Righteous Ramblings

With Hi-Jacked! on the loose again, it’s pretty common place for a random flood of uninvited thoughts to show up and party on the page. Some of it finds a way to tie itself into a grander theme, the rest of it, well, sometimes themes are overrated…


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(the following is in response to a statement about nothing-to-do-with-movies, naturally I corrected that...)

I hear ya. I hear ya like the Titanic’s going down and someone whispered ‘space for rent’… The Titanic. I sometimes wonder how I would have handled the Titanic and it’s sinking and whatnot. I’m sure most people believe that at the very least they would end up like Leo, dying a heroic death in the name of love. Not a bad way to draw out an adventure in one’s head.

The best case scenario however would be a version of James Cameron’s Jack Dawson who not only gets the girl and crushes the Billy Zane AND defeats a sinking Titanic, but also finds time to save people along the way, namely women and children, perhaps the odd cute animal. Hero 101 stuff.

Sometimes I wonder if I would be one of those faceless action points that tumble from the raised stern of the bobbing ship and after a hundred feet of free fall smash into some piece of Titanic, spinning in almost a comical way, disappearing into the water, and helping to advance some other Heart-Throb-Hero’s story. Does everyone get to be the hero in their movie? We can’t all be Leo can we?

No question on this one though; Smashed up, free falling special effect guy is a terrible role. Wow do I ever want no part of that responsibility.

Maybe the best role to have is that of James Cameron, the puppet master himself:
“You, run this way. You over there, you jump overboard. You, fall and drown. You die. You die. You, yep, definitely die. You two start fighting, then both die. You live, but your whole family dies. Leo, you and… you, what’s your name? Kate, right, yes. Leo, you and Kate, you spend two hours and forty minutes falling madly in love, frolicking around the ship, not dying, all kinds of fun stuff, then Leo you just go ahead and die… Whaaaaaat? I have no choice, this is just good film making, just good old fashion storytelling. Little girls are going to cry for years about this one. ‘Oh Jack (whimper), or poor Jack (sob), what a hero, what a beautiful, romantic hero’, and queue the crying. It’s brilliant! Any questions then? Okay, excellent, you all work on that stuff and I’m going to figure out how to convince people that 7 foot tall, no wait, let’s say NINE foot tall blue things that look like silly-putty cat-people would make for a movie that’s cool like Aliens but heartfelt like this sinking ship emotional-pornography junk. It may possibly also have a thinly veiled message about hugging trees.”

I’m pretty sure if I had the role of James Cameron World-Maker, Heart-Breaker, I’d probably come off drenched in douche-baggery. It’s not for me. Not really my thing. The Jack Dawson version 2.0, saving kittens, winning over Rose, not dying, that’s more my speed. Hero 201 stuff.

The real question that comes to mind I guess, is how best to harness the Hero.

I’m not strong enough to handle being the Smashy-Faced Sacrificial Tumbler, I need me some satisfaction, some glory, some reaped reward. My vote is to take a regular dose of the Conqueror Cocktail – 1 part Determination, 1 part Charm, equal parts Raw Happiness and Grass-is-Greener Pursuit, a pinch of Ego, a twist of Refined Eccentricity, and as much Confidence as you can mix in. Take twice daily, smile more than you think you need to, and avoid uncontrollably tumbling through life like the Smashy-Faced Titanic Extra.

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(the following was part of a conversation about an afternoon snack I believe...)

In some cases, or many cases… most cases there’s a serious lack of question asking. In fact, it goes beyond not asking questions, beyond blindly tossing back pint after pint of The Koolaid, it starts with motivations. People can convince themselves of some pretty bold beliefs when they decide on the wrong driver – Flat-Earth, Health Benefits of Cigarettes, Easy-Bake People Ovens, I mean, Tanning Beds. Take the Walmart Phenomenon and run with that for a while; a Walmart emerges from the dust and rubble of a vacant lot and almost without exception the surrounding population packs on a little extra cushion.

The study goes something like (possibly paraphrased): Introduce a Walmart into the scene and people can’t help but load up on garbage because… ummm… “it was on sale, it was too good a deal to pass up, I love Walmart!”.

