I have worked for Travis Magazine as an editor and blogger throughout my last year in college. This is a collection of short-stories, anecdotes, rants, and raves that I have written with the magazine. You can find all of these as well as other content I have provided at www.travismag.com
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Nona Next Door: Nona Hears Everything
So I basically ditched Dre this weekend for London. I needed a break from Nona and so I just left Saturday morning. I’m back now, but Dre and Rob were telling me stories about all the crazy things Nona did all weekend.
Walking past her room I noticed that her door was open, the room was dark, but the door was fully open. Her door is never open, ever.
We have a theory that she hates us, but for whatever reason it was open. Dre thinks it’s a sign, letting us know that she is watching us. The rents are gone for the weekend, so there is a new sheriff in town.
So I’m filling my water bottle in the kitchen, they are chatting up a storm with me about Nona, and suddenly, out of nowhere she is standing in the kitchen. Her dyed brown hair, her concerned squinting eyes, and most importantly her broken English whispering, “ahlo.”
How did she sneak into this? I don’t know, we weren’t even talking that loud. She must have creeped down the stairs, with her little old lady slippers, purposely trying to be quiet.
You sneaky devil you.
My strategy to deal with Nona is very different from Dre’s. I smile and nod at everything the woman says to me. Half of it is about food, the other half of everything she says is in regards to my video game playing habits, and how I should read more.
Smile and nod I suggest, smile and nod.
So as Nona popped out of nowhere I decide to slip out of that situation and let them battle it out. Nona was lurking in on our conversation. The conversation was about Dre going to China in the summer, without Robby.
According to Nona, if Dre leaves for a month Robby is going to find himself another woman. Crazy Nona, you don’t know that with the wonders of technology Dre can Skype call Rob everyday for free, and post pictures of her adventures from China. It will be like they never were apart.
Dre just dropped the bomb on Nona that she is going to China regardless of what Nona thinks.
This is getting interesting. Silly Nona.
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Sheridan College Strike: The Travis Perspective
I’ve been meaning to write about this, but the truth is that I never really had much to say on the matter, other than I don’t want a strike.
It’s my last year at Sheridan and the idea of coming back during the summer isn’t appealing.
Teachers are set to vote on a strike Wednesday, and would be walking off the job in February. You can check out more on this here.
Remember to join the multiple Facebook groups against a strike.
We won’t know much else until the vote on Wednesday.
As for the teachers, if a strike goes down just remember I’ll be at the front-lines with you, not supporting you, but taking your photograph and selling it to the Oakville Beaver.
You would think after watching York University suffering through this recently, a deal could be hammered out before we start losing valuable time.
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Next Door Nona: Grocery Shopping
Nona has this thing for shopping.
She is the ultimate consumer, but is completely unpredictable with her buying patterns.
They day before Christmas Eve, Dre and I went to the store to pick up some things for Christmas dinner. I was walking with Nona through the aisles until we reached the egg section.
She picked up a dozen eggs, then another, then a third dozen.
“Nona, that’s a lot of eggs.”
“It’s okay.”
“What do you mean it’s ok? Three cartons of eggs?”
“Yes yes,” she said.
Nona uses these little phrases to ignore people questioning her antics. “Nona, where is the war? Is there a war coming? Are we saving for the panic room?” They boy stocking the shelves chuckles as I harass her in public.
I take the extra two cartons of eggs and place them back on the shelf. She does things like this all the time. The week before this it was fruit. We had so much damn fruit that my Mom made a giant fruit salad just to use up the fruit. The week before that it was cold-cuts. They were forcing sandwiches on me every minute of the day.
I love food, but I already eat much more than the average Joe. I can’t handle this pressure from everyone.
This morning I walked into the kitchen and she was doing her thing, pacing around, washing dishes, cleaning obsessively.
I open up a bag of bread to make some toast. “You want?” she asks me. She looks over at a giant omelette with zucchini, coated in cheddar cheese.
She obviously made it for me to eat, and now I’ve been finangled into eating it. I eat it, it was delicious, but now I am stuffed.
I open up the fridge to to get a glass of milk, and there, next to the milk, are four bricks of cheddar cheese. This week it’s cheese. This explains the cheesy omelette.
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Next Door Nona: Skinny Jeans
I walk into the kitchen every morning. I have to hop over this baby gate thing, it’s there so buddy doesn’t run down in the basement and poop everywhere.
He’s a repeat offender and this is the solution.
Nona is keeping her hands busy with something on top of the ktichen counter. She’s fiddling away, I open the fridge to find something to drink.
I grab the milk, a glass, and sit down to what Nona has made for me.
It’s an un-toasted Montreal bagel with peanut butter. To be honest I’d much prefer it toasted, but the gesture of making me something every morning is very nice of her. I won’t complain. Plus I really appreciate consistency like that, you know?
I eat my bagel, this time pretty quickly. I have to go to school and like usual I’m ten minutes late.
She sits down on the chair across from me. She’s wearing these little gray slipper that are hilarious and cute. I can see she is about to say something important. With her hands folded on her lap, she’s been preparing for this moment.
