It's finalized, ladies 'n gents -- I'm heading to Manhattan for a whirlwind adventure! Très exciting, no? It all started four months ago when I began applying for summer internships from sea to shining sea (mainly New York, Chicago, San Fransisco, and LA). And never in a million years could I have foreseen just how difficult the whole saga would be. I mean, look at these stats:
Number of positions applied for: 144
Number of paid positions: 34/144
Number of unpaid positions: 110/144
Number of calls back: 4
Number of offers: 1
The job search was vicious, but I'm proud to say I survived. Feels bloody amazing to stroke one thing off of my mental checklist. So what's left? Well...
- Finish an ungodly stack of visa paperwork
- Move (yes, I found somewhere to sleep other than the subway)
- Spend a week experiencing NYC before job starts
- Start job
- Make money
- Spend all money
- Spend more money
- Party in the USA à la Miley Cyrus
Also on my agenda are tonnes of Broadway shows, sports games, and concerts. I already have tickets to Radio City Music Hall Presents "Glee Live" on May 30th (I don't even watch Glee, but, hey, why not?), and hopefully I'll make some great friends who'll help me discover the rest of the city. A girlfriend wouldn't be so bad, either -- I've always planned on my first marriage being for US citizenship, so don't be surprised if there's some Jersey Shore Snooki hanging off this Canadian Situation's arm come August.
One very important note: over the course of my trip, I'll use this blog to keep in contact with the masses. So if you have any suggestions, wacky dares, or things you'd like to see me do on my trip, I'd be happy to carry them out and blog about the results. Essentially you will come up with the posts this summer, so start thinking of stuff you wanna see in NYC. Like Donald Trump's children on The Apprentice, I'll be your eyes and ears.
So to everyone reading, re-bookmark this blog and keep in touch. The adventure starts May 22nd.
And to NYC, I give you fair warning. "Up there in lights, I'll be..."
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
to the twitter nation:
@devonhennig is getting down to business. bohemian business.
follow the revolution.
follow the revolution.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Sea-Slickness
Aloha! I’m blogging from a VIP suite on the Pride of America cruise ship, currently docked on the island of Maui. After a night of sailing the Pacific from Honolulu, we made it to our first port of the four island tour. The trip’s only been a few days so far, but I’m already psyched about what’s happened and what’s still ahead.
So let’s start at the beginning, a very good place to start. Well… not really, considering it includes 24 hours in airplanes and terminals. My whole family has since concluded with 100% unwavering certainty that sleeping in airports sucks lumberjack balls. We did it last year in Toronto and this time at LAX. Scrunching up on uncomfortable benches and being forced to sleep with contacts still glued to your eyeballs is painfully repulsive. In fact, the following morning when we all woke up and looked around at each other, my mom declared “This is the ugliest we’ve ever been.”
She was right.
Regardless, the four ugly Hennigs hobbled to life and were first in line to board United’s goddamn 4:00am jet.
Well, if this airport experience was the proletariat low-light of my vacation, what followed on the cruise ship was bourgeoisie bliss. We arrived at our 11th floor portside cabin only to open the door into a beautiful suite complete with its own gorgeous patio view of Waikiki and Diamond Head. There were towels folded like African animals, a colourful fruit bowel (which I quickly devoured), and separate letters from James, Agnus, and Wally.
James is our concierge.
Agnus is our maid.
Wally is our butler.
Well, let me tell you, we were overwhelmed. It’s our first time on a legit high-class cruise ship and the sheer vastness of the vessel combined with complicated schedules, tour bookings, and cocktail invites would make anyone’s head spin. We spent the first hour arguing over who to phone for what – does James take care of offshore bookings or does Wally? Will Wally bring extra towels or will Agnus? Does James know where to get the best Mai Tai, or is he just a wine specialist?
Right in the midst of this hurricane of confusion, there was a knock on our door –- and that’s when Wally entered our lives.
From that moment on, I knew everything would be alright.
In short, Wally is a multitasking demigod. I can’t explain how many times in the first two days he’s come to the rescue. He’s booked us our tickets, made all our reservations, and even delivered me fresh cookies this afternoon. If I was gay, there's no question in my mind that I’d marry Wally.
Let it be known, in the beginning we were very hesitant to call on our manservants. There was a point, though, when I knew we’d turned to the dark side. We were five minutes late for dinner and had to book tickets for a helicopter flight through Ka’uai ASAP or the tour would sell out. My mom was half way out the door when my dad hollered “Hold up, we have to book these tickets,” to which my mom responded with a casual hand flourish “Get Wally to do it”.
All four of us fell silent… and smiled.
Needless to say, Wally took care of the rest.