Of course. Totally. Makes the same kind of sense as drinking Diet Coke to lose weight... wait a minute. You hear the story and can’t help but mumble the words as you contemplate the state of a World full of Walmarts, “there’s no way someone would do that, no one needs to buy Cracker-Jacks in bulk”. Oh but they do. Yep, it’s one of those sales where you spend ‘X’ instead of ‘X+Y’ and suddenly all anyone talks about is how they’ve saved all that ‘Y’. What choice did they have? You gotta save the ‘Y’, you love the ‘Y’. F&$k ‘Y’, you just wasted ‘X’ and seem to think you got away with something.

All it takes is a little misdirection and suddenly, blinded by the idea of “the big Save”, one has acquired some perfectly terrible Junk at less than expensive. Brrrrrravo! Frozen Hell and Flying Pigs and whatnot should Walmart slash prices on not just the delicious but also the nutritious. (I use the word ‘delicious’ quite loosely, because implying that Cracker-Jacks are delicious and not simply a fun little idea in a good-old boy’s song and dance about a ball-game, is a little misleading). Walmart specializes in rolling back the cost on the inner-aisle, processed items, colouring up the food that has no business being consumed, and playing the expiry date game with the all natural grocery store players. Now, the study didn’t say the following per se, but I read between the lines: Walmart and Vegetables are frienemies. But “the Big Save” is good, right? Makes sense when you break it down. Because “Buy 3 get 1 Free” is always great, even if it means that you now have to deal with four boxes of Cracker-Jacks. Flawless logic.

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(the following was prompted by nothing more than the above rant, and possible someone telling me that An Inconvenient Truth is their favourite film... a Superman reference may have also been made)

Speaking of misdirection, weight gain, and Cracker-Jacks, the only way a loony such as Gore-Al does anything other than compete with a bald man’s scared hair line* for favourite average to slightly-above-average Baddie, is to guide us by ‘the Way of the Opposite’. I can’t recall if this technique was covered in Mr. Internet’s docu-comedy “A Convenient Lie”, or “The Truth about Lying Conveniently”, or “Give me money and I’ll magically pocket it while I talk about how smart I am and how everyone else has killed all the cute animals because they are evil, and GreenHouse-Gases and Carbon-Footprint and I’m Al Gore, Me Me Me, I’m Great!”… but the basic idea of ‘the Way of the Opposite’ is to listen, watch, do nothing-even-close to what he's talking about. 3 simple steps and you’re golden. Don’t be afraid to do some ignoring too, it will only make you a stronger, better person.

Does anyone else want odds that Gore is pulling a Joaquin (pronounced Jo-keen) Phoenix, and that when the time is right for his master plan of mischief to be revealed we’re going to hear the news that he’s just pretending to be a big condescending idiot? Double or Nothing that Ashton Kutcher is producing the whole fiasco.

* I know nothing of scared hair lines, I have only heard things, a friend of a friend kind of deal. This poor guy conveyed some anxiety over ‘Thinning’, and ‘Lack of Texture’, and ‘Issues with Combs’. Supposedly it’s quite the concern for a dapper and handsome young man, considered too young to have to deal with such matters. Understandable I suppose. It is said however that it is not so much the action of hair-loss that is associated with a lowering of self-confidence, but rather the obsessive attention to the topic that is linked to a low self-esteem - typically a pre-existing low self-esteem in fact. Along the same lines, as a Man, the rule is that looks don’t play nearly the role in overall attraction that we are lead to believe. It is confidence, personality, a genuine Authenticity that results in Mojo. These are merely theories though. When it comes down to it, it’s hard not to focus on my overly widowing– I mean HIS overly widowing peak when he’s had such a history of wind-worthy hair. How does one go from long luscious locks to the Tilted Chapeau? How can I not draw attention to– HE! How can HE not draw attention to the newly introduced skin, so pale and white? The worst part is that I can no longer get the same– Ugh! HE! He can’t get the same… fine I’m the friend, it’s me, action packed with issues, whatever, I'm over it. What?!... okay, to finish my last thought and then move on quickly to something less ‘revealing’; the worst part is that I can no longer get the haircuts I’m used to, turns out I’m no longer eligible for The Bieber. How am I to go on? How Biebs?!…

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Okay back to my point. Ahhh, you got me, who am I kidding, it’s all “the Point”. Drink it in and feel that good quality Ridiculousness wash over you…

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(the following is in response to diet, Paleolithic living, a conversation about television, and the word Girth...)

