Busking Your Way to Glory? Funny.

I was recently in Victoria, which is a nice place to visit but suffers from that grey, dreary, sunless existence that makes Vancouver such a nice place to visit and such a crappy place to live.  I fear it is also becoming subjected to that other thing that makes Vancouver a crappy place to live- assholes.  When I lived in Vancouver, I discovered that the city that I had made an annual pilgrimage to is populated by mostly jerks.

Now, before any Vancouverites who read this get all up in arms- "What!  I'm not a jerk!  I'm delightful!"- consider this.

I go to Vancouver on vacation, to visit some of my favorite people in the world, and do fun stuff all day for about a week, carefree and usually in the summer.  I eat, drink and make merry.  I go to the beach, the Aquarium, for all-you-can-eat sushi and basically forget my worries.

Yeah!!!

When I lived in Vancouver, I had a wretched job that I must have accepted in a fit of total insanity, I had few friends, it rained about 80% of the time (I lived there from September to January) and I encountered a greater density of dickheads there than anywhere I've ever been.

Boo.

When I walk around downtown Calgary, and look lost, people stop and ask if I need help.

When I was waiting for a bus in Malaysia with my friend Alisa, so many cars pulled over and asked if we needed a ride that we stopped worrying about kidnapping schemes and realized that people there are just really nice.

Wandering the streets of downtown Vancouver, people who notice that you are not local are as likely to stab you as sneer down at you from above their newly botoxed lip.

That's not really true.  But there are a couple types of Vancouver jerk that really I've only met there.

Case study #1:

The Lazy, Entitled Jerk

"Stick it to the man, man!"

 

I am not an overly ambitious person, at least- I wouldn't describe myself as such.  I generally think of myself as being "regular ambitious".  That is, I will work for money in order to afford the lifestyle I would like to enjoy.  I assumed, for years, that this is the "regular" way of doing things.  If I want something, I have to work for it.

Simple, right?

Well, in Vancouver, there is a large, strong camp that believes otherwise.  These people are completely immersed in the belief that the world owes them something because, dammit, they have graced the world with their presence.  They are doing enough for everyone else by smoking pot and stinking of patchouli and squeezing illegitimate baby cheeks and crocheting crop tops and growing herbs and living in their parents' basements.  

An actual conversation with one of these lunatics:

H: "So, what do you do?"

PSJ (patchouli stink jerk): "I live, man.  I stop and smell those roses, you know?  Life's too short."

H: "Ah, yes.  Um.  Jobwise?"

PSJ: "I'm not defined by work, man.  I just do.  When EI runs out I work at the coffee shop down the street."

I might be embellishing a little, but I really did speak to a woman who was significantly older than my 20-odd years who was convinced that the way to live life was to collect employment insurance until it ran out, then piss away time at the coffee shop.

I met a number of people like this when I lived in Vancouver.  I lived in their mecca, off Commercial Drive.  It was constantly clogged with hemp-wearing, anarchy-now! types who enjoyed the rent control and the liberal attitude of what is also the lesbian headquarters of the city.

This sort of person does not like me.  Turns out.  We have differing views.  And as polite as I may have tried to be, I couldn't hide the fact that I was really, truly annoyed by perfectly capable adults living on the dole, as it were, while I slogged away at my stupid job like a normal human being.  Was I jealous?  Not even a little.  I didn't want to be searching for a sperm donor at age 35 while wearing something I found on the side of the road on my way to the waterfront to look for beachglass to turn into "suncatchers" to sell at the "local market" (read: the curb).

Who I was sort of, kind of, a little bit jealous of was

Case Study #2:

The Yuppie Jerk

 

Now, I have seen evidence of this kind of jerk in certain neighbourhoods in Calgary, but it's sort of different here.  In Vancouver, the Yuppie Jerks work- and work hard.  They make boatloads of cash and want you to get the hell out of the way while they walk their toy dog in his Gucci sweater through Kits.

In Calgary, we have the Lulu Moms.  These are the bitches who live up the hill on the West side (I'm talking Westhills, Aspen, Cougar Ridge...which, BTW, is a hilarious and apt name, if you think about it) and drive Hummers and wear head to toe Lululemon swag and are always in a great big rush to get somewhere, and you better get the hell out of the way in your little Echo you gutter trash, but I know that they're not going to work or the gym.  They're going to the spa.

The Yuppie Jerks in Vancouver have just as much disdain for the commoner as the Calgary Lulu Moms, but I feel like the Yuppie Jerks come by it more honestly.  At least they WORK for their money, not just sleep it out of someone.

In Victoria, I feel that there is sort of a hybrid, a combo-jerk if you will.

