Hump Day Quote 31 January 2007

“Today, you get to see Spenny’s penis. Unfortunately, you won’t be able to see mine, because we’re not shooting the show in IMAX.” - Kenny Hotz

Speaking of Hump Day, I must go.

That is all.

Tell It To Me Tuesday - Hall of Fame Edition

Okay, I haven’t been by Janet’s blog consistently in the last little while, to which I say two things. One, I haven’t been tremendously inspired to read lately, and two, gawd is paper ever heavy. Either way, it being Tuesday, it’s time for Tell It To Me Tuesday.

This week’s topic:

If they were making a Hall of Fame for your [province], who would you think should make the list and why?

Wow, a British Columbia Hall of Fame. We already have a BC Sports HOF, but for all British Columbians? That’s going to take some thinking.

[Jeff trying to insert thinking here...]

Now having thought of it, I’d like to list my honourable mentions first, in no particular order:

Ryan Styles
Pamela Anderson
Raymond Burr
Rick Hansen
Atom Egoyan
Carrie-Anne Moss
Paul Kariya
Silken Laumann
Steve Yzerman

I could go on, but I think it may be wise to handle the top five:

5. Joe Sakic. It’s a tough toss-up between Burnaby Joe and Stevie Y, but alas, Sakic holds a spot in my heart that unfortunately Yzerman just didn’t capture. The two are very arguably the best hockey players ever to come out of the province, but maybe by playing for Quebec (my original home province) seals the deal for me.

4. Nancy Greene. Canadian female athlete of the century. ‘Nuff said. Well, except that my amiable old man got to ski with her rather liberally at Sun Peaks, and I got to meet her as a result on several occasions at ski shows.

3. Bryan Adams. Simply put, one of the best Canadian recording artists EVER. And one of the most recognized worldwide.

2. Steve Nash. The two-time NBA MVP is proof that Canadians are strong athletes in many sports, not just hockey (though hockey is always forefront for us).

1. Terry Fox. I don’t think there would be any list for a BC Hall of Fame that wouldn’t include Terry Fox. He is one of the most courageous figures I can think of in history, who fought so hard so others wouldn’t suffer with cancer the same way he did. Sadly, he succumbed to lung cancer on his Marathon of Hope, running across Canada, which stopped his run just east of Thunder Bay, Ontario. His courage, belief and hope live on to this day, making him perhaps the greatest Canadian of all time.

That is all.

Confessions of a reformed prostitute

And just before I go on, I would like to identify definitions, as stated on AskOxford.com:

PROSTITUTE: a person, typically a woman, who engages in sexual activity for payment. ORIGIN Latin prostituere ‘expose publicly, offer for sale.’

PIMP: a man who controls prostitutes and arranges clients for them, taking a percentage of their earnings in return.

From dictionary.com:

PROSTITUTE: a person who willingly uses his or her talent or ability in a base and unworthy way, usually for money.

PIMP: to exploit.

From wikipedia, I would just like to add these bits I found also, under pimp:

Often, low level pimps will initially present themselves as lovers or father-figures to prostitutes (who may be run-aways or otherwise lack a family network) before introducing them to prostitution and perhaps drug addiction. This practice is called “turning out.” Most pimp-prostitute relationships are suggestive and guided while the low life types are abusive, using psychological intimidation, manipulation and physical force to control the members in the “stable”.

Bearing all of this in mind, and that I’ve never EVER been a sex worker, I would like to simplify all of these into one simple vernacular:

PROSTITUTE: someone who is paid to get fucked.

PIMP: someone who makes money by having others (i.e. prostitutes) get fucked, and keeps their prostitutes in line by use of addictive methods.

Yes, in this view, I too was a prostitute for 18 months to two temporary staffing agencies. Though this story is rooted back many, MANY years, I shall start where it really gets interesting. In late June 2005, Dawn and I drove 4,500 km to our new home in Vancouver, BC. Yes, I left the evil of Toronto to actually work on PAYING films out west. However, I was not prepared for the entirety of what I needed to do while NOT working in film (as I was mislead by SOMEONE as to getting their help in keeping me consistently employed on set).

