Break Glass in Case of Emergency

Donna and I nearly died a most un-glamorous death this Sunday - Death by Nachos. To be killed choking on a nacho may be far from glorious, but it pales in comparison to the blaze of lunacy that was nearly our fate. Burning our apartment building to the ground trying to make nachos would be an embarrassing tale to tell at the Pearly Gates.
Donna, who was making the nachos, would have you blame the oven itself. It being old and decrepit, it is unable to defend itself. I would say that human error may be at the root of the problem. Those who know us may ask what Donna was doing in the kitchen in the first place. Well, truth be told I was terribly hungover. Nachos, as you can imagine, sounded great.
Great until they caught on fire. Donna had gone in to check on them and then suddenly leapt out of the kitchen talking quickly about a fire. To my ears, she sounded calm. Of course, that's the hangover talking. If I were to guess, I'd say that at that point only every fifth word was getting through the cloud of lethargy that hung over my head.
Then Donna shouted. The essence of which was that we had a "real" fire in our kitchen. Her shout made me leap to my feet, an action for which I was ill prepared, and my head immediately started pounding.
In the kitchen, the nachos were indeed on fire. Opening the oven door caused two things: the flames to flare up and Donna to jump back. I grabbed the pizza shovel to take the tray out of the oven. Donna shouted, "Don't fan them."
While I didn't have a plan as to what to do with this little inferno, I must stress that fanning the flames had not occurred to me. I shut the door. "I'm not going to fan them." But what now. No thoughts of baking soda or salt or any other home remedy was fighting its way through my throbbing head and as time went on the flames just got bigger.
In her head, Donna wanted to run out of the building. Instead she said, "Is there a fire extinguisher?"
"Yes, in the hall."
Out we went together, although Donna did pause to express concern that I had no pants on. Somehow standing in the hallway in my underwear was, at least for a brief moment, worse than the fire in our kitchen.
There it was just outside our door. Encased in glass. Break Glass in Case of Emergency.
Donna thought, 'Is this a big enough emergency?'
I thought, 'Surely we can get that out of there without breaking the glass.'
And so we stood there for an instant before we realized that if we did indeed want to break the glass, we had nothing to break it with. While Donna went to get a hammer, I'll confess I tried to open the box without breaking the glass. Thankfully, Donna returned to smash it.
The glass is Plexiglas and I remember noticing that it broke so cleanly and easily and I thought how clever the designer was.
Into the kitchen we went. I pulled the pin and Donna opened the door. The flames burst to life and I blasted them with the fire extinguisher.
"It's not out," Donna shouted.
Again, with the extinguisher. I scuttled out of the kitchen, starting stooped and sinking further as I went. There was smoke and dust everywhere. I had tried to stay as low as I could, but I had still inhaled a lot of crap and I stopped for the first time to wonder what that crap was. I had expected white cold jet of gas and instead I got a sandbox full of greenish yellow powder. Our normally white kitchen was absolutely coated. In fact, the entire apartment has needed cleaning to get rid of it.
Donna called the fire department, but not until the fire was out. I think she just wanted to see firemen. And they came, even though she had said the fire was out. I suppose she didn't sound trustworthy. They didn't say much, except that we should get a CO2 extinguisher because they don't make such a mess.
In the end, I never did get nachos.

Busts on Wreck Beach are Nuts?

With heroin flowing through our ports, property crime out of control, and organized crime on the rise, I for one am glad to see that our boys in blue have not taken their eyes off our balls. The VPD rated an impressive 4.5 cruisers out of 5 cruisers last weekend at Wreck Beach. (Three points for the three marked cars parked in the no parking zone at the top of the hill and another for the less than subtle unmarked car parked immediately behind the others. The remaining half point is for the two park rangers who walked the beach trailing just behind our boys in blue.)
Now, don't think that this posse of law enforcement took a stroll along the beach for their lunch break. They hadn't just been at the top of the hill safeguarding all the unattended vehicles and thought how much better a Stormin' Norman's veggie burger would be than another round of doughnuts.
Instead, it's clear that some ever vigilant high civic official has realized that Wreck Beach is such a danger to the fabric of our city that a constant and impressive police presence is required. If marijuana leads to harder drugs, imagine what naked pot smokers can get up to. I for one feel safer in my neighbourhood knowing that the VPD is cracking down on Wreck.
Harmless, Disorganized Crime you say. Pot smokers are lazy? You haven't seen what these little beavers have been up to. They have built entire neighbourhoods out of driftwood and deadheads. They have make shift restaurants. Even a library. What's worse is they have cold beer (or at least it is cold tasting). Like mad pirates they dig up buried coolers of icy beer throughout the day. Who put them there? Disorganized lazy hippies or Kingpins of Crime?
Get em' boys. This city ain't supposed to be fun.