We walked around downtown a lot and while the overall feel in the city is more subdued than you would find in a more bustling metropolis, there is a certain attitude of "we are better than you" throughout.

In Victoria:

We are greener than you.

...even though they don't recycle plastic bags.  What's up with that?

We are more outdoorsy than you.

...because our outdoor gear costs, on average, double what it does elsewhere.

We are cooler than you.

...after all, we live in Victoria!

We are more cultured than you.

...we have more restaurants per capita than anywhere else in Canada, or maybe the world, we have all this history, we have a huge museum that is next to legislature.

 

PS.  Why is this picture on the internet?  Sheesh!  I disagree with you, lady.

Victoria is also home to a large number of people who make their living on the street.  This is not to say that there are tons of prostitutes in Victoria- in fact, I am not sure I've ever seen one there.  I could treat you to a nice 6-hooker night any day of the week in Calgary if we took a mere 15 minute drive.  I could treat you to a delightful 60-hooker night any day of the week in Vancouver if we took a gander at a certain intersection on Hastings.  But Victoria?  Seemingly street-hooker free, they probably are reached by phone or something.  Remember, Victoria is more cultured than you.

No, what I mean by people making their living on the street are people who either a) think that sitting on the ground with a cardboard sign asking for your money entitles them to a share or b) sing, dance, play an instrument or otherwise entertain for your donations.

I am a little harsh on the people with the signs because we encountered one young woman who was talking on a cell phone- a nice one, like a blackberry or something- and was dressed in fairly average garb, with her hair dyed and face washed and made up and a few piercings, and she was sitting behind a sign that basically instructed us to leave our cash at her feet.

I wonder how much I would make if I "changed careers".

I much prefer the buskers.

Mostly, that is.  We walked past two very small children (like, aged 3-5) playing some truly abhorrent violin in front of a store, with their little collection plate in front of them, and two stupid jerk parents standing behind them.  The least the parents could do is a jig or something to go with the music.

 

Shake that!

But, there are some very talented buskers currently plying their trade on the streets of Victoria- two different dudes play some fairly decent saxophone, several people play guitar and sing, and there are the perennial favorites: Darth Vader and Guy Who Dresses Like a Knight and Recites Sonnets.

Weapon of choice?  Eeethoven.

I remember in high school CALM class we learned about different careers available to bright young minds like ours.  Architect, Lawyer, Teacher...Busker.  Did you know that buskers require a license?  Did you know that it is sort of expensive?  Did you know that in order to be a legal busker, you would also need to have an address and social insurance number and be registered to pay taxes and all that?

...which sort of eliminates "legitimate busking" as an option for many people who might seek out that sort of work.

But I digress.  This entry has been about 99% rant and 1% blather, so I should try and up the funny quotient at least a bit.  It's hard, sometimes, to keep up the standard- I re-read the entry about running and that's all funny, all the time.  I might be getting all sapped of funny.

Anyway.  The funny part.

We saw both guys who play the sax in Victoria on the same day.  First, we saw old dude by the MEC.  He is so-so.  He has a variety of weird things in his sax case, along with the donations that people have put there.  Later, we saw young dude by the harbour.  He is much better.  He does not have a variety of weird things in his sax case.

I was laughing while we were walking by the young dude, and Bob asked why.  It was not because the music was funny or really anything about the young dude was funny at all, but because when I compared the two sax players in my mind, it sounded like one was sort of tooting away feebly while the other was actually playing music.

And I thought about how funny it would be to be a terrible busker.

Most people who busk have at least some talent.  Maybe not tons- I feel like those with oodles of talent probably manage to find more stable gigs- but some.  Enough to make a go of it.

But what if there was a busker who was just awful?

I want to get out there with my triangle and my drums (that sentence makes it sound like I own those things... I don't...who has a triangle???) and bang and ting away, basically making a racket and having a plate out for donations.  I wonder if people would pay to get me to shut up.  I wonder if people would pay out of pity.  Or I wonder if they would just call the local authorities and have me shut down for lack of license.

I feel like this is a sure path to glory.  In this day and age of internet fame, I could surely be the next sensation.  Someone would get out their iPhone, take some shaky video of this crazy woman smacking these drums on the street corner, and BAM!  There I'd be, on Ellen, chatting about my latest record deal.

I'm pretty sure that's how Justin Beiber got his start.  Why not me??

Moral of this story: Tanpopo + Trent = Vancouver Salvation.

Getting Your Good Side? Funny.

Have you ever noticed how when people look at photo albums or yearbooks, they are always looking for pictures of themselves?

We are obsessed with our own faces.

With good reason, too.  We are delightful creatures.

Hot.