I don’t have a lot more to tell yet. Most of our time’s been spent by the poolside, at Pearl Harbor, and on a whale watching excursion. We have one more day in Maui, then one on Hilo, one on Kona, one on Ka'uai, and then back to Honolulu. I’m most excited for the chopper expedition, where we’ll be flying into remote locations inaccessible by road or water (including the opening waterfall location from Jurassic Park!). So, 'til next time, Mahalo!
P.S. Happy Valentines. Yes I’m single, no I don’t hate the holiday. Why? Because it’s a good reminder of something important, not a bloody obligation (plus I’m a marketer… commercialization’s my lifeblood). Truth be told, I haven’t had a valid Valentine in a while, so, well.. if there’s anyone out there like Wally with a vagina, please let me know.
So let’s start at the beginning, a very good place to start. Well… not really, considering it includes 24 hours in airplanes and terminals. My whole family has since concluded with 100% unwavering certainty that sleeping in airports sucks lumberjack balls. We did it last year in Toronto and this time at LAX. Scrunching up on uncomfortable benches and being forced to sleep with contacts still glued to your eyeballs is painfully repulsive. In fact, the following morning when we all woke up and looked around at each other, my mom declared “This is the ugliest we’ve ever been.”
She was right.
Regardless, the four ugly Hennigs hobbled to life and were first in line to board United’s goddamn 4:00am jet.
Well, if this airport experience was the proletariat low-light of my vacation, what followed on the cruise ship was bourgeoisie bliss. We arrived at our 11th floor portside cabin only to open the door into a beautiful suite complete with its own gorgeous patio view of Waikiki and Diamond Head. There were towels folded like African animals, a colourful fruit bowel (which I quickly devoured), and separate letters from James, Agnus, and Wally.
James is our concierge.
Agnus is our maid.
Wally is our butler.
Well, let me tell you, we were overwhelmed. It’s our first time on a legit high-class cruise ship and the sheer vastness of the vessel combined with complicated schedules, tour bookings, and cocktail invites would make anyone’s head spin. We spent the first hour arguing over who to phone for what – does James take care of offshore bookings or does Wally? Will Wally bring extra towels or will Agnus? Does James know where to get the best Mai Tai, or is he just a wine specialist?
Right in the midst of this hurricane of confusion, there was a knock on our door –- and that’s when Wally entered our lives.
From that moment on, I knew everything would be alright.
In short, Wally is a multitasking demigod. I can’t explain how many times in the first two days he’s come to the rescue. He’s booked us our tickets, made all our reservations, and even delivered me fresh cookies this afternoon. If I was gay, there's no question in my mind that I’d marry Wally.
Let it be known, in the beginning we were very hesitant to call on our manservants. There was a point, though, when I knew we’d turned to the dark side. We were five minutes late for dinner and had to book tickets for a helicopter flight through Ka’uai ASAP or the tour would sell out. My mom was half way out the door when my dad hollered “Hold up, we have to book these tickets,” to which my mom responded with a casual hand flourish “Get Wally to do it”.
All four of us fell silent… and smiled.
Needless to say, Wally took care of the rest.
I don’t have a lot more to tell yet. Most of our time’s been spent by the poolside, at Pearl Harbor, and on a whale watching excursion. We have one more day in Maui, then one on Hilo, one on Kona, one on Ka'uai, and then back to Honolulu. I’m most excited for the chopper expedition, where we’ll be flying into remote locations inaccessible by road or water (including the opening waterfall location from Jurassic Park!). So, 'til next time, Mahalo!
P.S. Happy Valentines. Yes I’m single, no I don’t hate the holiday. Why? Because it’s a good reminder of something important, not a bloody obligation (plus I’m a marketer… commercialization’s my lifeblood). Truth be told, I haven’t had a valid Valentine in a while, so, well.. if there’s anyone out there like Wally with a vagina, please let me know.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Concerned Parent
Late last night I got a text from a friend asking "Are you awake?". Knowing that this would result in a phone call, I replied 'yes' and sat back waiting to hear the ringer go off. Sure enough...
BEEP BO BEEP BOP, BEEP BO BEEP BOP
Only twice in my life have I gotten these sorts of urgent late night calls from female friends. The first was back in year one university when a certain sensitive girl phoned me in complete tears. Why? Her computer was blitzing out. It only took a little digging to discover that she'd opened an internet link titled "sexvid", all because she'd been desperately clicking random buttons to find the newest episode of Gossip Girl online (needless to say, I still don't buy that excuse... I think she's probably a raging nymphomaniac who needs help).
Regardless, the phone call last night was -- surprise surprise -- about this other girl's computer problems. Windows Defender had detected some sort of virus creature and she was worried sick (albeit not in tears like Porno Girl). Well, since Windows Defender is like the barely-qualified school nurse of computer health, I suggested she run an AVG scan and see what that report had to say. Since it would take hours, we said our goodnights and that was that.