She blurts it out.
“You pants are too tight.”
I should have known this was going to come up sooner than later.
“Don’t worry Nona,” I say. My strategy with Nona is to just brush this stuff off my shoulder. It’s no use to argue with her, she will win.
“When you buy pants you buy pants so they comfortable.”
There she goes again in her broken English. She is too cute, like a sad puppy.
“Nona, don’t worry about it.”
My defense, if I wanted to get into this argument, is that the only reason is why they are so tight is because she does the laundry so often. You gotta wear those suckers in.
I get up to clean my spot after destroying the peanut butter bagel. I clean up and start to walk out of the kitchen.
“Wait wait,” she says.
She hands me a fiver. “Nona, you are too nice.”
I take the bill and try to hop over the baby gate again, but it had my number this time.
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Next Door Nona: Radio Maria
Nona lives in the room next to my bedroom. She’s been living with my family for a while now and things have been going pretty well.
I’d love to write about Nona more, because she is just too damn adorable, but unfortunately stories about her do not translate well into written form. In person, when I talk about her it is just that much more funny. I do her little voice, and I hunch over trying to imitate her.
But for you, and just for you, I will try this one time. This might go well.
So my Dad is cheap right? Frugal is the more appropriate way of putting it, but it is ingrained into my lifestyle because of him.
Lights can’t be left on, TVs shouldn’t be either, and the free popcorn from Jumbo Video is always a special treat for the kids.
Nona was minding her own business, telling me what to do, folding clothes and cleaning obsessively. Her radio was on and she was moseying the house as she usually does. She listens to Radio Maria, an all Italian radio station broadcasting from Italy. I don’t know why we get the channel, but we do.
It was on pretty loud and my Dad came home and walked up the stairs. Nona was at the bottom of the stairs tidying up the row of shoes near the front-door.
“Nona?” my Dad asks.
“Yes Davie?”
She speaks in broken English, keep up okay?
“Why is the radio on?”
“Oh they pray. They pray to god and Jesus,” she says.
There is a pause.
“Is very nice,” she says again, with her Italian accent and little old lady tone of voice. She smiles.
My Dad walks in the room and flicks off the radio.
“Yeah well, Jesus doesn’t pay the electricity bill, does he?”
That one single phrase, Jesus doesn’t pay the electricity bill now has her wanting to go back to Montreal to live by her lonesome.
She is all talk though, she threatens to leave every week or so. The two of them are currently working out their differences.
—
Me and Mark Brotto
Mark works within the SU building. He deals with all the pay stuff for all the staff.
He is really nice, but I think I’m testing his patience.
Last Friday I got an email from Mark reminding me that I need to submit my hours for the payroll before 2 p.m. Monday. Fair enough, I appreciate these emails. They make me smile, it makes me feel somewhat important.
Sure enough Monday roles around and on my drive home it clicks. Maybe it was the garbage bin rolling down the street, or paying the nice old lady at Tim’s, but something clicked. Payroll.
Shit. I’m too far down Trafalgar to swing a massive U-turn, so I just continue on feeling like an idiot.
I was thinking about sending him an email, but email’s are so lame nowadays.
I came in today and knocked on his door. Sills wasn’t in, he was probably being bad ass somewhere on campus. I have an issue with forgetting really important things. I need a receptionist and once Alaina left the journalism program I was out of luck.
This is the second time I’ve caused Mark trouble. The last time he responded with inviting me to a Christmas party, it was really nice of him.
“Hey Mark, I forgot to submit my hours again,” I say to him.
He doesn’t look mad, but he seems a little annoyed. Maybe even slightly annoyed, but still, being nice.
“Did you want to tell me to fuck off or anything? You can you know,” I continue on.
He prints out the sheet for me, smiles, at continues on with his day. We chat about how lame I am for a little bit, but that is it really.
I knock on his door again.
“Sorry Mark.”
I’m apologetic, but he is still being too nice. I hand him my sheet.
I’m sure he wants to hit me by now, but I appreciate it when people have patience and don’t want to injure me. He probably thinks that all I do at the SU is cause him trouble. It’s the Christmas spirit, he’s got it.
It must be.
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The Infomercial Age, Not the Information Age
I bought Victoria a Slap Chop for our six month anniversary. How cute, I know.
I hope that wasn’t too big of a gift, it wasn’t that expensive. She loved it.
I know she has a thing for cheesy infomercial products, this was right up her alley.Lets keep in mind though, she also owns a Snuggie.
Multiple ones, she uses them often, and I have worn one.
I’ll go ahead and admit this, that blanket with sleeves is really warm.
Everyone loves snuggies, and everyone knows about Billy Mayes. Everyone knows about all these fancy images and people, some more than movie stars.
As a human being on the planet earth, we are exposed to disgusting amounts of media. It’s amazing, it’s mind boggling.
I call it the Infomercial age.
According to a University of California, San Diego survey released on December 9th, 2009- the average American consumed 34 Gigabytes a day of media. That’s a lot. That is an Ipod-Touch of media everyday.
When I mean media though, I don’t mean your typical television show or hockey game. I mean media in it’s multiple forms.