So, off to the first Temp agency, which I don’t mind stating, Labour Unlimited, or the original pimp. Found it looking at an ad in the paper. What caught my eye? WE PAY MORE THAN MINIMUM WAGE. I just needed a go between until my union application was processed. I worked three days, which at $9.00 per hour, one dollar over the provincial minimum, JUST BARELY got me through the turnaround period for working on my first professional shoots (Smallville and Like Mike 2). The summer and early autumn worked out well, definitely making more than enough to get by.

Then monsoons hit, and the calls ground to a hault. So back to the temp agency, or pimp, for more survival money. Upon my return to the original pimp, I noticed just how bleak things were there. Depressing would be putting it lightly. You could almost sit at the corner of Broadway and Commercial with a sign saying “Homeless need money” and make more than the pimps were paying. And the bitter irony of it all? I had to spend at least $10 per day in petrol, and support myself and Dawn. Something had to give. I had to get a normal job until spring.

Enter my utterly shocking Best Buy experience. They paid less than $1 per hour better, but the one bonus was the drive was short, so gas dollars spent were fewer. However, I did have the honour of working for a manager referred to as “Brown Hitler”. Working in Best Buy is much akin to being in 1930’s/40’s Germany or in George Orwell’s shocking vision of 1984. Nothing like cheers, sales numbers, and meaningless dogmatic mantras being uttered all day, with number of allocated work hours taken from us if we don’t hit sales quotas so managers can make big fat paychecks. I remember when I quit, I was reminded I would no longer have my discount, to which I remarked that I couldn’t afford anything there even on staff purchase to ever be able to use it.

During my stay at Best Buy, I found pimp number two (which I will leave anonymous for now to protect myself from incessant googling). And guess what? They paid more than my current full time job (which in case you haven’t guessed, is the one aforementioned). Once leaving Best Buy, I was able to more effectively pay bills, and did manage to squeak in 11 days on set this year. And with my high quality of work, I was definitely able to get odd payroll and assignment disputes handled efficiently, with trust and respect. But the amount of film work I got is not sufficient enough to justify the amount of temping I had to do. So I asked to try to be placed permanently, and I would have to build the remainder of my 90 permitee days through IATSE on weekends and nights.

The first stab? Belfor Restorations. And when the subject of permanent employment came up, I was offered the same rate from Belfor that pimp number two would have paid me to temp there. Boy, nothing like getting fucked in the ass (since I’m male it’s the only orifice in the nether regions to which I could be practically fucked) by both pimp and client. The only sales point? A pitiful health plan (which would result in a $50 per month payroll deduction), and the opportunity to work on call 5 times per month minimum to make overtime. However, in a more practical sense, and with Vancouver’s economics in mind, one would nearly have to be constantly on call to get enough work to pay the bills and put some green in the sock.

Can you say NOT yet?

Now, to my current employer (yup I just got hired). I will leave them nameless, again to avoid incessant googling. Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING they’ve offered/promised/said has been delivered. If they liked me, they’d consider hiring me. A fair and very livable pay structure. Brilliant benefits (at about $8 per month deduction). Fair employee treatment. And for the two weeks before hire, I started driving, and not just swamping. To which my current employer informed my pimp, which entitles me to a higher pay rate from my pimp. But yet they haven’t as yet delivered any more funds. Not one red penny.

Now when I say pimp, I really should say madam, as the office seems to be nothing but one big Monday to Friday girls coffee and gossip club. They talk on the phone, eat sweets, chat to cute guys, and cut their prostitutes cheques. Last week, when I wasn’t paid at the higher rate, I let it slide, as I new I could talk to my supervisor at my current employer and ask him to re-confirm my new status, to which he did several times to ensure his point got across. Even madams at the temp agency had to have known I had an issue as I raised it currently with my previous cheque, and they could have easily enough called my current employer and asked if I was in fact driving.

