during my flights of fancy potential burglars (and dragons) don't want none of this.

   Back to Over-Ambition.  I have alluded to the fact that I will be travelling this September for a protracted period of time.  I am excited more than I can say, but with 28-country agenda and no planned itinerary to speak of, it will take all of the personal discipline I can muster to remember the excitement I feel now when things get tough.  Because at some point, at some obstacle, I will lose this initial naive enthusiasm and have to look within me to find another reason to carry on.  I plan on coming back with more than the proverbial sword.

Stay Thirsty

-Andre Guantanamo

I Know What I Like

My Friends,
   Yesterday I met up with my father in Toronto and we attended the Art Gallery of Ontario (AGO).  I had never been before and there was a collection on loan from the Museum of Modern Art in New York which he was adamant about seeing.  The feature was called "Abstract Expressionist New York," and I would recommend it for anyone who likes to have no idea what they are looking at.  Among these American Expressionists, or The Irascibles as the program called them, the most well known was probably Jackson Pollock.
   Now I'd seen Pollock's trademark "drip" work in textbooks and it always struck me as not overly skillful, but I wanted to go in there with an open mind.  The first and most prominently displayed of Pollock's works was perhaps his most famous, "Number 1A, 1948"

I approached this painting with a kind of "alright, let's see what all the fuss is about" attitude and proceeded to stand rapt in front of it for about five minutes just taking it all in.  I admit that I stood there partly because I had the sense that I should really try and appreciate something so famous, but there was also a genuine attraction to it.  Something about the painting was just so much more than a Tremclad Golgothan having diarrhea on canvas; it spoke to me in a way I can't explain.  And what people who see pictures of the painting can not appreciate is that the textures and three-dimensional aspects have so much to contribute to the overall experience.  For example, certain big globs of paint were poured onto the painting and left to dry as such leaving a protruding blob.  Another thing which caught my eye was the smear of magenta in the bottom left corner.  I started looking for more traces of this colour throughout the rest of the painting but was unable to find any which gave rise to a certain curiosity in me regarding Pollock's choice to use it so sparingly.  Overall I can not say that the painting elicited a particular, nameable emotion but it had my attention, and with a nondescript name like Number 1A, 1948, that's all the painting asked of me.
   One more of Pollock's paintings had my attention, "The Stenographic Man,"

I spent a good deal of time examining this painting and the two weird robot-looking people looking like they are having an argument within.  To begin with I wasn't aware that Pollock had strayed much beyond his drip-painting technique so this challenged my expectations.  Secondly, to me there is an aspect of the future in this painting (maybe than for no other reason than the characters in it look vaguely like automatons) and futurism is a genre/style which appeals to me.  The use of colour more than the textures caught my eye in this instance (but again, sadly, google images does not do it justice): To put it into perspective, in a room full of Pollock's masterpieces, this one commanded my attention.
   I think I have a greater respect for Pollock than I did earlier.  I suppose I always suspected that there was something to his work which had to be appreciated firsthand.  Having now seen some of it I can attest to this fact.  Remember, a ticket to an art gallery is never money wasted.
Stay Thisrty
-Andre Guantanamo