This morning, I get a text from this friend saying that AVG had found threats but wouldn't delete them. She then goes on to say that she emptied the virus vault and asks "is that the same thing as removing them?".
News Flash: if you have no clue what you're doing, don't start deleting shit! This is the type of girl who would stick a wet knife in an electric toaster to fish out the two pennies she dropped inside. Her cuteness is no excuse for her blonde buffoonery.
In lieu of explaining things she wouldn't understand, I told her: "Your computer has had viruses for months if not years, it's just slowly metastasizing. For you to fix all its problems would take three days in hell with a tech guy named Jesus. I suggest holding its hand as it dies its painful, cancerous death."
Well this wasn't exactly the answer she wanted to hear, so she asks about reformatting the whole drive from scratch. I say "sure, if you're brave enough", to which she asks "alright, but can I keep my music and pictures?".
Sigh.
No, you can't wipe an entire system off your computer and expect to keep the music and picture files. That's like me wanting a sex change and saying to the surgeon "would you please leave my left testicle? I really want a vagina, but can that one ball still dangle down?". It's all or nothing.
The girl then explains that a different boy once promised to reformat her computer and, not only that, but also said he'd use his fancy external hard drive to keep the files that she didn't want deleted.
At this point, I felt like a dad shaking his head at an impatient, naive daughter. This girl is like family to me, but, well, there's only so much a dad can say. When she had a serious problem late last night, she knew she could call me for anything and I'd be there. But now that a few hours had passed, she was done with dad and eager to go back to the boy who'd promised who-knows-how-long-ago to put his hands all over her software.
My last warning was: "If he sticks his external hard drive in your dirty USB hole, there's a risk of him getting your digital STI."
Her reply: "Don't worry, he's smart. I'm sure he'll think of these things", to which I quickly retorted "He's also a boy. Mark my words, if you bring this up to him he'll whisper 'Don't worry, babe. That won't happen to us'".
I tell you, life is tough as the metaphorical dad whose daughters call late at night for computer comfort. You can warn them all you want, but ultimately they have to learn from their own mistakes.
Please, practice safe computing.
BEEP BO BEEP BOP, BEEP BO BEEP BOP
Only twice in my life have I gotten these sorts of urgent late night calls from female friends. The first was back in year one university when a certain sensitive girl phoned me in complete tears. Why? Her computer was blitzing out. It only took a little digging to discover that she'd opened an internet link titled "sexvid", all because she'd been desperately clicking random buttons to find the newest episode of Gossip Girl online (needless to say, I still don't buy that excuse... I think she's probably a raging nymphomaniac who needs help).
Regardless, the phone call last night was -- surprise surprise -- about this other girl's computer problems. Windows Defender had detected some sort of virus creature and she was worried sick (albeit not in tears like Porno Girl). Well, since Windows Defender is like the barely-qualified school nurse of computer health, I suggested she run an AVG scan and see what that report had to say. Since it would take hours, we said our goodnights and that was that.
This morning, I get a text from this friend saying that AVG had found threats but wouldn't delete them. She then goes on to say that she emptied the virus vault and asks "is that the same thing as removing them?".
News Flash: if you have no clue what you're doing, don't start deleting shit! This is the type of girl who would stick a wet knife in an electric toaster to fish out the two pennies she dropped inside. Her cuteness is no excuse for her blonde buffoonery.
In lieu of explaining things she wouldn't understand, I told her: "Your computer has had viruses for months if not years, it's just slowly metastasizing. For you to fix all its problems would take three days in hell with a tech guy named Jesus. I suggest holding its hand as it dies its painful, cancerous death."
Well this wasn't exactly the answer she wanted to hear, so she asks about reformatting the whole drive from scratch. I say "sure, if you're brave enough", to which she asks "alright, but can I keep my music and pictures?".
Sigh.
No, you can't wipe an entire system off your computer and expect to keep the music and picture files. That's like me wanting a sex change and saying to the surgeon "would you please leave my left testicle? I really want a vagina, but can that one ball still dangle down?". It's all or nothing.
The girl then explains that a different boy once promised to reformat her computer and, not only that, but also said he'd use his fancy external hard drive to keep the files that she didn't want deleted.
At this point, I felt like a dad shaking his head at an impatient, naive daughter. This girl is like family to me, but, well, there's only so much a dad can say. When she had a serious problem late last night, she knew she could call me for anything and I'd be there. But now that a few hours had passed, she was done with dad and eager to go back to the boy who'd promised who-knows-how-long-ago to put his hands all over her software.
My last warning was: "If he sticks his external hard drive in your dirty USB hole, there's a risk of him getting your digital STI."