Da Bears

I liked the orcas. It was new. Different. They didn't seem, for the most part to be just painted in themes. Many of them took their themes much further. There were physical differences in so many.
The bears just aren't as good. At least not on the whole. They seem to be a me too project that lacked the inspiration, commitment, and ingenuity of the orcas.
That said, there are two on Robson that I do like and I'd like to share them with you.

How About the Hooligans?

Three cheers for city council as they give the resounding maybe to the stadium proposal. I understand that some people were riled up about at least five points regarding the stadium and its impact on the neighbourhood.
* Provision of an adequate street network.
* Resolution of risks & liability associated w/ dangerous goods in the rail lands.
* Reconfig of stadium structure /site to ensure a better "fit" with Gastown.
* Resolution of impacts on the livability of residential uses in area
* Resolution of impacts on future Port Lands development
And while some of those points are all good and dandy, they are not my concern. I'm also not concerned as to whether the stadium "blocks" waterfront access in an area that is already blocked off from the water. I have to agree with Richard in the City's take in general. That is except for one thing.
Why so many seats? What about us hooligans? What about this man? All he wants to do is: stand behind the opposing keeper and berate him with offside remarks; belittle opposing would-be strikers with questions rearding their wish for much higher nets; sing about our dream of a team entirely composed of David Morris'; and shout instructive remarks to opposing teams who came all this way just to lose, just to lose.
Where will he drink beer, shout and swear, and bang the boards? Will there be room to throw his empty beer cups in the direction of the keeper and still have them land safely behind the net? Or will they just sail out on to the pitch? (See: safety conscious)
So worry about your business owners, and your land holders, and you poor and impoverished all you like. But what about him? But what about us? We happy hooligans. We need less seats. Give us a place to stand.
Or does that bit come later, when they have agreed to the whole thing. Ooops, my bad. Too soon. Carry on. Never mind me.

Sing Paris Sing

As a culture, how low can we sink? How little do we care about talent? Well somewhere out there, I believe, a record executive was having this conversation, give or take. Then that same executive made a preposterous statement. Someone else called "Bullshit." And I like to believe a bet was wagered. I hope it wasn't money. I hope it was more about pride. I want to think that that same record producer said, "I could make Paris Hilton a hit single."
"No way," said his friend. "Can she even sing?"
"Who cares? It's not the point."
"Won't work."
"Care to bet."
"Winner mows the losers lawn in a dress."
Now wanting to see her embarrassing herself pornographically makes sense to me in a Paparazzi/traffic accident kind of way. (For those who can't resist: graphic stills from One Night in Paris) Even her "reality" TV show makes sense in that same way. But we've gone too far when this vapid, stick creature who offers nothing more than having inherited a vast hotel empire is celebrated for "singing" a pathetic song she neither wrote nor played.
My only hope, is that somewhere some guy is mowing a lawn in one of her outfits.

Sudoku

According to the Metro, the free daily newspaper, I am living with a genius. It would seem that if you can finish their Sudoku puzzle within a certain allotment of time, well you're a genius.
What strikes me as odd, is that Donna has a mild allergy towards numbers. Taxes being the worst irritant, she breaks out into a cold sweat just at the thought of filling in little numbers in little squares and following the results down the page in a systematic and driven fashion. Well except for Sudoku.
Somehow these little squares within squares are special. She is drawn to them like an accountant to loop holes. As are so many people lately. Sudoku is sweeping the nation. Perhaps Revenue Canada should look into a Sudoku tax form. That's right. Who's the genius now? Eh?

Oranges

This is simply a picture I took some time ago of some oranges sitting in a bowl on our table. That's it. Oranges.

Warning: Claudio Lopez is Loose

Lyon, France - Interpol is once again on the lookout for "Claudio Lopez" An uncharacteristic mistake, he recently was filmed performing his infamous mating ritual. The footage was deemed to raw and graphic for this site, but we were able to release this still photo in the interest of public safety.
Sources indicate, he is trying to reach South America. If you see this man, he may appear lost and confused - repeating half understood Spanish lyrics again and again and again - remember to approach him with caution: that's not a flower in his pocket, he's just happy to see you.