Signs, icons, billboards, symbols in your homes, icons all around you. On your computer, in your video games, on your socks, on your fridge, in your cupboards.
Everywhere. It is even within pop-culture -sewn into culture, sutured so well that we don’t even know it’s there.
You might even be living under a rock if you don’t know who the Sham-Wow guy is.
Everyone knows who that is, everyone recognizes that sham and something just clicks. And that click, that recognition that pops in your head, when your eyebrows raise, when you make that connection -it feels fucking good.
You saw the commercial, you saw it in stores -you laughed before, you will smile now.
And what is great is that these infomercials stay exactly the same. They are all so goofy, and so clearly rehearsed, but still, we enjoy them.
There is something to be said for comfort, just knowing this inside joke, knowing that that these things are stupid and they will always be stupid, it’s refreshing.
Everyone knows they’re stupid, but for some reason you still tell Joe-Schmuck next to you that they’re foolish. You smile, and continue on your way.
In the future, there is going to be more of this. More stupid commercials that make you smile. A clever product for the clever person. Consumers consuming media, buying those cool jeans, those cool jackets, the fancy shoes, and that dumb drink.
I’m not complaining, I am saying I’m a sheep like the rest. I’m pointing this all out. There you have it. Can’t you see now? Cut yourself off, go for a hike, get lost. We all need a break.
The best part is, I think most people are ignorantly blissful in their media world. Status updates, tweets, texts, stumbling, tumbling -blogging, and reblogging. We are all so damn happy in our little bubble.
Maybe this whole Infomercial Era junk is just as secret as the inside joke itself.
Does that make sense? Are we making progress, or do I have to flip through flame-hoops to get my message across? It can be arranged.
—
Jumper Cables
I woke up pretty early this morning, ate a big breakfast and decided that homework just wasn’t an option. I’m a lowlife student, remember? Shouldn’t I be able to be lazy? This college life won’t last much longer.
Sitting at my desk Dyl texts me and asks if I can come jump his car. Neither of us really know how to do this, and we both don’t know much about cars. We are music kids, give us a break.
I decide to venture out, I go pick him up at the Superstore. We swing by the local Canadian Tire to pick up some cables and discuss our plan of action.
He’s confident that he knows what he is doing, so I trust him enough. He is going to do the dirty work, I’m going to watch.
Back at the Superstore now, I park my car next to his and we both pop our hoods. Both our cars are off and he starts hooking the batteries up.
Sparks start to fly as he puts the first cable onto the battery. Not a good sign. Then he hooks up the other three sides to the batteries.
“You sure you know how to do this?” I ask him.
“Yeah man, I got this.”
I don’t know how to do this, but I’ve seen it done a bunch of times and I know some-what how things should go. I know one end is supposed to be grounded out, Dyl hasn’t done this. I mention it, but he assures me he knows what is going on.
“Ok man start your car.”
I hope into O’Mally, and turn the ignition.
“Man,” he says. ”What?” I ask.
“Turn it off.”
“Why what’s wrong?” I ask him. I’m sitting in my car, looking at him through my windshield.
“Just turn it off!”
“What do you mean?” I ask again. “Just do it man! Dude!”
I turn off O’Mally, and look at what’s happened. Smoke is rising from both batteries and he’s got the ‘oh shit’ look on his face.
“Shit,” I say.
Dyl very cautiously removes the cables from the batteries. And the cables start to melt apart in his hands. They are crazy hot and all the black plastic is dripping to the ground.
“Yeah, that wasn’t a good idea,” I say.
“Yeah, good thing I didn’t fuck up my car, I mean your car.”
And that was my Tuesday morning.
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The Cubby Jackson Chronicles: Choir Practice
There is a reason why I haven’t written about Cullen in the last few weeks. The situation which was originally funny has now become annoying. The issues between Cullen and his room-mates isn’t what it used to be.
If this was reality show Big Brother, Cullen would now be getting voted out. But, this is real life, and money is involved and you just can’t walk away from rent payments.
Either way, examining my friend Cullen is still a good time. He is easy to talk about, and there is just so much to his personality that you don’t know where to begin.
Kelsey has become frustrated with this all. Cullen has issues remembering to lock the front-door to their house, which could get anyone’s blood going. It’s happened a few times, and he also seems to forget other important things that the average person would think are basic instincts.
He is around way too much, and too much of anything is a bad thing. It isn’t that Cullen is the worst person in the world, but when you see him there everyday, lazing, smoking, drinking, and complaining, well- you get frustrated.
The guy does a bunch of things that frustrate the two girls he lives with, probably without even knowing.
He asks that everyone use coasters on the coffee table, although he smokes pot in the house. He has no money for groceries, but still eats. He just seems to have this impression that this is a vacation, even though Victoria and Kelsey seem to be trying to live normal -respectable lives.
Victoria and I have been over-analyzing his word choices lately. He uses words like eloquent, admirable, and take-care all too often.
He is in-between jobs right now, and the amount of time that he spends at the Classington Manor is excessive. He is there all the time, lounging around in his white parachute chair, with his long flowing hair. He looks sad now, there is tension in the room. But, amidst all of this, he still has choir practice.