Her reply: "Don't worry, he's smart. I'm sure he'll think of these things", to which I quickly retorted "He's also a boy. Mark my words, if you bring this up to him he'll whisper 'Don't worry, babe. That won't happen to us'".
I tell you, life is tough as the metaphorical dad whose daughters call late at night for computer comfort. You can warn them all you want, but ultimately they have to learn from their own mistakes.
Please, practice safe computing.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Happy Belated, Susan Blip
I feel bad for not wishing my blog a happy one year birthday back on Jan. 15th... but in all honesty, who actually remembered? Let me be the first to say that if a dad doesn't remember his daughter's birthday, either the dad or the daughter is probably a loser. I wish to clarify that I am not a loser, and, hence, my irregularly updated blog daughter is in fact the let-down of this dysfunctional family.
again, happy birthday sweetie
again, happy birthday sweetie
Friday, January 8, 2010
Gene Simmons vs. George Bush
Waaaay back in term one, I was fortunate enough to be in the same room as two of the planet's biggest celebrities: George Bush and Gene Simmons. This blog is about what would have happened had they got in a fight. Enjoy.
GOD OF THUNDER VS. PRESIDENT OF THE USA
TCU Event Center is swarming with onlookers. Protest signs, plastic masks, and tacky silver costumes flood the streets to form a giant ring. The middle of this street circle is empty, when all of a sudden --
Rock 'N' Roll erupts from out of no where! The crowds turn to see a long piano-black limo torpedoing down 22nd. It slams to a stop...
And Gene Simmons steps out. No costume, no make-up. Just a leather coat and those "I don't give a shit" sunglasses. He looks around and steps into the center of the giant ring made by the thundering fans.
Gene opens his mouth to say something, when suddenly
REAL THUNDER! Clouds swirl in the sky, lightning thrashes like long Texan bull whips. Two dozen helicopters plummet through a black nimbus and land firmly on the pavement, gusts sweeping people away like flimsy Democrat ballots. Men in black suits repel down the side of TCU; armed trucks close off the street exits.
Gene watches, stone-faced. Un-phased.
A helicopter door swings open -- George Bush steps out, a clueless smirk stretched across his face.
Gene removes his sunglasses and George wipes the dumbfounded look off of his face. No disguises; this is all about honour.
Let the battle begin.
Gene snaps his jaw open and the legendary tongue shoots out like an Amazonian Anaconda. It coils around the ex-President with pure muscle. George Bush wiggles and sweats, but the thirty foot tongue squeezes harder... tighter...
POP! The crowd's heads shoot up, watching Bush soar out of the tongue's grasp and land perfectly on his two feet. He's dripping with Politician Grease, having secreted enough to help him slip out.
Simmons doesn't waste a second. The flailing tongue flies back to the limousine and retrieves an electric guitar. He strikes a G chord (although a little flat) and is suddenly transformed into the cape-wearing, black-and-white face paint demon everyone knows.
"TERRORIST!" shouts Bush. The entire secret service floods the ring with AK-47s and Sig semiautomatics, two dozen laser beams trained on Simmons' chest. The Feds close in, a smirk returning to Bush's face, when suddenly a velvety voice cries:
"Hey boys! Yoo-hoo!"
The secret service agents look over and see Shannon Tweed stepping out of Gene's limo. She's certainly not as attractive as she was twenty years ago, but those breasts are enough to make every Republican guard drop their gun just to stare at God's two best creations.
Unfortunately, Gene can't stop staring either.
"Quick honey! Get Dubya!" screams Shannon. Gene tries taking his eyes away... but no matter how hard he struggles, he can't. Bush walks up (after years with Laura, sex and breasts have lost all power over him) and he pulls out his cell phone to dial a number labelled 'Lawyers', mumbling "Let's see what's legal..."
All of a sudden George spots Gene's electric guitar. He throws the cell phone away and picks up the instrument, hands testing the strings like a kid with a cool new toy. He takes a deep breath --
Gene yells "NO!"
-- And Bush strikes a B Chord!
A bright white light blinds the entire city and, in a transformation as quick as Gene's, George Bush instantly morphs into the much more cool, much more slick, much more rockstarish...
Barack Obama.
The whole crowd looks at Obama and gasps, his sexiness easily outshining Shannon Tweed's. The protesters lower their signs, the republicans scatter.
Obama extends his hand and helps Gene to his feet. For once, Gene's tongue is tied.
Barack turns to the crowd, about to declare "Change!", when suddenly a dart zooms through the air and punctures his jugular vein. Obama screams, morphing back into a shocked and confused George Bush. Gene looks up to see Dick Cheney flying towards them in a helicopter, his hands clenching a still-smoking RepubliGUN. The chopper swoops and Sarah Palin erupts from the passenger side, just low enough to lean out, grab George Bush, and pull the president back in the cabin.
