Jarvis Cocker is still running the world

Most people think of me as a dull shut-in - the 21st century answer to a Trappist Monk or Emily Dickinson. But at even I need to leave my hovel and bask in the warm Vancouver sun with the proletariat. Today I went to the Virgin Mobile Festival to watch De La Soul, Jarvis Cocker, Sonic Youth, and Metric. We arrived just in time for De La playing Potholes In My Lawn to a remarkably apathetic crowd, even by Vancouver standards. But Pos and Dave One joked through it like the true professionals they are and brought some people in shrub costumes and a lady on stilts "dressed like a princess with a wand waving fire around." The video feed had a feed of text messages (sent by Virgin phones, presumably). Some observations about young white people: their spelling and grammar are atrocious, their taste in tattoos is often questionable, and when forced to make a choice between comfort and style, comfort will win out every single time. I was contemplating sending a text message explaining proper apostrophe usage (for the last time, "your" is a possessive, while "you're" is the contracted form of "you are". Get it together, texters of Vancouver! I saw some uses of "its" in those texts that would make your hair stand on end.)

Jarvis Cocker was awesome, despite his songs being almost exclusively from his most recent album. He climbed the scaffolding, danced around spastically, threw out candy and spoke french (prompting our French friend to brag "we've got him now!"). But during the Sonic Youth show, IT HAPPENED. I was lying on the grass when suddenly a couple meters of gangly bespectacled Brit descended upon me and my girlfriend. "Jarvis Cocker!" I eloquently blurted, and thrust my hand in his general direction. I may have also made some inarticulate allusion to how rocking I thought he was. He did not really break his stride or stop to chat, but we did briefly clasp hands, and I'll carry that with me forever.

Watching Jarvis watch Sonic Youth in a generally Homerpaloozaesque environment while fans stopped to say hi and get their pictures taken inspired me to think of what the most obnoxious things you could say to Jarvis Cocker would be. A short sampling:

"Do you feel that your mooning of Michael Jackson began the vicious cycle that eventually led to his death?"

"You may not be Jesus, but you do have the same initials."

"I love Song 2! Whoo-hoo! When I feel heavy metal! Girls who like boys who do boys like they're..."

"Could you get me some E?"

"I love your song Black Children Took My Life! I totally agree!"

"If fashion is your trade, then when you're naked, I guess that makes you unemployed. Think about it." (Who am I kidding - I'm sure that's exactly what I would have said if I had thought of it.)

"You think cunts are ruling the world? Are you calling Barack Obama a cunt?"

"Come to mingle with the common people, I see..."

"I love Wonderwall! Your show was like a champagne supernova in the sky! Walking slowly down the hall, faster than a cannonball! Whoo-hoo!"


I'll leave you with a video of Jarvis driving disastrously while dispensing romantic advice. I hope he marries me.

Go Westie: Part 3

Admittedly, our posting pace has been flagging recently. Unfortunately, your beloved today's blogspot crew has been engaged occupationally and otherwise of late. However, to bridge the blog gap, here are some excerpts from an unfinished, relatively unedited travel piece I started ages ago. It's about a trip around the outside of Hawaii's big island in a white Westfalia pop-top.

Here's the final installment to date. The rest is yet to be written.

WHITTINGTON RECREATIONAL PARK

What we found was a sort of revelation. Whittington Recreational Park is a tiny stretch of grass, lava rock, and giant banyen trees that the locals planted many sun-drenched years ago. Our companions consisted of a smattering of locals and a school bus full of idealistic, patchouli-rolled post-adolescent birdwatchers—the Audubon society, to their credit, was searching the nooks of Hawaii for good night parking as well. We pulled our white land yacht into a spot as far from anyone as we could find and set up camp with a speed that only those with mobile accommodation and boy scouts can match. Dinner was fried ahi fillets accompanied by a vaguely sweet seaweed salad, an overindulgent number of local beers, and the quiet sense of self-satisfaction that a secluded beach can bring.

Serenity’s moment ended in an explosion of cowbell and power chords. “Heartbreak, the soulshaker! I’ve been told about you!” The strains of Nazareth’s Hair of The Dog blew across our bow. Glancing around, we discovered the source: a beat-up old sedan that I was surprised to find parked only about twenty feet away. We exchanged furtive glances as a man with a seventies ‘stache and the most extraordinary white Einstein poof of hair stumbled in our direction. After we’d assured him that weren’t overly bothered at the concert in our ocean living room, and my girlfriend had endeared herself to him by requesting a set list that included Steve Miller Band, Whitesnake, and sundry other bands with more hair than talent, ‘Bernie’ officially introduced himself.