The "photobomb" is not a new thing- pictures have been interrupted by uninvited guests since cavemen were scratching petroglyphs into the rock and suddenly realized Oog had managed to insert himself into the image.

 

This ground squirrel is probably not named Oog, but he photobombed the CRAP outta this shot
.

The kids at school get school pictures every year.  It's pretty much mandatory- I don't think I've ever had a student who managed to avoid the process completely.  Their pictures are put on their report cards, their ID cards, into the yearbook, up on the wall when they graduate...we plaster their little faces all over the place.

An aside.  Why do we put their pictures on their report cards?  Are we worried that they'll get home, and their parents will look at the name on the report and think "Who the hell is that???" and then be reassured when they spot the little mug shot at the top corner, "Oh YEAH, that's my kid!!!"????

When they get their proofs back, they all inevitably have the same reaction.

"Oh my GAWD no one can look I look TERRIBLE let me see yours oh you look so good."

 ...And that's just the boys!

But in reality, they're all psyched.  Here is another collection celebrating their appearance.  Even kids who aren't terribly attractive are interested in seeing themselves in the yearbook.  I made the yearbook last year, and am again this year, and I had a number of ugmos approach me and ask if I could make sure that they were more highly featured this year.

I of course told them no.

Ugmos have just as much right to yearbook space as the hotties of Junior High.  Amirite????

Anyway.  I had a point.  Actually, I had an original point, which was that pictures where people make funny faces are funny.  But that sort of goes without saying.  Basically, I was going to write about how I take pictures of myself making ridiculous faces and then post them online for people's amusement.  Most recently I recycled a series I call "Teacher Face" onto my teaching webpage to remind students of the inevitable wrath they would incur if they didn't hand in their work.  A sample:

Blaaaaaarrrrrgh!

Luckily, I was struck with inspiration today at work...that veritable cornucopia of hilarity.  I can always rely on pubescent children to fuel my comedy.

I'm not super tech-savvy but I know that people are also not very password-savvy.  One of my students was trying to log into his account at school to show us his presentation, but some of the keys on the laptop he was using are missing (note to self: slap anyone who thinks education cutbacks are ok) and he asked, while typing in his password, "Where is the H???"
So I said to the class "Make note- his password has an H."
And all the kids laughed, cuz of course it means that now, armed with that information, we can all access his top secret documents on his facebook account.

And I laughed, and said that I would go into his account and change all his photos to photos of me.

...then I thought to myself, as I ignored the subsequent comments and blather from the class...

"What if I did go on someone's account and change all their pictures to pictures of myself???"

It would be like two birds with one stone.  First: I would fulfill that urge to have more photos of myself floating around where I can admire them.  Second: some poor sap would go to admire HIMSELF and instead, be peering at MY mug.  HA HA HA!!!

Now, this is only not mean if I keep backups of all the pictures I replace.  And it's pretty obvious pretty quick if I do it, so I am not sure how sustainable this funny is.

So I have an advanced version of this prank- which is like THREE birds with one stone.  It combines that look-at-me urge, the funny of tricking some jerk, and the glory of the photobomb.

Instead of replacing all the photos, I'll simply insert myself into all his pictures!  He he he.  It will take time, and mastery of adobe photoshop, and some guy I just called a jerk to give me his password, but other than that, it's completely fool proof.

Moral of this story: Prepare yourselves, facebookers.  Pretty soon, you'll be seeing me everywhere.

It's not a funny one. Sorry.

It's not a funny one today.  Sorry about that.  If you tuned in for the regular program, you might want to sit this one out, because I didn't feel inspired to be funny but I felt more serious.

I was having one of those "what does it all mean?" moments after reading an article about a 75 year old man who was beaten to death while walking down the beach on vacation with his wife.  The alleged perpetrator murdered him for his wallet.

I have had a few of those moments lately.  Well, if I'm honest, I have those moments fairly frequently.  Things happen- little things, big things, things that aren't even real- like moments on television- and they make me think about what we're all doing here, what we all should be doing, what drives us to do things that are good...and things that aren't so good.

I don't know what it all means.

No one does.  Some people have more faith than others, and really truly believe that they know what it all means- but I'm fairly certain that no one really, really knows.  We might have guessed right.  Some people might have more of a handle on the meaning than others.  But no one really knows for sure.

But just because we don't know what the master plan is- if there even is a master plan- doesn't mean there isn't a way that we should be while we're alive.

As far as anyone knows, we get one shot at this life.  One life.  You don't know when your clock is up.  Good people, bad people, average people, all kinds of people die for ridiculous reasons all the time.  Some people get to a fitting end, grow old in the arms of someone they love.  Others are walking on the beach on vacation with someone they love and they are killed by someone they've never met, for a matter of probably fifty bucks.  Fifty bucks.