One of the main reasons I like hearing about all these studies and theories and health platforms is that something’s wrong out there. I might be doing pretty well**, but there’s a whole truck load of truck-loads out and about that aren’t anywhere near the idea of healthy. I know that genes may account for a little Chunking here, and Big-Bones there. I know that the odd Out-of-Your-Control scenario might contribute to one’s infestation of fat. I also know that there are theories and studies and research dealing with disease platforms that explain weight gain. But the bottom line is that people aren’t supposed to end up sick, unhealthy, and all Fatty McFat Gross like the girth walking around today. This is what I know.

Can the Biggest Loser possibly be a show on TV? What would Africa think? Better yet, what would Charlie Sheen think? Probably ‘Not Winning’, he would probably think that the Biggies on The Fatties are ‘Not Winning’ (BAM! There’s a current reference that isn’t Pop Culture from 1997, ah ha see, I’ve got more than Titanic shoutouts up my sleeve). But the ‘not-winning’ is only true for the first episode or two. The truth behind the Biggest Loser is that it’s a show about Triumph, Human Spirit, Strength. Qualities that result in Life at its best. The sad part is that instead of following a warrior as he ascends the impossibility of a Peak, or tuning into the merciless quest of an Olympic Dreamer, we’re rooting for the 396 pounds of fat that swallowed up the 150 pound man to set him free. How did this happen? When did people start weighing as much as cruise ship anchors?

I know that there is a problem, and that somewhere there must be an answer. I’m in no rush to find out though – beware the quick fix and the 6-Minute Abs approach to life. I’ll test the waters and create my own hybrid systems and continue to love hearing about new discoveries and understand that there won’t be one universal solution. I’ll ask questions, I’ll look for intel from multiple sources, and I will eat cake… on occasion. Because cake is gooooood, chocolate is gooooood, sugar is goooood (it’s also death, but it’s goooooood).

As for one overall theme with respect to Finding Health, I like the idea of Simplicity. Just like the Human Solidification issue. The acknowledgment of this issue is brilliant; if you’re Stuck then you’re Fu…. you get the idea. Essentially, you want to eliminate the prolonged periods of stagnation that morph your body from a Free-Running SpiderMonkey Acrobat into that Robaxacet Puppet-Man with the voodoo needle problems. Because a little ‘just do something’ can really go a long way. Speaking of which, time for my latest walk-about; the desk is just as evil as the Gore…

** or maybe not, perhaps I’m one Mercury Discovery away from finding out I’m the exception to a SuperHero’s origin story - Bit by a spider, poisoned, die; Exposed to radiation, get cancer, die; come from Krypton, can’t fly, allergic to Air, live a terrible life, then die. SuperHeroes have it so easy…


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Because really, what better time to breakdown the workings of Titanic than 14 or 15 years after it sank to the grossing of a Gagillion Dollars, or warn of Gore-Al’s ways decades after he began his rampage on the people of the planet, or weigh-in on the Biggest Loser world we’re growing into instead of… actually, the Fat Pandemic is pretty current and appropriate subject matter… but the fact remains, this is “what you get when you f$%k a stranger in the @ss”. Apologies, that was a tad bit too aggressive and a tab bit too Labowski*** for the tone of this post-age. But this IS however what you get when Hi-Jacked! is silenced and the flood gates are left unguarded; it’s Random, it’s Ridiculous, it’s Rude… it’s some seriously Righteous Ramblings.

*** There is no such thing as 'too Labowski'. The Dude abides...

the Return of Hi-Jacked!

I’ve been busy. Not ‘I need a cry’, not ‘life is too hard’, I mean actual busy, big-boy busy, ‘life can’t keep up with ME’ kind of busy. Busy like it’s the only option left. They don’t make day-timers for this kind of mayhem. What they do make, are beer commercials.


Let the music crawl out of a tunnel and introduce the image. Start with 4 days in Vegas, or Wedding Crashing in Mexico, or Jet Setting out East. Leave the steady cam and go handheld for a rough-cut of shoes hitting 22k of trail, skates carving up the frozen pond, SnowShoes used for Free-Running. Heavy breathing clouding the winter air. If it isn’t Christmas, it’s New Years. If it isn’t the streets of DownTown, it’s the backwoods of K-Country. Get a shot of the guys getting ready. Queue up the blur of a Bachelor Party, the blur of a weekend road-trip, the blur of early mornings and fresh powder. Find fuzzy photos, find graining video. Kill the noise. Pause on some dude hugging his pillow. Then crank the alarm and let the music swell. Rolodex through Friends, Family, Dinners, Concerts, the Theatre, Nights Out, Days Off, the Big Games, the Big Day. Feel the stress of an exam, the exhaustion of OT at the office, the sweat of hard heavy work. You fight winter, it fights right back. Hold your breath on… Black screen for 1 second, 2 seconds. Blow up the senses! Celebration, high-five, a muted cheer in front of all speakers on full blast. Then cut to triumph. The pure triumph of victory, any victory, every victory. Muffle all sounds for library-quiet. And add Tag line. Product Shot. The End… Stop the curtain and come back for the encore: slow-mo on me firing a Beretta complete with real world gun-powder smell, and a smile. Great Time.