To All the Hetero Men

My Friends,
   Has this ever happened to you: You start a new job and conduct yourself respectfully and confidently for the first few weeks.  You are always well turned out and looking your very best, flirting politely with the girls and and joking around with everyone.  Then after a few weeks of this, someone asks you point blank during the middle of your shift if you're gay...
  Now, far from being an insult, this can still be disconcerting for the straight male who conceives of himself as being a good-natured philanderer and good breeding stock to boot.  When you can only respond with a confused "um, no...," they may further ask you this incredibly stupid question: "Are you sure?"  If you read between the lines you can see that far from trying to gain clarification on the matter, asking if you're sure that you're not gay implies that they feel you are a lying homophobic closet case who is ashamed of his attraction towards men.
   Then it hits you, the whole image you have cultivated for yourself has had the opposite effect it was intended to and everyone is fairly certain that you like...well, whatever it is they think you like (PENIS!).    The reality however, is that you may not have been acting gay.  In the three instances where I was assumed to be a "confirmed bachelor," the circumstances were all very different.  The first time was a military posting a cadet corps summer camp for kids.  I worked in conjunction with a lot of civilian instructors, and more than a few were openly flamboyantly gay (That's right, gay and camping with your kids, joke's on you lol).  This didn't really confront me none, and I was amicable with most of them (some were just obnoxious jerks and being gay did little to redeem them in my eyes).  Now because I got on well enough with the gays in the immediate circle I worked with, the girls in said immediate circle, maddened by the realization that I was way out of their league, started to invent crazy explanations for why they had no chance with me.  Instead of being honest with themselves that they were ugly, rude and self-centered, they chose to project on me.  I am like 98.3% certain this is what led one of them to ask me, in front of some of the summer camp kids no less, "are you gay?"  I think this first time was the only time I was angered by the question, but more because of the fact that she was undermining me with questions about my sexuality in front of kids I was in charge of.  She could have asked me about what my favourite female breast shape was and I still would have been annoyed.  Its called tact, learn it.
   The second instance was when I was hired as a server at a restaurant where the majority of servers were female and one of the male servers was openly inappropriately disgustingly gay.  When finally someone did approach me and ask me about my sexual preference (as it was so germane to the job-related task I was performing at the time) they were a lot more tactful about it.  When I calmly and amusedly responded that I was not in fact homosex (sic),  they took it upon themselves to reassure me that they never thought I was gay themselves and had been defending my heteroship (sic) the whole time when it had been under attack by the gossip of coworkers.  I thanked her for not allowing them to slander my good name but assured her it was wholly unncessary, as people are gonna think what they're gonna think.  As I later found out, the aforementioned gay male server had been spreading rumours that I was gay.  I reasoned that it was part of some insidious plot in which, if I heard from enough people that I was gay I might actually start to believe it and put out (Note: you may notice a recurring theme that I strongly believe a person's desire to get in my pants causes them to act reckless).  This may sound delusional, but it should be mentioned that he offered me at a later date $100 to perform fellatio on me.  Although not tempted, I was flattered, until I heard that he offered some of the teenage boys working in the kitchen $200 for the same service.  "I thought we had something special..."
   The last case is kind of ongoing and probably somewhat my fault.  Its a warehouse I work at during the summer and I suppose because I wear tight wife- beaters, women's sunglasses (in my defense, they're fly as hell) and any of the following bandanas,

that I perpetuate an image of fruitiness.  These factors, as well as the fact that I sing along to all the songs on the radio, hitting the necessary high notes, doesn't jive with their blue collar sensibilities I suppose.  While no one has asked me point blank, some have had their suspicions and they good-naturedly bust my balls about it daily.  For example, when the new payroll chick got hired, a no-nonsense Jamaican lady, my foreman insisted that me and him traipse through the office holding hands  in front of her desk.  I thought it would be a gay old time funny, and we had her convinced I was a batty boy.... a bloodclot batty boy even.  But then, when you do goofy shit like that, you can't blame people for casting an awkward eye at you.

   At this point I feel that if people don't question where I stick my penis I am doing something wrong.  After all, I am suspicious of anyone who comes off as completely hetero: the biggest secrets are the best hidden I figure.  In the end though I can't really be vexed about the assumption that Im gay: most people are just going by the popular conception of homosexuals as good-looking, well-dressed and shameless flirts, and that ain't a half-bad rep to catch.