Is that what that man's life was worth?

Absolutely not.

What should we do about this?

This is what I think.  Take it for what it's worth.  It's more of an exercise for me than it is a sermon for the rest of you.  I want to live a positive life, every day.  I need to try harder.

We get one life.

So does everyone else.

Spend that one life making other people's one lives better.

Why waste any of your time- your precious time- making another person unhappy?

Even petty little things...laughing at something that makes someone else happy.  Like someone who enjoys music you don't care for.  Justin Beiber fans.  I don't get it.  But it doesn't matter even a little what the hell I think about their taste in music.  Laugh at them?  Make them feel bad about something that makes them happy?  How disgusting is that?  Make someone feel foolish about what they like, guilty about what they like?  How horrible.

I am not always a good person.  I'm not always making other people's lives better.  But I really think that my ultimate happiness lies in being the best person I can be, and seeing other people benefit as a result.  And I really think that is true for other people as well.  It sounds so corny...so simple... but what if we were all trying to take care of each other, respecting each other...what if we were all kind to each other?

Would the bad people take advantage and overrun the good?

Or would there be less bad people, because they wouldn't have any reason to be bad any more?

I don't know.  It just breaks my heart that some old man was walking down the beach with his old wife and he died.

He died because someone else beat him to death.

I want the news to be about reunions and sneezing pandas and charity dinners and hope and good and happiness.

I want to live the best life possible.  I am going to try harder.

Upgraded running? Funny.

 

I'm not into running.

When I was younger, I was on the cross-country and track teams and would sprint and run long distance.  I didn't really choose those activities- I was on the track team more by default, because most girls at my school thought exercise was for butch chicks and it would interfere with their rigorous makeup application routine.  I was on the cross-country team because my father thought it would be good for me.

It probably was good for me, in some way, but I really wasn't a big fan of running then and I really loathe it now.  I enjoy running with a purpose- like in soccer, where I have to run if I don't want to look like an asshole walking around trying to get the ball.  I would be totally on board with running if I was being chased or had to escape some kind of imminent danger.  These are situations that warrant running.

It is a good idea to run when dinosaurs are chasing you.

But just running for the sake of running?  I dunno.  I have heard of this so-called "runner's high" that people in spandex get after booking it around the block a few times.  I have yet to experience such a thing.  It might have something to do with my severe deficit in actual running.  It might also have to do with there being a type of person who IS a runner, and then everyone else, who looks at those jerks running around and wonders- if they're in such a rush, why not take a bike?  Or, better, a CAR???

Bob and I live near a Running Room, the official church of those people who get high off running.  This is their mecca.  They gather there, spend a fortune on running gear and hustle around in large, holier-than-thou groups who look down their noses at us mere mortals who walk or drive to get where we need to go.  Actually, these runners aren't even going anywhere.  They're coming right back to the start.

There are a lot of bogus runners who join that club, I think.  The one we live near has a McDonald's, a bakery, a chocolate shop, an ice cream shop and two coffee places in the same complex, and on running days all these businesses are overrun with doofuses (doofii?) in silly tight-fitting hats, reflective jackets and utility belts designed only to hold multiple tiny water bottles.  It's hard to tell if they are finished their run or having a pre-run latte, but they are all OVER the place, sometimes choking out even the hordes of old people who wander over from the plethora of care homes across the street.  Running days are a drag in the complex.

Bob and I once tried to commit to an exercise program that was based around running.  We both wanted to get in shape and we wrote out all these goals and this plan where we would be running pretty much every day.  We went out on the first day and, fueled by what I can only assume was either our pure love for each other or complete insanity, ran about 5 km and pretended to like it.  We both said prerequisite things like "Wow I'm so pumped, what a great workout" and agreed that we were on the path to greatness.

...deep down inside, we both were thinking "Eff this!  I hate running!  We look like turds!  Running around for no reason.  Nothing's chasing us!!!  And now my stupid legs hurt and my skin feels like someone slapped it!  Bah!!!"

...but the next day, we went out, ran our circuit again, and breathlessly smiled at each other at the end.  Until I broke the silence...

"Bob.  I'm really sorry.  I hate running.  I'll still do it if you want, but I really, really hate it and I wish I was dead."

To which Bob replied:

"OH THANK GOD IT WAS TERRIBLE I ALSO WISH I WAS DEAD!!!"

...thus ended our ridiculous foray into the world of running.  Now, we both get exercise and spend some time together on our coed soccer team, where lots of people are relying on us to run around and not be stupid jerks who just stand there.  Social pressure, plus the addition of an actual goal, makes running less of a horrible waste of our time and more of a slightly aggravating aspect of something we enjoy.