Gene dons his sunglasses again, watching the helicopter rocket North towards Alaska with the three cowards safe inside.
This isn't over yet.
Gene Simmons - 1. George Bush - 0.
GOD OF THUNDER VS. PRESIDENT OF THE USA
TCU Event Center is swarming with onlookers. Protest signs, plastic masks, and tacky silver costumes flood the streets to form a giant ring. The middle of this street circle is empty, when all of a sudden --
Rock 'N' Roll erupts from out of no where! The crowds turn to see a long piano-black limo torpedoing down 22nd. It slams to a stop...
And Gene Simmons steps out. No costume, no make-up. Just a leather coat and those "I don't give a shit" sunglasses. He looks around and steps into the center of the giant ring made by the thundering fans.
Gene opens his mouth to say something, when suddenly
REAL THUNDER! Clouds swirl in the sky, lightning thrashes like long Texan bull whips. Two dozen helicopters plummet through a black nimbus and land firmly on the pavement, gusts sweeping people away like flimsy Democrat ballots. Men in black suits repel down the side of TCU; armed trucks close off the street exits.
Gene watches, stone-faced. Un-phased.
A helicopter door swings open -- George Bush steps out, a clueless smirk stretched across his face.
Gene removes his sunglasses and George wipes the dumbfounded look off of his face. No disguises; this is all about honour.
Let the battle begin.
Gene snaps his jaw open and the legendary tongue shoots out like an Amazonian Anaconda. It coils around the ex-President with pure muscle. George Bush wiggles and sweats, but the thirty foot tongue squeezes harder... tighter...
POP! The crowd's heads shoot up, watching Bush soar out of the tongue's grasp and land perfectly on his two feet. He's dripping with Politician Grease, having secreted enough to help him slip out.
Simmons doesn't waste a second. The flailing tongue flies back to the limousine and retrieves an electric guitar. He strikes a G chord (although a little flat) and is suddenly transformed into the cape-wearing, black-and-white face paint demon everyone knows.
"TERRORIST!" shouts Bush. The entire secret service floods the ring with AK-47s and Sig semiautomatics, two dozen laser beams trained on Simmons' chest. The Feds close in, a smirk returning to Bush's face, when suddenly a velvety voice cries:
"Hey boys! Yoo-hoo!"
The secret service agents look over and see Shannon Tweed stepping out of Gene's limo. She's certainly not as attractive as she was twenty years ago, but those breasts are enough to make every Republican guard drop their gun just to stare at God's two best creations.
Unfortunately, Gene can't stop staring either.
"Quick honey! Get Dubya!" screams Shannon. Gene tries taking his eyes away... but no matter how hard he struggles, he can't. Bush walks up (after years with Laura, sex and breasts have lost all power over him) and he pulls out his cell phone to dial a number labelled 'Lawyers', mumbling "Let's see what's legal..."
All of a sudden George spots Gene's electric guitar. He throws the cell phone away and picks up the instrument, hands testing the strings like a kid with a cool new toy. He takes a deep breath --
Gene yells "NO!"
-- And Bush strikes a B Chord!
A bright white light blinds the entire city and, in a transformation as quick as Gene's, George Bush instantly morphs into the much more cool, much more slick, much more rockstarish...
Barack Obama.
The whole crowd looks at Obama and gasps, his sexiness easily outshining Shannon Tweed's. The protesters lower their signs, the republicans scatter.
Obama extends his hand and helps Gene to his feet. For once, Gene's tongue is tied.
Barack turns to the crowd, about to declare "Change!", when suddenly a dart zooms through the air and punctures his jugular vein. Obama screams, morphing back into a shocked and confused George Bush. Gene looks up to see Dick Cheney flying towards them in a helicopter, his hands clenching a still-smoking RepubliGUN. The chopper swoops and Sarah Palin erupts from the passenger side, just low enough to lean out, grab George Bush, and pull the president back in the cabin.
Gene dons his sunglasses again, watching the helicopter rocket North towards Alaska with the three cowards safe inside.
This isn't over yet.
Gene Simmons - 1. George Bush - 0.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Practicing Patience
My grandmother and grandfather are sweet people, really. To the best of my memory, they've never missed a single one of my band performances, drama plays, choir sing-songs, or awards ceremonies. Ever. And somehow they always manage to get first row seating at whatever venue I'm performing at [but they're German, so who knows what violent tactics or red armbands they show to the poor souls who might naively ask "are those seats saved?"].