Stay Thirsty,

-Andre Guantanamo

Food Preparation with Power Tools

My Friends,

   I hope the title conjured no visions of Sawzalls being used to chop carrots or belt sanders shredding lettuce; alas the truth is not that exciting.  I simply used a drill to put holes in a coconut.  Now I love coconuts but only buy them rarely because of the hassle associated with getting the milk and nut out of them.  Not so today, as I opened it at my place of employment wage slavery.  Now usually I open them at home where there is a dearth of tools (I have, in the past, resorted to using a 25lb dumbell to smash the coconut open).  It is a laborious process and as such I savour the reward.  However, in light of all the tools at work, I decided to get industrial on that bitch and pulled out the 18V cordless with a 1/4" bit (Insert that noise Tim Allen makes on" Tool Time"). 

   The results were pretty much what you'd expect: after two holes were drilled, the milk, the very nectar of this bounty of the tropics, literally flowed out into my glass.  I looked at it a moment then guzzled it down greedily.  This was in stark contrast to my aforementioned usual sipping and savouring, but then, the reward had come so easy so why not?  Despite my now-slaked thirst, a lingering feeling of emptiness and shame came over me.  I started thinking horrible thoughts about how bad I was with coconut milk-management and how my mom would be so disappointed if she witnessed the spectacle of my gluttony.  

   In a vain attempt to alleviate these feelings of woe I set to work on liberating the nut from the shell.  However, not being privy to the grand designs of the universe I was not aware that the powers that be, in their infinite wisdom, made the nut of this particular coconut particularly difficult to extricate from the shell, likely to offset the relative ease with which I extracted the milk.

   Now let me stop and ask a quick question: Do you remember the first time you actually thought to yourself about how your airbags would work in the event of a car accident?  How they would deploy in an explosive manner and that even if they saved your life they would exact their toll in facial damage?  I reasoned that using power tools to extract the nut was kind of like that: even if they worked they would not only destroy the coconut beyond edibility, but also sully it with saw dust and metal filings.  So I opted to wait until until the brilliant minds at DeWalt developed some kind of cordless coconut de-sheller and instead channelled my inner caveman and whacked the coconut on the floor.

   This was met with better-than-expected success as the nut broke clean into two halves, but there was still the persistent problem of separating the shell from the nut.  I reasoned that I could use my hands to collapse the coconut halves in an attempt to loosen some of the nut.  At first I doubted my ability to exert such a great amount of force then I recalled how years ago a WWF wrestler named "Crush" made his debut and his finishing move was crushing the opponent's head between his hands.  The announcer explained this move as being a result of his proficiency at crushing coconuts barehanded in his home state of Hawaii his whole life.  I reasoned that as fabricated as pro-wrestling may in fact be, they could not just blatantly lie about something like this: there had to be some basis in truth...there had to be!  

   Sure enough I did manage to crush the shell+nut into smaller and smaller pieces, but each new break availed me little in the high stakes game of separating coconut shell from nut.  Naturally, I gave up.  I considered me and the universe even for the relative ease with which I enjoyed the coconut milk and put the broken pieces onto a plate in the fridge to become my co-workers' problem.

Stay Thirsty

-Andre Guantanamo

Down for Whatever

My Friends,
   Jim Carrey made a film a few years back called "Yes Man," wherein his character made a point of saying "yes" to everything (except presumably, committing felonies).  This opened him up to a plethora of new experiences as well as true love.  While the film did have its funny moments I think its true appeal was that it served to illustrate just how much we deprive ourselves of with negativity, or saying "no."  Who hasn't stubbornly refused a flyer or voucher handed out by someone on the street, or declined an invitation to try something like skydiving, or even deleted an email for discount Cialis without reading it?
  It would be preachy and cliche to spout banalities such as "at the end of your life you will regret the things you didn't do more than the ones you did," but I can not help but think of all the human potential that is squandered for lack of utilization.  By simply trying something you would not ordinarily be inclined to try you may surprise yourself by finding a new proficiency or passion.  Ironically, in our efficient and purposeful existence, where we steer clear of any obstruction hindering movement from point A to point B, I would hazard a guess that wasted human potential is the most abundant resource on the planet.
   What to do about this predicament?  Well, I am reminded of the words of Guy Debord in his 1958 treatise, "Theory of the Derive," where he proposes that individuals,

   "during a certain period drop their relations, their work and leisure activities, and all their other usual motives for movement and action, and let themselves be drawn by the attractions of the terrain and the encounters they find there."