But alas, that would spoil all the juicy gossip, now won’t it? But here is where it gets interesting. The addiction. In the Labour Unlimiteds of the world, you’re paid daily. With my now recently ex-madam, it’s weekly, but your paid the same week you work. When I got hired, I now have to adjust to a three week payroll stall before my next cheque. So the backtrack and the higher rate would have helped nicely, would it not seem? Well, my madam has decided to fuck me in the ass one last time, saying my employer had not informed them of anything, and when they called my employer, supposedly, and got voice mail, supposedly, they didn’t even leave a voice mail. It wasn’t until I kicked up a huge fuss, accused them of pocketing money I earned, and threatened to bring the Better Business Bureau into it that I immediately got put on to the company owner, or head madam, to be ensured this will be resolved by Monday.

Thanks to the helpful support of my parents, I am able to get through until my next payday, and I am so hoping my ex-madams drop the ball Monday. This documentary filmmaker finally found his topic.

That is all.

Oscars are up again

And all I can think is big, fat, hairy deal. I think I’ve fully digressed to a point where I think about 90% of the fare out there is just a complete waste of celluloid. The only film that really turned my head as a work of sheer genius and innovation was the guerrilla film, Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan, and it’s up for only ONE Oscar (best adapted screenplay). Hence why I support independent film and low budget cable television. The story quality is superior, and there’s little to no corporate influence. It’s just a shame the masses are brainwashed to think a remake is better than the original. I guess if we don’t learn from history, we are doomed to repeat it. Just this time, with even worse acting.

I think it’s safe to say at this point that any art the corporates in Hollywood pined to has now been forgotten in the face of greed.

That is all.

A Murphy Day

Being caught up on the 18th floor with a load of boxes, having no choice to back up a spiral entrance to a loading dock and onto a busy street, missing the All Star Game (how can it be a real game without big hitters… but that might be tomorrow’s post). Definitely a lot got into the way today. But, funnily enough, I did NOT spill coffee on myself. I think it’s a first.

Reading his blog, being back from something of a hiatus, Peter seems to have the same luck with coffee I typically do. It spills. Though mind you I have the sense not to go load myself up with a cuppa, lunch, and a laptop on sheer ice, probably in dress shoes. I have just as much luck spilling coffee, wide awake and sober, on a beautiful sunny day, no ice, and nobody to bump into. With every single coffee I spill it. Something is wrong here.

What makes the spilling of coffee so strange is that the complete opposite phenomenon occurs while inebriated and drinking beer. It is rare a true beer drinker spills a drop. In a state which is almost a given to bumping into things, slipping, sliding, and falling. I could go on, but I’ve already made this post. When it comes to beverages being spilled, logic quickly takes a hike.

Throughout all of Murphology (essentially all the Murphy’s Law type of statements), I can’t find any regarding to coffee or spilling of beverages. Thusly, and to give the only use for any former Toronto Maple Leaf, I give Tim Horton’s Law:

Any liquid, contained in a vessel used for consumption, has a probability to spill which varies directly to it’s temperature, and varies inversely with the subjects ability to control the vessel.

Though, to go back to my university days, maybe drinks have a specific natural frequency to which it’s movements are only counteracted by the waveforms resulting from the intoxication caused by alcoholic beverages, and sobriety provides no destructive wave interference on the natural frequency of coffee. Maybe. Or maybe I just need to think of more constructive things on the road.

That is all.

Of Wrestling, Kenneth Joel Hotz, and Spencer Nolan Rice

For those of you who read my better half’s blahg, you probably already know how my day started yesterday. For those who don’t, my rear driver’s side tire was slashed. And I was so tired driving that I really didn’t notice a problem until I hit the Pattullo Bridge. Yes, somebody decided to flash lights like mad to get my attention, and point out the obvious flat tire. Seeing as I was on the most treacherous, narrow bridge in the lower mainland, I opted to cross and hit the nearest petrol station, to which EVERY motorist from then on pointed out the flat.

“Yes, I know it is, thank you” spewed from my lungs in a display much like when I fess up that I watch professional wrestling, and have to deal with the taunts from obvious non-fans that feel the need to point out that “wrestling is fake!” Of course I know it is. Though I prefer to use the term scripted. Not because of any political correctness (if you read this regularly you know I’m light years from ever being PC), but just to try to be a bit more accurate. Though the storylines, match results and overall direction is scripted, many wrestlers are very real athletes who have to train a great deal to pull off the performances they do night after night. And the potential dangers are very real. But no, the contests in the ring are definitely pre-determined.