Grandpa escaped -- on foot -- from WWII Poland to Canada. He witnessed with his own two eyes bombing, blasting, gutting, interrogating, and all sorts of other unmentionable episodes to eventually wind up in Saskatchewan and marry my grandma (whose nickname, ironically, is 'Little Hitler'). Combined, the two of them built a life on the farm from nothing. Beyond the world war, they’ve witnessed field fires, miscarriages, and incorrigible cancer, all of which endangered their little home on the prairie. And yet, lucky for me, grandpa can douse an acreage blaze just as fast as Little Hitler whomps any metastasizing tumor thrown her way -- the two deserve their damn handicapped parking and first row concert seats, no doubt about it.
Sadly, the City of Swift Current disagrees. Three months ago, a new performance center opened up and town council drew names to see where ticket holders would sit for a certain series of concerts. Grandma and Grandpa drew row thirty-six.
There was no talking to them for a week.
No matter how early they showed up (which is often between 2-3 hours ahead) they were stuck in ridiculous row thirty-something. "Curses!" they shouted. "Blaspheme!" "Lächerliche!"
Fast forward from winter to spring: last weekend during my visit home, I asked Little Hitler about how the whole seat situation was working out. Her grin caught me off guard.
"Aren't you still in row thirty-six?" I asked.
"Twenty-eight, dear," grandma replied with a smooth smile. "Hopefully 24 by the end of the month."
"But I thought your seats were permanent?"
"Well grandson, let's just say that after seventy five years you get good at practicing patience."
That conversation didn’t click. When I got home and asked my mom about it, she chuckled and explained, quite matter-of-factly, that grandma and grandpa were moving up by taking the seats of the other elderly audience members who were slowly dying off.
Now THAT's survival of the fittest. German style.
Grandpa escaped -- on foot -- from WWII Poland to Canada. He witnessed with his own two eyes bombing, blasting, gutting, interrogating, and all sorts of other unmentionable episodes to eventually wind up in Saskatchewan and marry my grandma (whose nickname, ironically, is 'Little Hitler'). Combined, the two of them built a life on the farm from nothing. Beyond the world war, they’ve witnessed field fires, miscarriages, and incorrigible cancer, all of which endangered their little home on the prairie. And yet, lucky for me, grandpa can douse an acreage blaze just as fast as Little Hitler whomps any metastasizing tumor thrown her way -- the two deserve their damn handicapped parking and first row concert seats, no doubt about it.
Sadly, the City of Swift Current disagrees. Three months ago, a new performance center opened up and town council drew names to see where ticket holders would sit for a certain series of concerts. Grandma and Grandpa drew row thirty-six.
There was no talking to them for a week.
No matter how early they showed up (which is often between 2-3 hours ahead) they were stuck in ridiculous row thirty-something. "Curses!" they shouted. "Blaspheme!" "Lächerliche!"
Fast forward from winter to spring: last weekend during my visit home, I asked Little Hitler about how the whole seat situation was working out. Her grin caught me off guard.
"Aren't you still in row thirty-six?" I asked.
"Twenty-eight, dear," grandma replied with a smooth smile. "Hopefully 24 by the end of the month."
"But I thought your seats were permanent?"
"Well grandson, let's just say that after seventy five years you get good at practicing patience."
That conversation didn’t click. When I got home and asked my mom about it, she chuckled and explained, quite matter-of-factly, that grandma and grandpa were moving up by taking the seats of the other elderly audience members who were slowly dying off.
Now THAT's survival of the fittest. German style.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
H1N1ghtmare
So with all the H1N1 pandemonium floating around lately, its apparently leaked into my subconscious. I officially just had my first swine flu nightmare (more like a napmare, though, since it was in-between winks on my uncomfortable couch).
Anyway, get this.
Important Fact: the H1N1 vaccine (and most vaccines, for that matter) contains "inactivated viral antigens". Basically, it's like giving yourself a small Einstein-tampered dose of the disease so that your immune system can drop kick the real thing in the future.
If there are still dosages left at the university tomorrow morning, I'm planning on getting one (...so what, call me a paranoid douche. there's a time and place for hot & sweaty, and it's definitely not during finals or my merry effing Christmas).
Important sidenote: Jurassic Park is amazing
Important relevance: Don't watch it before getting vaccinated.
How the hell does this all tie together? Welllll it just so happens I watched the entire Jurassic Park trilogy last week; and my horrifying napmare went a little something like this...
A couple *cough troglodyte cough* U of S Archaeology students somehow diddled with the H1N1 vaccine by filling the "inactivated viral antigens" with frog DNA, like the scientists did with dinosaurs in Jurassic Park. Somehow I realized this just as the needle penetrated my pores, a second too late. Now can anyone remember what happened to the dinos in JP because of this mixed frog DNA?
That's right. They were ambisexual (could change sex like frogs).