We got to talking the other day, though, about running clubs.  Bob had made a joke at work about how all those people from the Running Room look like a team, that they're supposed to be running because they're all decked out in hundreds of dollars worth of running crap, but if you saw a group of people in plainclothes running around you would think you'd have to call the cops.  Why would a bunch of people in regular clothes be running?  Almost definitely because they are escaping from the scene of a crime.

One thing led to another, and I now propose to you:

Heather's Hobo Running Squad

Now don't worry.  Membership is not exclusive to hobos.  Hobos are certainly welcome, along with anyone else who wishes to join, except maybe those sorts of people who join the Running Room.

For a nominal fee, we will provide you with all the running gear you need and will schedule places and times for us to get together and run.  Each person's membership kit will include:

1. A uniform consisting of clothing that looks like this:

2. Free weights to be carried in your hands while running, to maximize your burn (or whatever), that look like this:

3. A map of starting places and rest stops around town, mostly situated downtown near banks.

4. A laminated lifetime membership card.

5. A pack lunch, to be carried in a bandana (translation in Kimspeak: hobo napkin) on the end of a long stick.

6. A phrasebook to use in situations that almost certainly will arise.  Here are some sample excerpts from the book:   

"I'm running with my Hobo Running Squad.  Here is my laminated lifetime membership card."

"Yes, we are all together."

"Yes, this is our standard running uniform.  It lets people know we are organized."

"These are my free weights.  They help me maximize my burn."

"We carry our lunches like this so they don't get in the way of our form."

"I get high on running, not on drugs."

"Officer, you are welcome to search my free weights, but I must insist you return them as I need them to maximize my burn."

I'm pretty sure you want to join.  I'm pretty sure this is something that we should actually do. It's fitness...AND fun!!!

Moral of this story: I'm getting a junior chicken, and I don't care if I have to push all you runners out of the way to get it.

Watching other people work? Funny.

Have you noticed how there are so many "reality" television shows these days?  Less scripted stuff and more stuff where some poor sap follows a bunch of morons around with a camera.

Bob and I watch some of these shows.  I like Top Chef (particularly Top Chef Masters), Project Runway, House Hunters International and, my new favorite, Duck Dynasty. 

 

 Duck Dynasty: a show about dudes with beards basically doing whatever they want, whenever they want.  It makes me jealous.  Also- they are the funniest men alive.

Bob likes the ones where buff dudes build things with wood.  Seems kinda gay, but he assures me that it is totally manly.

Screw that wood, my good man.  No homo.

Shows come and go, but we've realized that there is a trend emerging in today's lineup.

We call it:

Jerks With Jobs

"Today on The Cleaners: Helga and Trina dust lamps, shelves and cupboards.  Hilarity ensues!"

"Later on Nannies with Babies: Eduardo brings little Samosa on a trip to the bank.  Hilarity ensues!"

"This evening...on mystery television...join us for a very special engagement...as we join in progress...traffic court.  Who struck the garbage cans on Dreary Lane?  Find out later...on mystery television...when hilarity ensues!"

It seems like every jackass who has found some kind of employment- and it doesn't even have to be gainful- gets a television program.  I've got a job.  I figure I'll be the next star.  It's going to be HUGE!  So much hilarity!  So much...ensuing!

Mrs. Hartling's Class O' Hilarity

Starring: A bunch of teenage dirtbags, a few other teachers, and Mrs. Hartling herself!

Basically, some poor sap with a camera would have to follow me around at work.  In fact, they should follow me all the time.  After all, it isn't just jerks with jobs that get shows- there are a lot of other categories of "reality" television that seem to be getting more and more saturated... morons with mental problems, stupidheads with social issues, poopypants with products, oafs with offspring.

Imagine it!

You could watch me all day.  There would be a supporting cast of characters like my husband (Bob!  His name screams talent!), my friends (there's Trent the Racist!  Kim the Local Expert in Alcohol!  Mark the Hugger!), my family (God there are a lot of Chinese people in this show!  And one grumpy white guy!) and my dog (is that a dog???  OR FIREFOX?!?!?).

 

I'd go to work, roll my eyes at some kids making and eating phallic snacks, hope that no one got dumber, head home and scratch my butt a bit.  I'd pet my dog and watch some television.  I can't think of anything more compelling than watching someone watch television.  That's Emmy material, baby.  Or whatever award they give to television programs.  I'd win all up in there on those.

Moral of this story: I'm pretty sure the only thing holding me back from starring in my own program is my lack of beard, so I'm working on it.