And you know what? I think EVERY SINGLE wrestling fan out there, aside from Gordie Boggs (David Arquette’s character in Ready to Rumble) knows the event is scripted. Even the promoters admit it (though not always directly). But yet, wrestling is as popular as ever. Why? Because it’s entertainment, and thusly, entertaining. And the product that is broadcast is produced bearing that in mind. How can we entertain the wrestling fan.

Keeping that now in mind, let’s consider Canada’s greatest reality show, Kenny vs. Spenny. The tremors are going around that the show is “fake” and “scripted”. Take into account the following blahg:

Clint’s blog

Clint himself actually gives Kenny vs. Spenny praise, but some douchebag named The Rod (who has no site linked and feels the need to prop his ego for the purposes of phallic enlargement) feels the need to point out the “scripted” nature of the brilliant show, and thusly trying to completely discredit Kenny and Spenny’s weekly competitions. But I see the same point as with professional wrestling. First and foremost, Kenny vs. Spenny is ENTERTAINMENT. If you don’t like it, c’est la vie. There’s loads of shit on the big American networks that make me nauseated, but still, they are entertainment, because they enterain a group of people. Very little entertains all. I think the to each their own clause comes into effect here.

Bearing that in mind, why should it matter if Kenny vs. Spenny is or isn’t scripted? People find it funny. People don’t wager on the show. We all do watch some type of programming in which people engage in scripted works (be it television or film). So I have one thing for all the Kenny vs. Spenny naysayers out there. Get over yourself. Remember, if you can’t find humour in it, chances are you can’t take a joke. And if you can’t take a joke, don’t be one.

That is all.

No Third Person Thursday

Well, this week. I really didn’t hit any inspiration (moving boxes around does not provide a great deal of intellectual stimulation… though it does pay the bills at the moment), and besides, I’m beginning work on this.

I think I might have a post for tomorrow though.

That is all.

We need more holidays

Well, okay, most specifically, we need a proper statuatory holiday for the winter season. Think about it. January 1st, we have New Years. Then we go to mid March (and sometimes up to early April) until we get another paid day off of work, to celebrate the death of a Jew by eating pork. Almost three whole months. Nowhere else on the calendar has that long an absence. In May, we have Victoria Day (otherwise known as May 2-4), Canada Day on July 1, a manditory stat holiday the first Monday in August as a creatively named “Civic Holiday”, Labour Day in September, Thanksgiving in October, Rememberance Day in November, and all the Christmas Hoopla in December. Now it may seem much already, but bear this in mind. The stretch between January and March is usually toughest for us Canadians. Loads of snow (well usually rain in here in Vancouver, less this year), which means crazy driving conditions, very short days, very long nights, and countless hours of Leaf Hockey broadcast on the Toronto controlled networks (thank you Rogers for Sportsnet, so we don’t have to put up with that tripe).

All I’m really asking is for some odd day in the middle of the lot to have for a singular paid day off. It really needs to be a marked day, not just a unimportant August Monday. For all the days of note, Guinness is lobbying to make St. Patrick’s Day a federal holiday here. I’m all for it. However, there are two problems. First, as it becomes quite obvious, we’d need to make March 18 a holiday also. I have no objections to that. Where do I sign up? More importantly though, it is close enough to eat pork on the death of a Jew holiday that it doesn’t bridge the gap. But I don’t care. I want two holidays in there now.

Some might note Valentine’s Day. Come on. This day (and the weeks preceeding it) is far from a holiday for all the men out there.

I suggest this. Super Bowl Sunday. Not that I watch that rugby like game that is misnamed much anymore, but hell, it’s as recognizable an event as we have in North America, let alone the world. And seeing as it’s a Sunday, the actual paid day off work would be Monday. Then the non-drinkers can take the day off too. Just try to think back to years past. How many of your co-workers have taken the day after the Super Bowl off as a sick day? I’m sure they didn’t have flu. You might as well have all of us off on a paid holiday. You’re not getting any work done that day anyway.

That is all.

Hockey Day in Canada

Even though the Habs got trounced by Ottawa yesterday 8-3, even with star netminder Cristobal Huet in net, and sadly for my better half, the Oilers fell to the Flames 3-1, we all have something to rejoice.