The segment in bold is important because I feel it encapsulates the essence of the problem of wasted human potential: we are accustomed to the usual.  In such a state as we live in, it is exceedingly difficult for responsible adults to do things on a whim without incurring the ire or, at the very least, the derision of others depending on you to keep doing what you have been doing thus far.  Saying "yes" to any new experience or opportunity that comes along is anathema to structure and security.  Don't get me wrong, people will laud you for being bold and embracing life but only up until the point where your free-spiritedness conflicts with their ordered existence.
   For example, my family is generally supportive of my endeavours adventures, but I can see in the not-too-distant future one of my siblings having children.  At that point, their support for my devil-may-care existence will be tempered with their earnest and understandable desire to see their offspring get ahead in this world.  I will cease to be the adventurous brother and become the bum uncle who will serve as a cautionary tale to the offspring for why they should do their homework, eat their vegetables or use prophylactics: "IF YOU DON'T USE A GOOD SPERMICIDAL LUBRICANT YOU'RE GOING TO END UP A BUM JUST LIKE YOUR UNCLE."  But I digress.
   Still, at the risk of advising you on a course of action which could result in a downward life spiral and self-ruin, we should not let the expectations of others and the omni-present threat of becoming a cautionary tale ground our inklings to the point where we view them simply as distractions.  It is in those inklings and urges, so often put on a backburner due to prohibitive cost (time or money), fatigue and/or children, where our true passions reside.  Now don't go selling your house, wife & kids to chase your pipe dream of becoming a millionaire seducer of women/space marine; if you fall short of the mark it will sour you on new experiences.  If you really want to rectify the situation in a manageable way, the next time someone invites you to something, man up and say "yes."
Stay Thirsty
-Andre Guantanamo

Breaking the Ice

My Friends,
   Today in preparation for an upcoming excursion around the globe I ventured to the travel clinic to receive vaccinations.  Whilst waiting in the aptly named "waiting room" I overheard a frustrated, middle-aged receptionist commiserating with her co-worker about patients demanding estimations of expected wait times over the phone.  "The wait will last until someone calls you in," she went on, speaking the words she wished she could have said to the caller instead of the more placating answer she likely gave him.  The great irony in this is that noone, the receptionist included, wants their time wasted.  So we cannot fault someone for trying to plan their day and asking for a time estimation; but should we indulge them?
   I understand the importance of timings; they provide structure and allow the world as we know it to function (for better or worse) but for far too many people (regrettably, myself included more often than not), life is nothing but a series of timings: be at work for 9, pick up the kids at 6, dinner at 630.  It all seems a little mundane but we can justify it because we all think we are working for something better.
   Do you know what that "better" is?  I do.  It is the day when we don't have to have our timings dictated to us and we are free to live as we please.  But we'll never get there.  Because as stultifying to our flourishing existence on this planet as the rigidity of timings is, it also provides a modicum of security and stability; two things people feel lost without.  Therefore, people, even those who answer to noone, will always be slaves to the self-imposed rigidity of timings because it is, like a well-worn pair of underwear that has served you well, something that is difficult to part with.
   I opt to go without the proverbial underwear and forsake these timings.  If I must rush for something, let it be something I eagerly anticipate.  If I am late for something they will wait for me or they won't; either way, I'll be fine.  If I am early for something that gives me extra time to read something interesting or plot an escape route should things get out of hand (depending on the type of appointments you book). In short, inasmuch as possible, we should be attempting to throw off the twin yokes of imposed timings and obligations and revel in the time we can free up for ourselves.  If we don't learn to live life on our own schedule now we will never know how to do it.
Stay Thirsty,
-Andre Guantanamo