You make a commercial like that and I’d buy that beer. Hell, I’ll drink to that right now, cause that’s my life.

So where’s it all been? All the coverage, all the bedlam? The Rhythm, the Rhyme? Why the silent blog? I can’t say it hasn’t hurt to be away, but my cry is a whimper lost in the suffering of Hi-Jacked!. No one wants the posts to return like he does. And it’s been a full time effort to keep him from bubbling up to the surface – I see and I do, but it’s he who fights for quotes and colour commentary.

Hi-Jacked! is wily too, very wily. He’s got the charm of a good mustache, the determination of Jack Bauer, and the clever wit of the latest iDevice, his only downfall is that he doesn’t actually exist – typical alter-ego problem, a true classic among the group therapy regulars…

















Like I said, I’ve been busy. Along with sunburns and the creep of one’s hairline, the trouble I’ve found with Life is how difficult it is to press the pause button, let alone hold it down. Over the years I have harnessed the power of hidden time. There’s a talent to finding the quiet moments, those places of silence where rejuvenation mingles with reflection. It’s this all important interlude of hidden time that allows for true growth, but none of that’s possible unless the quiet moments are book ending adventure and exploration.

Queue my dilemma; when to write, when 'to write' is to pause? The Pause is when Hi-Jacked! thrives, when he spins his tales and discovers the meaning of the fallout. For the most part the balance that holds Action and Reenact(ion) in equilibrium feels natural and the blog writes itself, but every now and then, Life just gets too excited and does its own hijacking. This is when the option to create quiet space needs to be weighed against the reality of sacrificing the next chapter. The trouble with fun and excitement and life is that there actually is no pause button. I slammed right into a situation where without intermissions to suspend the escapades, I couldn’t step away without missing out. And ‘missing out’ is that multiple choice question they toss on the test to mess with your mind. It’s not an actual answer, it’s a doop. Never choose ‘missing out’. Never.

















I’ve been busy, and I just wasn’t comfortable sidestepping any of it. And therefore, the suffering of Hi-Jacked! builds.

So what have I learned? Forget learning! There’s a time and a place, and it was neither then nor there. I leave the learning to Hi-Jacked!, me I do the living. But that was then and there, this is now and here… So without further ado, I present to you, the Return of Hi-Jacked!

A Cure is Coming

Do you feel it? I’m sure at first you didn’t really know what it was. You see initially it’s no more than an itch, maybe a tickle - this minor disturbance frequenting your subconscious. Not a problem though, I’m sure that you, like I, can ignore with the best of them. But then it begins to grow. It begins to feel like something sending you to that uncomfortable place slightly off-centre. You start to acknowledge it, and that only makes things worse. It makes no sense; Family, Friends, Work, it’s all great, your healthy and happy and full of energy, but there’s something missing and for some reason it’s leaving you lost and alone and empty. I know, it’s terrible. It’s what Kurtz had in Heart of Darkness, Bateman had in American Psycho, Rose in Titanic (wait, that might have been something different… love maybe… either way, same thing), and whatever was happening to those goofs in Fight Club. The worst part is, you have no idea what’s wrong. That is until the pre-season starts and suddenly everything is okay again…

Is this your pain? Is this what you’ve been trying to turn into a white ball of healing light? Is this the trauma that’s making your smile quiver and your dreams dark? Is this the uneasiness that follows you around all day? Don’t worry, you’re not alone, there are others out there, just like you. And we can help. The first step is the hardest one to take, so as a group, say it with me, ‘My name is _________ and I am a Fanatic…’

Okay so I lied, there’s no cure, and it’s probably not going to be okay. Withdrawals are hell and other than an unhealthy love for Equestrian and maybe a solid case of the Nascar circuit bug, July and August are going to beat you down. All I can say is man up, put your head down, and set the alarm for September. Or maybe play your own sports, but let’s not get too extreme here. And although I mentioned the Horse and the Car thing, this is not a Hi-Jacked! approved remedy for your summer time sorrow. Horses? Really? No, come on, don’t be weird.