Cullen walks into the room where I’m sitting on the couch typing away like maniac. It’s a Sunday morning, he is wearing his Vancouver Canucks touque and brown suit-jacket.
“Hey Cullen,” I say.
He looks upset. He ruffles his jacket with his hands, stands up straight. He looks at his watch.
“I missed choir today,” he says. “I let them down again.”
“That sucks man,” I respond. “I guess you should have woke up earlier.”
Cullen sleeps like a rock. The guy will sleep in far past noon during the week, and often sits around in his pajamas till three in the afternoon.
He hangs his head low, I look at him, and take note of him standing exactly between the kitchen and the living room.
He likes the choir at the church in London. He always tells me they sing in four-part harmony, instead of three. His old church wasn’t down with such radical ideas.
He pulls out his pack of cigarettes, and walks towards the door.
Kelsey isn’t talking to Cullen right now, they have had some disagreements. Hopefully they can work their stuff out.
—
Travis Review Brothers
I saw Brothers last night, it wasn’t cheap movie night and I paid full price to see this film.
With the likes of Natalie Portman, Jack Gyllenhaal, and Toby Maguire in this film, an audience can expect to see some spectacular acting. It’s true, there was some great performances, but these actors can only do so much with a plot-line that is relatively thin.
It’s a war film, with all sorts of shots taken at the American forces abroad, recession, politics, and alcoholism.
The film is very slow moving, without little plot development between the point where Maguire is captured in Afganistan, to when he comes home. If you have seen any of the trailers of this film beforehand, it’s safe to say you have soaked up the majority of storyline.
The film has a consistent dark feel to it, with no real emotional high-point and an unsatisfying ending. As a Canadian watching a film that has a clearly focused American audience, it doesn’t offer up much more then what is expected. It’s predictable, and doesn’t draw it’s audience in to the experience.
The dramatic aspects of the film are great. Maguire’s performance is legitimately frightening, and there is some great development of his character. Some hidden performances by Sam Shepard playing Gyllenhaal and Maguire’s deranged, drunken, and angry father adds flavor to the film.
Portman looks great as always, but is unnaturally calm despite the incredible stress placed on her character. I would have liked to see a bit more emotion and on her end. I felt that it would have been more realistic if her personality deteriorated even further when the world came knocking on her door.
I like sad movies, but this movie is either too slow, or not sad enough for me to really feel anything form the incredible cast put together. Audiences who can relate to loved ones leaving to fight in the war, or who have been suffering from the economic down-turn, will appreciate this film despite it’s upsetting messages.
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So You Think You Can Dance Sheridan Review
Phew, now that was an evening.
What I do appreciate about the entire night was the great new words I can add to my vocabulary. I really had no idea what a Popper & Locker was, or a what a B-Boy was either, until last night.
As for production of the whole evening, that was easily the coolest and fanciest event I have ever been to at Sheridan. As for me being much of a dance connoisseur; well, I didn’t really know what was going on.
There were a variety of different dances for everyone to enjoy; from belly dancers, to break dancers, and then this crazy caged animal routine that eventually won the entire competition. The flamboyant dance crew of what I’m pretty sure were theater students, stole the show with probably the most entertaining routine of the night.
Good for you, even though your costumes questioned my sexuality. I’m talking to you crotchless jean boy.
The judges I thought were harsh considering the competition was clearly a mix of amateurs and professionals. That’s ok though, all fun and games. Some dancers might not have been spectacular; but they still looked pretty damn cute in all those short shorts.
As for you Blake McGrath, I don’t think you and Bolton would get along very well. I think your friendship would just keeping falling flat, if you know what I mean. Thank you for gracing us with you presence, and tell Brittany Spears to call me back.
Don’t worry everyone, even though McGrath was harsh, I stole his Redbull at the end of the night. Sheridan will always get the last laugh.
So the general consensus of the night, it was really fun. I felt like I was at the real thing with all the photographers and cameramen running around. I would definitely go again, and if you missed out, well, there is always next year.
I’ll be in the hallways perfecting me half tilted-split legged arm band flip madoodle, for next year.
Photos will be posted when they arrive
Seacrest out.
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Travis Review Them Crooked Vultures
The super-group album is here, everyone take your socks off before entering, remember, super-group, big deal.
For an album that has the likes of Dave Grohl of The Foo Fighters, cool guy Josh Homme of Queens of The Stone Age, and none other than John Paul Jones of Led Zepplin the album isn’t exactly ground-breaking.
It’s a pretty straight up rock and roll record with plenty of Zepplin and QOTSA influences, they just left out the direct melodies of The Foo Fighters. Plenty of crunch to the guitar tones, plenty of spacey vocal rhythms, plenty of head bobbing with sexy drunk club girls twisting their hips and flailing their arms.
I say it’s a rock record; but I guess it would be more of a “weird” rock record.
The whole time I just wanted Grohl to shred the vocals; mingling with Homme, but it doesn’t happen. But I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what they were going for.