The Canucks embarassed that scum from Toronto, the Make Me Laughs Maple Leafs 6-1 last night. The Leafs, along with the bastards of Manchester United, and the brain dead Boston Red Sox fools, rank as my most hated sports franchises. And it’s nice to see, in this totally unbalanced NHL schedule, that our only game against the city that is a sore thumb for Canada, we spank them back to the dark ages.

And it’s not just me here in the lower mainland who feels the same. People have taken blowtorches to Leaf jerseys, dragged them behind cars, stepped on them, and run over them, all in anticipation of us kicking Toronto’s ass yet again. But best, this poem was written by Graeme McRanor, published in 24 hours:

Oh Maple Leafs,
I plead of thee,
Give up the chase,
Of the Stanley dream.

Oh Maple Leafs,
When will you see,
Your team is nothing,
Like it used to be.

Darcy Tucker,
Mats Sundin,
One little fucker,
And a Swedish has been.

Oh Maple Leafs,
Your team rankles,
We’ve seen better skating
From oldies with cankles.

When will you score?
When will you win?
Your goals are soft,
Your stats are so grim.

Oh Maple Leafs,
Turn on the heat,
Basements get cold,
Especially in the East.

Yes, Raycroft sucks,
Leafs blow,
But not nearly as much
As the city of Toronto.

Suck Leafs Suck!

That is all.

Tell It To Me Tuesday, hopefully just before the bell

As to not go into another I hate people rant (which has come up a lot lately), I just hate Purolator. A month and a half waiting for an ADSL modem is just taking the piss. Hopefully, I’ll be more inclined to post more frequently when internet access becomes far less cumbersome.

As to something I’ve been meaning to do for the last few weeks, here’s the most recent Tell It To Me Tuesday from Janet:

“Do I Amuse You?”

What, in your opinion, are the best satire songs? Just to clarify, the songs need not be spoofs or remakes and/or they can be tongue in cheek or sarcastic. Really anything that has made you chuckle over the years for whatever reason, will probably suffice.

Well, being a child of the seventies who experienced the eighties in all it’s one-hit wonderdom, I would be initially inclined to delve deeply into the Weird Al Yankovic libraries, but alas, I find his humour very one-dimensional, and good for a light chuckle, not a good hearty fit of laughter (which is induced very frequently in a Family Guy or Kenny vs. Spenny marathon). As such, and in keeping with Janet’s overall rules, here are my top five:

5. Games Without Frontiers - Peter Gabriel

As a whole, the song doesn’t make me chuckle at all. Though I was disappointed Gabriel didn’t perform it at Woodstock ‘94, I’ve considered it one of his best songs. So what makes me chuckle about it anyhow? There’s one line that’s sung after each main chorus. Virtually everybody I ever knew all got it wrong. Including the rare few anglo’s who speak better french than myself. Though part of the blame comes from Gabriel’s poor french pronunciation, the line many believe to be “She’s So Popular” is really “Jeux sans frontier”, which literally translates to “Games without Frontiers”. Besides the obvious translation of the song title, what would a line about a popular girl have to do with a song obviously talking about facist dictators from World War II? People should listen to song lyrics again. And I know, I have a very ironic and sarcastic sense to my humour.

4. Weapon of Choice - Fatboy Slim

Again, it’s not the song, but every time I hear it, I picture the video, with musical theatre trained dancer Christopher Walken dancing about. It always sends me into fits of laughter. It’s the most brilliant music video ever.

3. Kyle’s Mom is a Bitch - Eric Cartman

This one really needs no explaination. If you’re lost, start watching South Park.

2. Because I Got High - Afroman

The lyrics and slow yet slightly awkward pace give absolutely brilliant timing to this ode to all mistakes made whilst high.

1. My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean

It’s completely and absolutely brilliant. Unless you’re Manchester United cheering scum. Only Leaf fans are worse. As such, here are the lyrics. Enjoy.

If I had the wings of a sparrow
If I had the ass of a crow
I’d fly over Old Trafford tomorrow
And shit on the bastards below below
I’d shit on the bastards below.

That is all.