I’m ready for some hockey, God I’m ready. Maybe not 2 to 3 games a night (you have to train for that kind of commitment - it takes hard work to be able to handle full-fledged Stanley Cup Coverage), but I could definitely stand some highlights. And here’s the thing, you don’t need to OD on the Ice to get your fix. Sports are back baby, and they’re back in a big way. Don’t get me wrong Tennis has been fun, some of that golf was great, and World Cup was obsession worthy, but let’s face it, it’s been a quiet couple of months since the Vuvuzelas stopped. It’s time to get back into the real deal now.

MNF has been money in the bank, if I wasn’t before, I am now in 100% Football Frenzy mode and it’s only week 2 – gotta love those 4th quarter finishes! The other Footie is warmed up and ready for our attention too, and the PVR is more than happy to record the EPL’s early morning matches – bring on those local Derbies! And the other other Ball-o-Foot, well you can’t count out the chance at some classic crazy CFL climax (nothing beats a good Grey Cup disaster, am I right you Melon Heads – Go Red & White!). On the other side of the rivalry between America’s Favourites is the Diamond, which is about to toss the opening pitch on the start of the real baseball season (after that 160 game pre-season thing they do so well). Finally, to round out the Big Ticket Stadium Fun is the NBA’s 2010-2011 chapter. After this summer’s Bird-Magic Doc still fresh in my mind (and heart) – gotta love when HBO and ESPN make babies - I could get into another round of b-ball (why not have the All-Star Heat against the All-Star Lakers against the All-Star Celts? Why not?).

Classes are in full swing, the leaves are changing colour, there are new awful pilots for shows that won’t know what it’s like to be on the air in October, and blah and blah and blah. It’s fall! Time to get serious! Grab some couch, cycle through your favourite team apparel, and get ready for battle, cause when it comes to the these Stadium Stories, the only thing that’s certain is that next week you will have seen something incredible, you will have seen something new, you will have seen history writing itself. Unless of course you let life get in the way. Don’t miss it, be one with The Fanatic. It’s Sports Season baby!!!

the American Dream: Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid...

Just another day, seen through your favourite pair of Hi-Jacked! goggles.

…across the inbox floats the following stream of thought from an Instapundit Reader:


I think the notion of the American Dream needs to be recalibrated — especially the whole question of whether your kids will be better off than you.

The standard-of-living floor has risen so much over the past 60 years or so that it’s difficult to quantify an increase, or to set realistic expectations. It’s kind of like my grandmother who passed away at 93 — as I got older I told her I was jealous of the advancements she witnessed, from seeing her first car while riding in a horse-drawn cart to indoor plumbing to the moon landings, and that I didn’t think anyone outside of her generation will ever see such a radical change. My father immigrated from the middle east and his arrival to the US may as well have been to another planet.

Given that past and the fact that the “poor” in this country have microwave ovens, cable TV and cell phones, and technological advances seem focused on laptops and phones, what does an increased standard of living look like anymore and how does that translate to thoughtful and achievable “American dream”?

This will be a critical concept as we try to pull ourselves out of this financial mess.

Geez. And all this he says as he stares at the ‘half full’ glass and decides it’s not even there. Boohoo, everything is so good, I can barely handle it, what do we have to look forward to? More of that ‘so good’? Forget it, this sucks, I give up… Look, I can understand the amazement of the advances that certain generations have seen, and it could be true that even though I was around before the internet and can now call someone on the other side of the planet on a wireless video phone that would probably blow Captain Kirk’s mind wide open, it’s possible that I won’t get to witness the same leaps and bounds that the horse drawn carriage generation experienced when space travel became a reality. But we don’t know that for sure. And even if we did, why would you write an article that makes it feel like life’s not worth living because the poor don’t have it bad enough? Microwaves, televisions, cell phones, it’s all too much, I need a second to regroup, I can barely believe it’s real, it’s like fantasy, it’s like a dream… it’s like the American Dream, and it’s like it’s come true.