So suddenly, as if it made 100% sense, I grew blonde hair, long nails, and a bra (not breasts, just a bra *sigh*). The archaeology jerks then proceeded to chase me around campus -- what they planned to do with me once they caught up, God knows -- and it was absolutely t-e-r-r-i-f-y-i-n-g. Somehow I sprouted high heels around Place Riel, but then fell down the stairs and was totally paralyzed. As I looked up, archaeology boys descending with drooling smiles, I SCREAMED and then
Woke up.
No bra, no blonde hair.
Phew.
If Freud and Joseph were right and dreams are just coded messages about our real lives, I'm not quite sure what this one was trying to say. Don't get the H1N1 shot? Don't fall for an archaeology kid? Don't dress in drag?
Well damn, I can't promise I won't do any of those.
Seriously, though, I understand that everything that happened in this dream is utterly impossible from one tiny flu shot (I'd need at least a good surgeon and $100 La Senza gift card for that), but yet I can't help keep hearing that famous Jurassic Park quote: "nature will find a way..."
P.S. If some crazy Jurassic Park-like science thing does go down, please film it and then kill me before anyone else gets the chance to make two shitty sequels. Thank you.
Anyway, get this.
Important Fact: the H1N1 vaccine (and most vaccines, for that matter) contains "inactivated viral antigens". Basically, it's like giving yourself a small Einstein-tampered dose of the disease so that your immune system can drop kick the real thing in the future.
If there are still dosages left at the university tomorrow morning, I'm planning on getting one (...so what, call me a paranoid douche. there's a time and place for hot & sweaty, and it's definitely not during finals or my merry effing Christmas).
Important sidenote: Jurassic Park is amazing
Important relevance: Don't watch it before getting vaccinated.
How the hell does this all tie together? Welllll it just so happens I watched the entire Jurassic Park trilogy last week; and my horrifying napmare went a little something like this...
A couple *cough troglodyte cough* U of S Archaeology students somehow diddled with the H1N1 vaccine by filling the "inactivated viral antigens" with frog DNA, like the scientists did with dinosaurs in Jurassic Park. Somehow I realized this just as the needle penetrated my pores, a second too late. Now can anyone remember what happened to the dinos in JP because of this mixed frog DNA?
That's right. They were ambisexual (could change sex like frogs).
So suddenly, as if it made 100% sense, I grew blonde hair, long nails, and a bra (not breasts, just a bra *sigh*). The archaeology jerks then proceeded to chase me around campus -- what they planned to do with me once they caught up, God knows -- and it was absolutely t-e-r-r-i-f-y-i-n-g. Somehow I sprouted high heels around Place Riel, but then fell down the stairs and was totally paralyzed. As I looked up, archaeology boys descending with drooling smiles, I SCREAMED and then
Woke up.
No bra, no blonde hair.
Phew.
If Freud and Joseph were right and dreams are just coded messages about our real lives, I'm not quite sure what this one was trying to say. Don't get the H1N1 shot? Don't fall for an archaeology kid? Don't dress in drag?
Well damn, I can't promise I won't do any of those.
Seriously, though, I understand that everything that happened in this dream is utterly impossible from one tiny flu shot (I'd need at least a good surgeon and $100 La Senza gift card for that), but yet I can't help keep hearing that famous Jurassic Park quote: "nature will find a way..."
P.S. If some crazy Jurassic Park-like science thing does go down, please film it and then kill me before anyone else gets the chance to make two shitty sequels. Thank you.
Friday, November 6, 2009
bureaucraps
A french kiss for whoever can answer this riddle:
What is something that never smiles but always stares; something that flies but doesn't have wings; something almost everyone owns but is impossible to get?
...
Answers? Anyone? Tongue's waiting...
Give up?
It's a passport. A bloody fricken' passport.
Detect my disdain? Good. See, this morning my mom phoned to say that since we're going to Hawaii in February, we should renew our passports ASAP (they expire in March, and the goverment warns against travelling with id that expires within six months of vacation or something). So after only a mild dose of complaining, I grabbed my passport and darted straight down to Wal-Mart to get my picture retaken.
Now I don't know about the rest of the world, but a passport isn't something I'm necessarily concerned about every day. Sure it's a life-line when travelling, but otherwise it never really crosses my mind -- until I started thinking about the expiry date, that is. So although I still had four months left, all of a sudden it seemed like those sixteen weeks wasn't very long at all. My brain, bored in traffic, started conjuring up worst case scenarios, mostly revolving around being late and subsequently missing out on Hawaii.
Cut to Wal-Mart. Fortunately this process was painless -- I'm out with my photo pack in ten minutes. Unfortunately, it was unjustly windy outside (my hair was a wreck), I hadn't shaved, and my clothes thought it funny to bunch up in awkward places. Translation: my pics could pass for Amy Winehouse. I contemplated requesting a re-shoot, but the visions were getting worse; if I didn't hurry up and renew, not only would I miss Hawaii, but I would be damned to stay stuck in Saskatoon for the rest of eternity! AaaAAhhh!