The album itself isn’t exactly a radio friendly album either; there are plenty of instrumental breaks that would be pretty cool to see live, and the record is dance-ish enough to be played in bars and clubs and have enough people ask, “who is this?”
It’s rock, that’s what it is. But the album itself isn’t as memorable to be repeatedly picked up again and again. Regardless though this band will have a following. It’s good to hear Grohl on the drums, but I’ll say it again, give the man a microphone.
Homme’s vocals dominate the entire record and constantly gives off the QOTSA feel. The whole album sounds like a QOTSA record injected with a lot of dancey rock, but shifts gears at times and has that Zepplin feel.
It must be weird being in a band with a guy like JPJ. I wonder if he is still into this stuff, what he thinks of the record. The dude is old, he’s playing with kids, and in the back of the head he’s probably wondering when he can take a nap after band practice.
Oh well, it’s a good record. It would sell even if it was a shit record, but I can’t help but want more from these three people. I wish they just threw out everything they had ever written and started fresh and created something so mindblowingly different, kids would be shitting their pants.
Lets listen to the differences between a QOTSA song and a TCV song. More rock?
—
Twitter Guide Needed
You know I thought I understood Twitter, I really did. But when you actually have to use it, it gets frustrating.
After the whole Twitter Fiasco of ‘09, I have been scared of the damn thing. Mostly because I don’t want to get reamed out again.
See when I had a Twitter, I updated it with stupid stuff. Like what I was doing at that moment, or random thoughts I had. It was the ultimate M.B. show. Not that anyone was watching, I tried it out for a few months and then just let it collect dust in my FireFox history.
Now I say a lot of dumb shit. Hit the previous button a few times and suddenly your reading about rants on shows and its all about me being a grumpy asshole.
So now I’m on the Travis twitter, and I actually have to use it the way it was meant to be used. Mainly as a marketing tool. It freaks me out, responsibility, and I can no longer offend people. Well, I can, but on this blog. People actually have to choose to come to this blog, but if I’m just tweeting like a doucher, well, that is annoying.
So here it is, I’m sorry. I have underestimated the tool that is Twitter. And from now Twitter will be used for relevant information. I’m still learning everyone. I don’t even know what that # thing means.
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Cubby Jackson Chronicles: Karoke
“Wait why are you writing this down?” Cullen asked.
“Well Cullen, this shit is brilliant,” I responded.
“Oh, well then.”
He slid the zong across the table.
Cullen didn’t really know what to say. See one of the funniest things about this whole blog fiasco is that Cullen has no idea I’m writing about him. He doesn’t frequent the blog, and to be honest, I don’t really mind. So much more fun this way.
But when he does find out; Cullen I’m sorry. Think of this all as a compliment.
I clicked away on my Ipod touch, I was writing down Cullen’s karaoke play-list. About two nights ago Cullen got on his bike and rode to a local bar to participate in an evening of song and dance. I say good for him, the guy needs to get out a bit more. I hear he has been playing quite a bit of Dr.Mario, which is a good game I’ll add.
He went to the bar and busted out some of his singing skills. I’ve heard him sing before. One time when Cullen worked at a small coffee house in Georgetown, I sneaked into the place without him knowing and he was singing folk tunes at the top of his lungs.
His singing isn’t the best, but it could be much worse. I take it back, its not that bad.
So this is his play-list.
1. The man opens up with Sweet Caroline. Good opener song, gets the crowd going right?
2. No Time by the Guess Who. He is warmed up and ready to really work the vocal chords.
3.One Week by The Bare Naked Ladies. Now we are talking! I asked him if people at the bar got into this one, he said they cheered during the super fast rhythm of that guy who is Canadian and got busted with Cocaine. Your just showing off now Cullen!
4. Something by The Beatles. Now Cullen is just whipping out the classic songs, good choice my friend.
5. Your Song by Elton John. He ends up it all up with this great encore from the guy who sang Rocket Man and lives in Caledon with his “partner.”
Not so bad Cullen. He drank, had fun, chewed the fat, you know all that fun stuff. Then he rode his bike home, most likely drunk.
When I turned on the TV this morning Cullen left the closed captioning on. He isn’t hard of hearing or anything, but Victoria just thinks he likes to know what’s going on. He does this often and she doesn’t really to understand this Cullen-ism, I think it’s brilliant.
—
Reginald
Victoria bought a skinny pig.
Have you heard of these things? It’s pretty much a hairless guinea pig; there isn’t much of another way to describe this weird, crunchy animal.
I asked her how much he was. She held Reginald in her arms like a baby.
“Well, let’s just say that a normal guinea pig was $60 cheaper,” she said.
You have to be kidding me. I could have just shaved a guinea pig and saved sixty bucks. This poor little guy is always cold, and if you take him outside you need to apply suntan lotion to his pasty grey skin.
This thing is ugly. It’s just gross. He has a mean mustache though.
She hands me Reginald and gives me a sad look.
I reluctantly take him in my hands, his skin is cold and I can feel his tiny ribcage in my hands. The poor bastard is afraid of everything, innocent, squeaking in terror.
I’d like him if he had hair, I really would, but I just can’t handle this.