Hahaha, I love crazy people and their opinions. This guy is probably suffering from the Office Space syndrome:
- “So, wait a minute, you’re saying that every day is the worst day of your life?”
- “Yes”
- “Is today the worst day of your life?”
- “Yes”
- “… ugh, that’s messed up…”

Half Full? Half Empty? Or maybe there’s no glass at all, dundunduhhhhhhh… I think the American Dream is when you have to start worrying that times are too good and that life can’t get any better. That we might not be able to win ‘Most Improved’ anymore and might have to settle for the ‘MVP’ award. When we’ve reached that point, BAM, like right now, well then, there you have it, American Dream accomplished. Congratulations, time for back patting, back-pats all around.

I know it can be a scary thought, but sometimes you have to take a chance, step out of your comfort zone, and take a look at what might be a glass that is half full…

Promoted to Project Mayhem

Recently I was promoted. Okay, technically I was advanced from unemployment, but nonetheless the new position is a serious step up from the old. With this promotion came a change of scenery; I am now comfortably running things from a large corner office. Fine, technically, technically I’m in a room that is at the end of two hallways, and it may or may not have two other people in it with me, but nevertheless half the room is windowed and it’s very much not a cubicle. From this promoted position, in the corner office with the windows, I have a great mountain-view that stretches out across the horizon and- dammit, alright, technically, TECHNICALLY I have an obscured sight-line in the direction of downtown that is mainly dominated by a concrete block of a parkade, BUT, if I smoosh my cheek against the window and close one eye, I can see what I’m pretty sure is a foothill, so booyakasha!

I definitely don’t have to do any face smooshing to see the parkade though; big floating vehicle vending machine, it’s like a dog kennel for cars where Motorized Luxury and Super-Powered Four Wheeled Rocket Ships get leashed up to watch the day slip passed them. Except that no one seems to stock the vending machine. Every day I look out towards the top of an antenna that I’m pretty sure belongs to the Calgary tower, and set in the fore ground is a disappointed and lonely parkade. No cars. Ever.

So, quick recap, I’ve been promoted and now live my 9-to-5 with two new friends cozied into a big corner office full of Tetris-piece desks fighting for a look out across Calgary and Co. To add a little more grey to this black-and-white scene, I also have a phone complete with caller ID that never rings, a patient slash challenged computer, an excessive amount of the coolest stationary which I never had access to during my 18 years of formal education, some drawers with nothing in them, no place to hang a jacket, a few small treasures gifted to me by the desk’s previous casualty, a fun little access card with a goofy picture of someone that looks like me on his first day of work, and a parking stall, three blocks away from the building, in a vacant lot with a conservative amount of zero security. Just living the dream.

Minus the sarcasm, it really is a pretty decent set-up. And if we’re being honest, which of course we are (trust-tree and all) technically, technically nothing has changed from the beginning to the end of the Fire-Hire Roller Coaster Ride that I just stumbled off of – it’s the same brand of EngiNerd wrapped up in a tweaked title… with, one, exception… that view.

From: Webb, Jack
Sent: Tuesday, August 10, 2010 3:00 PM
To: [last name], Hilda A
Subject: Parking at Heritage Square

Hi Hilda,

About 4 weeks ago I changed desk locations here at the Heritage Office and I now look out over the top levels of the Heritage Parkade. I’m a contractor and I know that the parkade is reserved for employees and clients, but I feel like all the empty parking stalls just out my window are taunting me to ask:

Are there open spots available in the Heritage Parkade?
Even though I’m a contractor, parking at the Overflow lot, is there a possibility I could get access and make use of the parkade until an employee requires it?

Like I said, if I didn’t ask, those stalls would just keep taunting me, haha.

Thanks,

Jack Webb

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Hi Jack:

You will just have to endure the taunting I am afraid. [Company the Suits work for], who pay for the parking, have set out guidelines that only direct hire employees of [the company I work for with the battered-wife syndrome] or [the Suits themselves] have access to the parkade. Most of the empty stalls are currently [Suits] dedicated ones which I cannot even use for the 30+ [my company’s weak @ss] people on the wait list.