A joker and midnight toker for the ages, Bernie had a way of speaking that involved evocatively waving his hands—beer in left hand and the joint in right—in order to illustrate his points. Apparently, his family had emigrated from Germany when he was still in short pants, making Hawaii their new home. Pointing across the way, he explained that his uncle had planted the largest of the large trees that formed the Southern border of the park and that he’d been coming to Whittington for more than thirty years. When I asked him about the “Say No to Drugs” sticker that adorned his rear bumper, he explained that it didn’t refer to drugs of the earth, but rather the “ice” habit he’d kicked two years prior.
To be sure, we had our reservations at first. But a few eighties hair metal tracks and beers later, I think we all felt like we’d made a new friend. We even helped execute the latest strike in what we learned was an ongoing battle with the park rangers, using a tow chain and a crowbar to shift one of the concrete blocks placed to keep the locals from driving their cars to the far point to watch the stars.

It wasn’t until after we’d said our farewells to Bernie that I started to empathize with his determination. Hundreds of miles from the mainland, the stars in Hawaii are spectacular. Under the pinpricked sky, like wide-eyed children, the three of us exchanged gasps as we lay on the grass pointing out constellations and keeping watch for shooting stars. Who could blame Bernie if he wanted a little private time with the heavens?

Overhung and blinking the sleep from my eyes the following morning, I sat up with a start. In the distance, I could hear the sounds of large motor. I slid one of Whitey’s curtains aside to see a fleet of large Parks and Rec trucks pulling into the lot. They headed right for the concrete block we’d moved the night before, surveyed it, and went to work towing it back into place. In the distance, across the park, I could see Bernie eyeing the destruction of his handiwork through a pair of binoculars and laughing.

Go Westie: Part 2

Admittedly, our posting pace has been flagging recently. Unfortunately, your beloved today's blogspot crew has been engaged occupationally and otherwise of late. However, to bridge the blog gap, here are some excerpts from an unfinished, relatively unedited travel piece I started ages ago. It's about a trip around the outside of Hawaii's big island in a white Westfalia pop-top.

Continuing from where we left off, your intrepid explorers pick up their ride...

"WHITEY"

After catching the Hele-On, a free shuttle bus ($1 per piece of luggage) that travels from the Western Kona side of the big island to Hilo Town in the East, we picked up our transportation in depot parking lot. There we met Gary Berg, proprietor of GB adventures, his wife, and blonde, surfer-haired son.

Gary is a man with an entrepreneurial plan. Gary is part of that neo-hippy, post-boomer generation that manages to reconcile hippy ideals and a commercial sensibility with a clean moral slate. Gary deals in vans. He owns a fleet of four VW campers, which he strives hard to keep in perfect running condition. He offers 24 hour roadside service should anything go awry. The man knows his Westies. Once we`d finished the paperwork, he went step by step through each feature with us. He showed us how to spin the passenger seat around so we could eat our dinner round table style. He reminded us to switch off the propane in transit so as to avoid being found asphyxiated roadside. He demonstrated the delicate art of bringing in the canvas pop-top so as to avoid any damage yet make sure that nary a flap is showing. He handed us our VW instruction manual, Big Island map, and the keys to “Whitey,” and kindly wished us well on our way.

HILO TOWN

Hilo is by far the largest community on the Eastern side of the island with a population of 40,000 and its own Walmart. Kamehameha Avenue, the town’s main tourist strip, has a small town Americana feel to it. That morning, the residents were doing their shopping and mingling with a smattering of tourists at the local farmer’s market. The locals tended to focus on the local produce—mangos, papaya, Maui sweet onions, and the like—while the tourists picked their way through bags of Kona coffee, bouquets of indigenous flowers, and “Hawaiian Bikini Inspector” tank-tops.

PUNALU’U

Once we’d gassed up and purchased alcohol, ahi tuna fillets ($3.99 a pound!), and other assorted groceries, we steered our 1988 Volkswagen Westfalia South and headed for our first destination, Punalu’u Beach. Punalu’u is renowned for two things—it’s bizarre, black, lava-borne sand and the endangered sea turtles that lay their eggs there. When we pulled into the crowded lot, we saw Punalu’u’s third feature—the non-indigenous tour buses that congregate there. Dozens of tourists, mostly American and Japanese had just offloaded in the parking lot. As we strolled down the beach, my bare feet and I came to the realization that black sand, for all its novelty, is really not so much sand as it is tiny, jagged, lava rocks. The faint scent of volcanic ash wafting through our nostrils, we made our way down to the beach to where the sea turtles were supposed to be.