“He’s so gross,” I said.
“He’s just a baby!” she explained, looking upset that I didn’t like him.
“And he smells bad. Your room is going to smell like skinny pig. You’re going to smell like skinny pig, it’s just going to be bad times,” I said.
“But,” she paused. “He’s just a baby!”
What’s done is done I guess. This is one of those things I will learn to get over. But for now I complain on this blog. Poor Reginald. I’m going to be making skinny pig soup out of you in no time.
Reginald, I salute you. You ugly little freak of nature.
—
Social Code Unplugged
In case you haven’t heard, Social Code while be gracing us with their acoustic melodies this upcoming Tuesday at noon in Connexion, free of course to all Sheridan students.
The hard rockers are excited to come and play some campfire style tunes for the Sheridan student body, and are happy to play in a town that they have visited many times, but never performed in.
“We’re stoked. We open our show up with an acoustic song every time we play and it’s going to be interesting to see how our songs translate to the acoustic guitar,” Travis Nesbitt said, front-man of Social Code.
The band originates from Edmonton, Alberta and have been touring extensively in support of their new record, Rock n’ Roll.
“This record is a lot more straight ahead rock and roll. We wanted to focus on that. We always were a straight rock band, so we wrote a straight rock record. The first two records had at times, a dash of punk rock. We just wanted to focus on one aspect of the band.”
Their most recent record came from the roots of their musical tastes. The band took influence from The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppling, The Black Crows, and other classic rock and roll artists to create their new record.
Nesbitt has a passion for playing to an audience, but he explained that the longer he has been in the band, that he is beginning to have more fun in-studio, recording with his band mates.
“I used to love playing live more than anything. I still love it immensely, it’s great to get on stage and it’s been the number one drive for me. We had a lot more fun in the studio this time. We were all on the same page for this record. It was really just five guys hanging out and making music that we love to make. It just felt great to be there.”
The band has been busy the last few years with multiple tours on their hands
“We are on a tour called The Fire and Ice Tour right now, it combines freestyle snow-cross with music. We played Saskatoon last weekend in front of a couple thousand people,” Nesbitt said. “The stage is in the middle of floor, and on of both sides of the stage is kicker-ramps with snowmobiles doing back-flips and stuff. It’s off the hook,” he said.
Nesbitt described the incredible choreography incorporated into their show and explained that the band will be going through some downtime in December to spend time with their families. After that, the plan is to keep on touring in January.
“I cant wait to get back in the studio and put out another record, but at the same token i’m excited to be on the road,” Nesbitt said. “You could say that I’m loving the whole thing right now.”
—
The Cubby Jackson Chronicles
What really frustrates me about visiting Victoria is that nobody eats.
I decide after scooping the guts out of the pumpkins we were carving to save the seeds and bake them, because they are that delicious. I might have been bored and hungry too, but I picked out all the seeds and saved them in a bowl.
Cullen raves about his spices. I’m not sure if he thinks he is some kind of cook, but the dude is proud of them. I think it’s great, I’m pretty excited to make some pumpkin seeds a la Burton.
I lay out all the seeds on a baking sheet and look up to the spice cabinet. When I open it I see a bunch of spices I have never seen before. The odd one, like “dill,” is sitting up-front. The rest are full, almost unopened, and would not be appropriate for what I want to do.
I just want to make some damn roasted pumpkin seeds, all I need is season salt. Cullen doesn’t even have that.
I’m really worried as to what Cullen needs dill for, that stuff doesn’t even taste good. What is he putting it on?
I don’t know what it is, but my Italian urges take over when I’m in London. I just want to feed everyone around me. It’s so messed up because this random personality trait has never surfaced before.
The more attention I pay to everyone’s eating habits, the more concerned I get. I haven’t seen Cullen eat anything, Kelsey only eats stuff that’s beige, and Victoria is too busy taking care of her skinny pig Reginald to even consider boiling up some broccoli.
You would think that Cullen would buy some food with his money. Real food. Not that package of fancy cold cuts, not spices, maybe some pasta, chicken, fruit.
Cubs doesn’t have that much money, his career selling knives hasn’t exactly taken off. The poor guy, I don’t see him work much either. He is usually lounging with his pony tail, reading a book, watching Star-Trek.
“Oh I’m selling knives Burton!”
“Really?” I ask. I’m only egging him on because I want to hear more.
“Yes, why, all I have to do is make appointments with people to show them a demonstration! It isn’t even commission based.”
He explained his job in great detail, even offered up a demonstration. For whatever reason I declined the offer, once Cullen gets going, he gets going. It will be hard to get him to stop. I hear he can cut a penny, and he’ll puts on this entire infomercial-like speech.
Tragically, Cullen doesn’t know many people in the London area, and well, that translates an otherwise exciting door-to-door knife selling career, into lonely days watching television.
Poor Cullen, sometimes I wonder if he misses Georgetown, his man-friend Butters, his life at the coffee shop.
Ever since Cullen and Butters broke up, things just haven’t been the same. I’ve heard many sides to their breakup, but I hear the two of them recently battled it out over Facebook. That is another story.
