Blog.

Hello there world. It’s been a long time. I don’t expect things to be the same as they were over a year ago. The economy crashed and burned. America elected a Black president. Michael Jackson’s kids have faces. Lauren Conrad’s ghostwriter topped the New York Time’s Bestsellers list..etc. etc.

We need to reacquaint ourselves with one another. Here’s a quick post to get me back into the game. This is an excerpt from an old journal entry that I found both humorous and self-affirming. In the spirit of openess, I will share it with you.

Date: March 30

I liked [insert name], but he did not like me.
I liked [insert different boy's name], but he did not like me.
What the F is wrong with me those stupid, crackhead, man whores?!

A perfect memory. No next day. Forever untainted. Perfect.

This is one story for the books:

Last year I, as a lowly PR assistant, attended a wrap party for my company’s biggest video game. I was only 2.5 months into my job and was excitedly reveling in the euphoria of corporate success. Drinks were flowing, people were cajoling, and cartoon dollar signs were spilling from exec’s eye sockets.

There I was, fresh-faced and poised, confidently sipping my glass of vodka soda when I came across the product manager (PM) on the title. While we engaged in some serious banter about our vacation hopes and dreams, the GM of the studio walks by…

PM: Oh hey! Congratulations on the launch of the game
GM: Hey! Thanks. Congrats to you too!
PMr: Let me introduce you to Shirley. She’s the new PR assistant and helped out with the PR campaign this year.
GM: Oh, hi Shirley… [extends hand]
Me: [shakes hand]….NICE!!

*awkward silence*

What I meant to say was – “Nice…to meet you” but I was too drunk.

They’ve since promoted me. This just goes to show you…nobody notices entry level employees. Those at top won’t recognize the bottom feeders. Mess up all you want.

Just kidding.

Keep reaching for the stars, kids.

It’s been a whirlwind few weeks. Let me recount some great stories.

The prettiest girl in the room
I flew out to LA last week for an impromptu business trip. A web company was putting together a video feature that focused entirely on the videogame that I’m working on. As extras began populating the set, I started to feel incredibly self-conscious about my nerdy attire.

Here is a picture of some of the girls from the shoot:

Here is a picture of how I looked:

Just kidding. I WISHED I wore my parka and that very becoming toque. I was freezing my ass off in a dress shirt and jeans. Nevertheless, I still felt like an uptight Mother Teresa in a room of Britney Spears–es.

I also met one of the partners from the company. He did his undergrad and grad studies at Harvard. He’s also rumored to be a Rhode Scholar. He asked me for my thoughts on the failing US economy. I replied with a sound and perfectly educated answer. I said, “um, gas prices?” He stopped talking to me.

Missing in-car, cassette adapter
Did you open the door to my hot ‘94 Corolla and steal my in-car, cassette adapter? If so, please return it. I’ve been relegated to listening to the adult contemporary radio station, QM/FM, for the past three days. I’m starting to feel middle-aged.

Party like a Rockstar
The videogame that I’ve been slaving on for the last 9 months ships this week. In honor of the occasion we’re having a launch event in LA at a swanky club. Celebs will be in attendance. Perez Hilton is scheduled to make an appearance. I’m going to try to make it on to his blog. I’m also going to try to suck face with this guy:

Once again – just kidding. He only likes making out with TV moms. Maybe I’ll tell him I listen to QM/FM.

Picture this – a press conference packed with 300+ media, everybody spanning the spectrum of ‘AOL’ to ‘MTV’ to a collection of other top tier outlets. The first two rows are lined with corporate executives – the seriously elite, big bushy wigs, “I founded the company”, types. Up on stage are four employees demoing the company’s latest Wii product. One decides that the best way to present herself with utmost professionalism is to wear a gray zip-up hoodie that happens to be sprinkled with toothpaste stains from brushing her teeth earlier that morning. This same employee, in her nervous haste, also accidentally selects the wrong area of the menu screen, bringing up a game that puts the presentation off momentum and leaves the speaker (aka executive producer, aka GM of Wii products) to dig deep into his bag of ad-libs. Very deep. She then proceeds to lose control of the Wii mote cursor and stalls the presentation for another good 15 seconds.

Yes – 300 + top tier media and two rows of CEO, CFO, COO, presidents, vice presidents, GMs…are in attendance.

Flashback one week ago –

Boss: We’ll need someone to help demo the game
Me: [with ridiculous excitement] I can do it, no problem!!

Okay, this isn’t as horrifying as I’m making it sound. The dress code was casual and believe me, a little flub on the part of me, a mere speck in the company, could not ruin this mega press conference. No one was reprimanded and the toothpaste stains weren’t even noticeable. So I will not dwell on a bad memory that merely elucidates the fact that even the most awesome of people aren’t perfect. How’s that for being less self-deprecating?