There they were: two vaguely annoyed-looking hawksbill sea turtles sitting in the middle of a barren patch of black sand, mostly ignorant of the small circle of tourists that were alternately gawking or snapping photos of their beady-eyed visages. One thing that one discovers quickly about Hawaii is that it’s not particularly shy or subtle about its natural beauty. Hawaii’s natural wonders aren’t squirreled away under rocks, but rather on full, out in the open, explicit display at nearly all times. Dolphins swim along the coastline. Giant palms and ferns dot the roadside. One need only dip a snorkelled head into the water to spot yellow tang and angel fish darting behind finger coral.



We left the hawksbills to their 15 minutes of fame and made for the opposite end of the beach to survey the campsites. It was a sad lot. The few tents that were up were being buffeted about by the wind and were mere footsteps from the public bathroom and picnic area, on one side, and the crowded parking lot, on the other. We decided camping next to buses and Buicks was for dudes in pickups and the birds, and drove north along the coast in search of something a little more private.

To be continued...

Go Westie: Part 1

Admittedly, our posting pace has been flagging recently. Unfortunately, your beloved today's blogspot crew has been engaged occupationally and otherwise of late. However, to bridge the blog gap, here are some excerpts from an unfinished, relatively unedited travel piece I started ages ago. It's about a trip around the outside of Hawaii's big island in a white Westfalia pop-top.

Mahalo.


HILO, HAWAII— I had seen the travel commercials and heard the tales from resort-friendly acquaintances. I had expectations of Hawaii.

I expected to see acres of sunburned flesh. I thought I’d swim in kidney-shaped pools under false waterfalls, frolicking in adults-only grottoes with either overfriendly or overly uncomfortable strangers. I was ready to snorkel in false lagoons ringed by false beaches and filled with multitudinous varieties of tropical fish, eels, and sea turtles. With a little web research, I learned that I had two in-resort transportation options other than my trusty flip-flops. I could make use of the resort’s track-constrained fleet of Swiss-made river boats. Or I could take the monorail. That’s right, the monorail. I knew that my hotel lobby would contain not one, but two sad-looking but well-trained show parrots, which would perform on command, but otherwise largely ignore the almost constant harassment from newly-arrived guests. I knew that Day-glo sunglasses, thong bikinis, Swe-Thai massage, fourteen dollar Ahi burgers with taro chips, luaus, an army of professional smiles, silk shirts, and all too many leis were in the offing.

I expected and took part in all of the above during my three odd days spent at this empire on the edge, this gated community of septuagenarian bliss on the coast, the Waikoloa Hilton.

And then I broke free.

After three days of pre-ordained pleasure and passivity, Me and my two travelling companions were prepared to take on Hawaii`s big island the way it was meant to be done— in a Volkswagen Camper van.



Our plan was simple. We aimed to circumnavigate the isle in five days, hit most of the major sights, and end up back in Hilo in time to lose the van and catch our flight home. The circumnavigation is no epic feat. In fact, the whole circuit can be completed in less than a day of straight driving, but that wouldn’t have fit with the Hawaiian ethos of our mission. We wanted to take our time, to take it easy. In the parlance of the local surf scene, to hang loose. We booked most of our camping permits ahead of time, mostly out of fear of having to beat out the hordes of holidaymakers that populated the Hawaii of my pre-trip imagination. We carefully plotted each site to minimize travel time, but at about $20 per permit, and with a bed on wheels, we weren`t too bothered.

To be continued...

The Shuffle: E-Day Blues

As you well know, dear readers, music is for mood-making. Regardless of the situation, the dramatic tension could be increased, the libido stoked, the bus ride made a teeny bit more bearable, if only the right backing tracks are available. With this in mind, Today’s Blogspot brings you our recurring series of situational mini-mixes: The Shuffle.

Up next: The E-day Blues.

Drink The Haterade: Laker Haters Unite!

Like the Bedouins, David, and the Vietnamese before them, last night the Houston Rockets knocked off the favourite. For one glorious night Yao's wonky knee and the ball's beneficent bounces held up and the evil yellow and gold empire went down. In honour of that monumental victory and this week's topic, courtesy of the NBA's premier mixtape master, Today's Snowjob brings you Yinka Dare's Kobe Loser mix.

Because there's no such thing as too much Shep

Sure, the boomers had Walter Cronkite reporting on the Tet offensive from the august halls of the CBS newsroom. We have Shepard Smith on Youtube narrating a live truck chase for ten glorious minutes. If this doesn't galvanize today's youth, then probably nothing ever will.