Oh well I guess.
I was sitting on the couch when I heard Cullen shouting from the kitchen.
“Burton! Can I tempt you with a chicken nugget?”
“Tempt away my friend!”
Cullen made food, what a shock. He walked into the room, placed a plate full of nuggets in the middle of the coffee table, right ontop the Waterloo Dark coaster.
The nuggets, lightly seasoned with dill.
—
The Cubby Jackson Chronicles: Leaves
I have a friend named Cullen who is a terrific source of inspiration.
I’ve told this story a few times and it is now worthy of going to print.
Victoria lives in London, which is a lengthy drive from Georgetown, but I like her enough to go visit.
During reading week I went down to visit her, and the two people she lives with; Kelsey and Cullen.
Cullen; he has a pony tail, wears suit jackets, and speaks with a peculiar tone that sounds like an English accent, without the English accent. Does that make sense?
It doesn’t, go ahead and say so.
Cullen is an eccentric; he is strange, odd, and, well, I don’t know how else to describe him.
It’s not a bad thing, but I’m sure he knows he’s strange when he breaks out into song. They come from this old song-book that is tanned and weathered by time. You have to see it to believe it.
One morning, probably around six or seven, Victoria woke me up to move my car out of the driveway so she could leave for class. I stumble out of the bed and grab my keys. I think I was wearing clothes, but lets just pretend that I’m in my underwear for the sake of comedy.
So in my underwear, I slip on my shoes and open the front door. It’s dark out, and off to the the left-hand corner of my eye Cullen is standing there, suit jacket and all, hard at work.
I walk past him, half-asleep, “Hey Cullen” I say.
“Hey Burton,” he responds. We both speak to each other like everything was fine and dandy. I open my car door, turn on the car, back it out of the drive way, and park on the road.
I walk back towards the front door and see him working away, rustling leaves in his hands.
“See ya Cullen.”
“Later Burton.”
I walk back into the house and instantly fall back asleep.
Lets recap for a moment. Cullen is outside, I’m in my underwear, and it’s six in the morning.
Something isn’t adding up and I bring this up to Victoria. She is as baffled as I am, I decide to confront him on the issue.
I sit on the couch, and Cullen places the zong on the Waterloo Dark coaster, sitting down in a chair that I just don’t feel like describing right now.
“Cullen,” I say. “Were you outside this morning?”
“Indeed I was.”
“What were you doing?”
The way he put it made sense. “Well we don’t have any trees on our lawn and I thought it would be nice to have some leaves out front.”
“At six in the morning?”
“Yes.”
Cullen is confident when he speaks, even when he is speaking madness. I didn’t question him after that, my curiosity was satisfied and I picked the zong back up off the coaster.
Post game re-cap; Cullen, with his ponytail, suit jacket, at six in the morning, stealing peoples leaves and spreading them all over the lawn.
Later that day the guy who lives upstairs took some time to clean up the leaves. I wonder if he questioned where all the leaves came from.
“tra la laaa twiddle deee”
—
The Hanson Brothers
All right I’m going to tell you a story.
Are you familiar with the Hanson brothers? I’m sure you are. They are the 90s answer to female hormones running a little bit too hard. They are proof that regardless of what you look like, if you are on stage and playing an instrument, girls will want in your pants.
Girls can’t handle that. Boys and music; it’s a bad combination. When you throw in “Mmbop,” simple puppy dog affection turns into an obsession where girls throw all of their morals and values to the wind.
My sister, Dre, was one of those teenyboppers. She was hardcore; she went to the concerts, held up signs, and even coined the phrase “Miss You Like Gravy.”
Clever.
If she had the opportunity to actually meet a Hanson brother, who knows what would happen. Maybe she would want to kiss them; maybe she would just try to rip one of their limbs off.
Lets fast-forward about ten years. All the boppers have grown up, found jobs and shed the skin of what they used to be.
But once a bopper, always a bopper.
Although Hanson seemed to have dropped off the earth, the group was still touring and releasing new material. The band members were pretty much living off the remnants of their intense popularity of the 90’s.
Hanson rolled into town about five years ago, when I was about 16 years old. Dre heard about this and absolutely needed to attend this concert. She asked everyone she knew and one after another, none of her former Hanson loving friends wanted to attend this sing-a-long of a concert.
So what did she do, ask her little brother.
“No,” I said.
Simple, plain, and clear. There was no way I was going to be a part of anything related to Hanson.
I felt bad. Not a single person wanted to go with her, and as embarrassing as it is to even want to go to a Hanson concert, it would be insurmountably more embarrassing if she went by her lonesome.
So I agreed to go, mostly out of pity. She sweetened the deal with a fully paid ticket and a free dinner.
While in line, people asked me why I was there. I looked completely out of place and I explained to them what I have just explained to you. Another man, looking roughly 20, asked me if I had lost a bet and this was my consequence.
“Nope.”
I took the whole evening with good spirit; it was like Christmas for Dre, maybe even better. I sipped my $5 Coca Cola and Dre stood off to the side and Hanson finally came on stage.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Dre said.