Here’s to making a lot of mistakes and then learning from them. White suits are for dirtying…and for gay men.

Vancouver is painted with memories. That’s a phrase I often reiterate to myself post break-ups, when my frail emotional state finds me extracting significance from every mundanity in life – think crying over a nondescript paper napkin because it reminded me of the way he would wipe his hands. It was not a healthy state, my friends – I would’ve put Britney Spears to shame. Thank God my mom hid the razors and strictly enforced a mandatory underwear policy.

But today I went for a drive – hitting my familiar route – making the same sharp turns, pausing at the same reflection spots, turning back at the same dead end. This time, however, I was minus the emotional baggage and plus one irritated tailgater.

I was out there, aimlessly meandering for the sake of aimless meanders. As I passed every strip of pavement, I could place myself in that exact spot five years ago, two years ago, eight months ago, seven days ago. If my life were a cheesy TV movie, at that point we would be cuing the obligatory montage, chronologically intercutting my various memories to the soothings of Sarah McLachlan.

As I was venturing through memory lane I realized how integral the city of Vancouver is to my identity. My defining moments, up to now, can all be sourced to some area in the lower mainland – that Kingsway market, that Selkirk school yard, that log on Kits Beach, that Fifth Avenue Cinema, that Main St. cafe…and the list goes on.

Despite these deep, almost intrinsic, connections, for the past five years I’ve been planning my reason to leave. Remember this, this and this? Me too.

I remember having an exchange with a couple of friends and gawked at their refusal to never experience life elsewhere. “Not me,” I vehemently affirmed. “I’m out of here at my first chance.” — But, I have yet to go. The truth is whenever I scribbled down plans to leave, there was always a more opportune reason to stay. And shamefully, I’m a sucker for stability.

I’m confident that one day I will pack my bags and go, though. Maybe the next time I come across two diverging roads, I’ll choose the one made for travel. Maybe I’ll go line another city with memories – New York, San Francisco, Sydney, Port Coquitlam? Maybe.
Not a very determined conclusion, I know. Claims of ‘maybe’ are for lamers who wear dess shirts with sweat pants (it’ll catch on, you’ll see!) – but empty promises to myself are starting to depress me.

This was long. Thanks for reading.

Dudes, check out this guy – as per his MySpace, he’s a little bit indie/acoustic/screamo spiced with the melodic epiphanies of an Asian PR man. Yep, these are the tunes of a fellow co-worker. Seriously, go support the PRasians. We’re a rare breed and without your kind click-throughs, we’ll be poached and sold for our delicate body hairs.

Thom, I’m pointing at you (1. becuase you’re a music connoisseur 2. because you have the most luscious eyelashes to ever grace the human face).

Onwards —

I am utterly and completely depressed.

My sexy Powerbook is on the verge of an early death. No joke, I feel like I’m losing a best friend – a really, really good looking best friend. The early prognosis is not good. They’re thinking it might be the motherboard, which is what I had feared. I’m trying to be strong, but I’m preparing for the worse. Miguel “Powerbook” Maroo is a trooper though – still running at capacity on possibly its last 97% of battery life. I’m going to give it a bit of a reprieve though. It’s resting in the comfortable confines of my bedroom, sitting serenely on my desk, gently painted with the soft lighting of my lamp…it’s too beautiful to die.

So now I’m in a coffee shop regrettably typing on the quintessential PC – an IBM Thinkpad. I’ll admit, it’s an adequate piece of machinery, but it’s also a homely shade of black and it’s sans the luminous apple logo. I’m feeling incredibly uncool — I need the brand cachet!!

Sigh.

Omg. My friend, Sara just broke the chair she’s sitting on. She loudly switched her defective seat with the one from the next table. There’s a group of police officers to our direct right. omg. We’re so going to jail.

One other worthwhile note before I conclude this long overdue post – I want to increase my social circle to encompass Main Street hipsters. If anybody can pass along names for Facebook stalking purposes, please feel free to email me in complete confidence.

Hey, how about another dose of belated traveling photos? In February, I flew to Quebec City for a media event and afterwards I made a four day pit stop in Toronto. Many thanks to my former Chem counterpart for her overwhelming hospitality. As well, many thanks to Derek for being his usual entertaining, gay self.

Ice Hotel in Quebec City – partying like it’s 1939.

Mad props to Derek and I for almost walking the perimeter of downtown Toronto.

Check out those two nerdbomber tourists taking pictures of themselves taking pictures – LAME.

That’s Derek sleeping in his “bed”.

Another idle weekend finds me amongst the bustle of a trendy, west end coffee shop. The establishment is finely populated with your pick of the well groomed and well mannered – scholarly university students dressed in fashionable nonchalance; socially charged friends and lovers intent on an afternoon of meaningful conversation; white collared transients savoring their momentary sense of belonging; and me, an introspective observer, donning sizable head phones while feigning ‘hipster writer’.