So I threw my cash at the photographer and sprinted out with passport and pictures clutched in my knuckles. Irrationality was taking over -- I swear I heard a greeter shout: "welcome to Wal-Mart, may I see your passport?"
Next up was the government building. These places terrify me... I always feel extremely out of place and unwelcome. Or like I'm doing something illegal. And not to criticize the system or anything, but, well, why the hell do they need policemen stationed at every door? True, they're the oldies who probably catch more gum disease than criminals, but really? And maybe I wouldn't make fun of these old people if they were a tad nicer, but come on. They're grumpy. I mean, ever wonder why majority of adults are angry and frustrated but most grandparents are endlessly nice and sweet and kind? It's because you just don't see the angry old grumps as much -- they're busy trolling these tall brick government buildings.
Anyway, I took the elevator up to the passport office and waited in line. When it got to my turn, Officer Agnid asked what my business was. "Renewing my passport," I replied. Well the rest is a whirlwind of bureaucratic bullshit. I'm first told to fill out a specific form for easy renewal, but then find out that I can't because my previous passport was issued when I was under 16. Therefore, I have to essentially start from scratch because they need all original id, guarantor's signatures, government issued id, $100, a vial of blood, and my first born child.
And you know what I said back to that load of bureaucrap?
Ok.
Honestly, besides blog-venting there's nothing I can do to ease the passport pain. Guess I'll just have to fill everything out properly, bide my time, and do the whole thing over again six years down the road. Getting angry or staying grumpy doesn't solve anything. It just guarantees you a job with the government.
What is something that never smiles but always stares; something that flies but doesn't have wings; something almost everyone owns but is impossible to get?
...
Answers? Anyone? Tongue's waiting...
Give up?
It's a passport. A bloody fricken' passport.
Detect my disdain? Good. See, this morning my mom phoned to say that since we're going to Hawaii in February, we should renew our passports ASAP (they expire in March, and the goverment warns against travelling with id that expires within six months of vacation or something). So after only a mild dose of complaining, I grabbed my passport and darted straight down to Wal-Mart to get my picture retaken.
Now I don't know about the rest of the world, but a passport isn't something I'm necessarily concerned about every day. Sure it's a life-line when travelling, but otherwise it never really crosses my mind -- until I started thinking about the expiry date, that is. So although I still had four months left, all of a sudden it seemed like those sixteen weeks wasn't very long at all. My brain, bored in traffic, started conjuring up worst case scenarios, mostly revolving around being late and subsequently missing out on Hawaii.
Cut to Wal-Mart. Fortunately this process was painless -- I'm out with my photo pack in ten minutes. Unfortunately, it was unjustly windy outside (my hair was a wreck), I hadn't shaved, and my clothes thought it funny to bunch up in awkward places. Translation: my pics could pass for Amy Winehouse. I contemplated requesting a re-shoot, but the visions were getting worse; if I didn't hurry up and renew, not only would I miss Hawaii, but I would be damned to stay stuck in Saskatoon for the rest of eternity! AaaAAhhh!
So I threw my cash at the photographer and sprinted out with passport and pictures clutched in my knuckles. Irrationality was taking over -- I swear I heard a greeter shout: "welcome to Wal-Mart, may I see your passport?"
Next up was the government building. These places terrify me... I always feel extremely out of place and unwelcome. Or like I'm doing something illegal. And not to criticize the system or anything, but, well, why the hell do they need policemen stationed at every door? True, they're the oldies who probably catch more gum disease than criminals, but really? And maybe I wouldn't make fun of these old people if they were a tad nicer, but come on. They're grumpy. I mean, ever wonder why majority of adults are angry and frustrated but most grandparents are endlessly nice and sweet and kind? It's because you just don't see the angry old grumps as much -- they're busy trolling these tall brick government buildings.
Anyway, I took the elevator up to the passport office and waited in line. When it got to my turn, Officer Agnid asked what my business was. "Renewing my passport," I replied. Well the rest is a whirlwind of bureaucratic bullshit. I'm first told to fill out a specific form for easy renewal, but then find out that I can't because my previous passport was issued when I was under 16. Therefore, I have to essentially start from scratch because they need all original id, guarantor's signatures, government issued id, $100, a vial of blood, and my first born child.
And you know what I said back to that load of bureaucrap?
Ok.
Honestly, besides blog-venting there's nothing I can do to ease the passport pain. Guess I'll just have to fill everything out properly, bide my time, and do the whole thing over again six years down the road. Getting angry or staying grumpy doesn't solve anything. It just guarantees you a job with the government.
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