I assumed that Hanson would close the set with “Mmbop,” but not so. After I heard that song I was ready to leave, but they continued to play for close to three hours.
That’s three hours of Hanson I stood through. My patience was being tested.
Dre sang along to almost every song with a wide grin on her face. She was reliving her glory days. I’ve never seen her so happy, hopping up and down clapping her hands like she had just won the lottery.
I smiled. She would turn around and look at me every so often and shout, “you love it, you love it!”
I nodded, and thought about how I would bring this story up on the day of her wedding.
—
Swine Flu and You: The Sheridan Perspective
Panic is starting to take over as more H1N1 cases start to pour into Sick Kids Hospital in Toronto.
The Star is reporting that Sick Kids is seeing a spike in swine cases, similar to what would be seen in peak flu season which is later in the year.
With the death 13-year-old Evan Frustaglior from Toronto, and 10-year-old Vanetia Warner of Cornwall, parents are becoming concerned of flu symptoms at home. Exactly what has been reported is happening, younger children and the elderly are affected the most from the virus.
So is it time to panic? Well, maybe, but Sheridan students need to focus on being clean and taking precautions. Hand-sanitizer, not sharing drinks, maybe holding off on hooking up with that sketchy girl from Halloween Pub are all solid choices.
You should also keep in mind that vaccines will be rolling out shortly prioritized to those who need it the most.
Symptoms of H1N1:
* sudden onset of fever
* headache
* chills
* muscle aches
* physical exhaustion
* dry cough with subsequent onset of sore throat, stuffy or runny nose and worsening cough
The most important point is that if you are sick, fucking stay home. Don’t come to class, just watch some Two and A Half Men re-runs.
Also Sheridan students should check their email for a neat email regarding the process on reporting your own sickness. No doctors note is required.
—
Butters
Brad is quite the character. You should see his apartment. The floor is slanted and you have to watch your step walking through his kitchen into his TV nook. It’s cute and the place suits Brad.
He is getting chubbier every time I see him, that’s good because not even six months ago he was skin and bone. He’s looking alright, spirits are up. His cat Luna is the sweetest cat in the whole world. She keeps him company for most of the day.
His phone even lets him go on Facebook, so I get to see his angry little status updates complaining that he has no job.
He’s alright though, me and Jay went over to discuss some business with him.
“You guys want nachos? I know I could go for some,” he asked.
I’m always hungry, and I was extra hungry for this occasion.
Jay and I stood in Brad’s kitchen watching him make nachos.
Do you guys like turkey and onions?
“Uhm, no not really,” Jay said.
“Fine! I guess no turkey for the nachos,” Brad responded.
Brad dumped a pile of the nachos into a dirty plate, which also had nachos in it before. He opened up a block of cheddar cheese and start hacking away at it with a knife dropping it on top of the nachos.
I began to laugh because he was destroying this block of cheese, he desperately could use a grader, but it just isn’t happening today. He opens the fridge and starts to shake a bottle of salad dressing and plops it onto the plate. I can’t hold my laughter in anymore. “What?!” He looks at me, “oh yeah, I have to shake it. It’s Catalina!” He continues on dumping the dressing onto the plate. Next is the tomato sauce. He opens a can of it and pours it all over the nachos.
“You sure you guys don’t want turkey?” he asks. “Oh yeah, we’re fine.” He starts throwing on all sorts of different things, anything that’s kicking around his fridge. Salt, pepper, mystery spice, anything really. In they go to the microwave and viola, all done.
The nachos weren’t the best nachos, but we ate them. When you’re hungry you’ll eat anything.
And for the business we discussed, well, we might start a band together. Hopefully this will mean more nachos.
—
The Learning Commons Fight
this is an account of what I have heard of facts and rumors from students and journalists at Sheridan Oakville. Lets get this straight, this is a blog, this is for your entertainment. No names will be used. Here we go.
So you may of heard, this past Tuesday, at around 1:00 pm a fight broke out between a student, and what I have heard to have been a 22 year old man in the learning commons. Nobody really knows what the argument was about, but apparently the argument was started by the non-Sheridan student.
“Somebody stop this!” a learning commons staff yelled out as one man began to wrap an Ethernet cord around the neck of another man.
In front of hundreds of students, in the very center of the learning commons at probably the busiest hour of the day, the two wrestled each other to the floor. Thrown to the floor, another man who will remain nameless, grabs the first thing he can see, a stapler.
A goddamn stapler.
Raising it to the air, the stapler slammed down on the head of the other man. Once, twice, three times.
The blood began to pour.
The stapler connected with the forehead of the man on the ground for another 15 times.
People in the commons stared, some couldn’t look away. Others left the commons, they couldn’t believe what was happening.
Like watching a car accident, no student stopped the fight. Nobody stepped in until police and security broke it up.
Broken up after 15 strikes to the head.
What a world we live in.
The questions that arise, security? What happened? Were you caught off guard? Where were you? Explain to me what happened.
Why did it take 15 strikes to the head of a stapler to break up a fight?
Who is this other man? Why are you here at Sheridan?
Is this gang related?
Who wants answers? Who saw this?