It’s been so long since I’ve given myself seconds, minutes, hours. Life is set on fast forward and I unwittingly broke the remote during my adolescence. So indulge me while I completely revel in this rare moment paused and designated for…nothing.

Done.

Recently I was exchanging pleasantries with some cool dudes who all boasted night lives tipping with alcohol-induced hilarity, drunken epiphanies and “whoa man, no way!” antics. I nodded and laughed at their anecdotes because positive affirmations are my forte. Then the spotlight shifted and the question was directed to me — “where do you unleash your fury of uninhibited Shirley tomfoolery?”, one asked. Actually, I made that up. The proposed question was a much more perfunctory, “so, where do you hang out?” (side note: screw ’sexy’, JT needs to bring the word, ‘tomfoolery’ back!)

Anyway, I instinctively rattled off several clubs. A few seconds after my response I remember wincing and thinking to myself – “what the hell? Did I just claim Caprice as a ‘hells yeah’ awesome place??” One of the dance moves that I’m looking to perfect is ‘the robot’. I don’t belong in Caprice or any other club for that matter. I was caught up in the act of placating and was clearly inebriated from the quarter glass of wine I had downed.

I wished I could make like Cher and turn back time. My primary school teacher always said to me, “honesty is the best policy, little boy.” (side note #2: my mom gave me a bowl cut and made me wear collared shirts to school. And she also hated me.)

So if I were to answer the question again – where do you hang out, Shirley?

I sit in my room and watch illegally uploaded TV shows off the internet while braiding bracelets for my imaginary friends – and I also make the occasional trip to trendy coffee shops where I write long blog entries implicitly lamenting over my lack of a life.

Uh, nevermind. I’ll see you all at Caprice this weekend – it’s going to be wild. I’m excited to the max.

Postscript #1: certain areas of this post have been exaggerated because self-deprecation is just too easy.

Postscript #2: omg…I went to Thailand. Check out some more pics!

I miss the beaches. So much.

No, I’m not naked.

This photo almost does justice to the expansive nature of the Thailand beaches, but definitely does no justice to how sexy I look in my bikni top and sea-drenched shorts.

Eva and I roughing it big time in our Phuket dump.

1. If I wasn’t human, I would marry a pineapple 2. Batman says Be Cool, Stay in School.

You know what’s almost hotter than this above pic? That glorious ’shorts tan’ I’m totally rocking in this above pic.

An ultra marshmellowy rice crispy square dipped into a steaming cup of extra rich hot chocolate preceded by a breakfast burrito glutted with greasy hashbrowns and morsels of fatty bacon, crammed with a yolkey egg and layered with a runny slice of cheddar cheese.

And yes, for those who have not seen me in a while, I am 550 lbs now.

– Whatever you’re comfortable with.

This blog was initially intended to be a space for intellectual discourse, in which my posts would center on the culturally and socially relevant affairs of our time. My words were suppose to be provocative and ignite a compulsion for equally stimulating feedback. However, as my preceding entry about a personal quest for a lost internal organ would suggest, that preliminary aspiration has been dropped — dropped like it’s hot, Snoop Dogg style.

The truth is, although my interest is often peaked by the latest tokens of societal importance – cultural appropriation, media infiltration, corporate inundation etc., I’m much, much, much more interested in myself.

So I’ve been watching the Emmy-calibre programming that is MTV Canada. There’s a new show entitled, “I’m from Rolling Stone” that chronicles the lives of six young writers with the dream of being a contributing columnist to the referenced magazine. It may not capture the gritty, drunken, pubescent drama of Laguna Beach, but I’m still utterly and completely fascinated. Here’s a show that features distinct individuals, bearing their own set of passions, nuances and idiosyncrasies who are committed to a life of writing. How freaking cool and relatable. This show has come to be my portal for vicarious living. I’m watching and I’m inspired. If there were ever an open casting call looking for a twenty something, grossly apathetic, wannabe writer, who expresses interest in everything and harbors passion for nothing — then I’ll be the last to submit (…you know, because of all the ‘gross apathy’).

That’s always been my Achilles Heel – I don’t care about anything enough to warrant sustained hours of mental exertion. Again, with the exception of myself – ergo this fantastic, self-indulgent blog. Maybe that’s not completely true. Maybe that’s just my excuse to effectively confine me in my stasis.

Content stagnation is my new reality.

So on that optimistic note — I was totally going to upload some more Thailand pictures but Wordpress over-estimated my coding/scripting abilities and made the process of picture-uploading beyond a WSYIWG function. Pete!!

Be cool and stay in school everybody — unless you’ve been going at it for too many consecutive years and you’ve earned yourself the repuation of that “creepy, old dude who stares – a lot”, then maybe you should think about wrapping it up.

Postscript
Pete – You’re my hero, in a Captain Planet sort of way.