Hilda

Makes sense, totally makes sense. I’m just a cog in the gear of a company working for a company but working with that company together as more than a team but as a family making the world a better place for the children of the future united as one with the spirit of a success that is fueled by the determination people helping people… WHAT?!?! Hilda, if that is your real name, how does that even come close to making sense?! What in the Eff possible good reason could there be for me to park ten minutes from a building that sits beside an empty parkade? What was it again, some brilliance about needing eight dozen back-up extra reserve redux stalls for a just-in-case kind of maybe scenario that someone once thought could take place where a never before seen ‘client’ materializes out of thin air and can’t use one of the bazillion “For Client Only” guest parking stalls three feet from the freakin main entrance? Was that it? Cause I mean if that’s the case, no worries, what choice do you have Hilda, your hands are tied, rules are rules are rules, right? Maybe, but maybe the eff not. I’m sure there’s a cliché or perhaps a motivational poster somewhere that can explain all this, but is it possible that this situation could be, I don’t know, an overwhelming amount of Stupid?!

I know what you’re thinking, Hilda can’t be her real name. I know, my thoughts exactly! You may also be thinking that Jack is over reacting (as usual – also my thoughts, but what can I say, life’s more interesting with the Drama level tuned to ‘sensitive’). You’re probably tossing around the idea that it’s just a parking stall, just a pair of lines hanging onto a block, just a place for me to abandon my car, just not really that much of a big deal (again, very much what I was thinking about). Were you thinking that even if it is ten minutes from the building, what’s the worry, I’m a walker, I walk, I can handle a morning meander and post work pace, cause quite frankly, I was thinking the exact same thing. But I’ll tell you what else I was thinking. I was thinking that thanks to my promotion, with the windows, and the view, and the constant reminder that there’s enough clear open pavement on top of that parkade to stop a pretty epic road hockey battle in order to land a plane, I’m now very much aware that the reason I can’t ride my lonely motorcycle into the office every morning is because somewhere, out there, over the rainbow of fantasy and make-believe, there’s a fleet of fictional ‘clients’ not parking securely in the comfort of the parkade of motorcycle happiness, forcing me to make use of the criminally-charged vacant lot for no reason other than Hilda’s comical attempt at an explanation of ‘Ridiculousness’.

Maybe I shouldn’t blame the depressed state of my garage-ridden motorcycle solely on Hilda and her Suits though, maybe I should toss a little drama towards the out-of-work Cow-Tippers that wander through my vacant parking lot in search of something Cow-shaped and worthy of a good Tip. You know what I would do if a couple of high school kids had enjoyed a good tipping at the expense of my motorcycle? You know what I would do if I found by bike beaten and scarred at the wrong end of random violence? You know what I would do? Nothing. Maybe have a good cry. Because by five thirty, when hypothetical unsuspecting Jack would be just completing his early evening march towards the official end of his 9-to-5 day, nothing would be left of the Cow-Tipping scene of gore and tragedy other than a fallen two-wheeled comrade and the anger and agony and tears waiting to burst out of poor Jack. No thank you, I’ll stick to the frustrations of the status quo, and cleverly whine about things instead.

So where are we then, promotion, windows, parkade… right, so long story short, when you hear that crazy freak news story on the radio talking about an insane person who bombed an empty parkade in a quiet part of Calgary, you’ll know that Jack finally went Project Mayhem on the Suits…


... I am Jack's smiling Homework Assignment

A Comment on the Comments

The Globe and Mail ran a story entitled ‘8-year-old boy is U.K.’s newest art sensation’. Great title. It’s not terribly clever or laced with witty word play, but it sums up the entire story and lets you walk away from the headline with all the information you need, and a smile. Or at least that’s what I thought when I pried myself away from this perfect prodigy plot.


On the surface, in it's simplest form, it appears to be a story with an atmosphere of purity and hope. The kid has incredible skill and after a brief encounter with his popular and sought after collection, I can’t imagine looking at his accomplishments as anything other than impossibly amazing. Along with his outrageous talent, the boy seems to approach life from a very natural place where he describes his art with the fun and innocence that is only ever hidden inside the mind of a child. And while reading the article I found, with great happiness, that he appears to have very caring parents with concerns that centre around their son's enjoyment of life and the respect of his unique gift. They obviously lack in the parenting skills of the Lohans and Downey Sr.’s of the world, but no one gets to choose their parents. It’s a great story, an excellent start to the weekend, and the perfect way to remind yourself that the world is incredible and unpredictable and awesome; on the surface that is.

I finish this story, this account of someone so young with so much talent, and oddly enough that is not the aspect of the article that I have trouble wrapping my mind around. 'Amazing' I can grasp, 'Unique' I like, it's 'Ridiculous' I struggle with, because it’s all fun and games until you jump into the online Comments. Actually, to be honest, the commentary that finds its way onto these posted internet articles is a whole new vein of entertainment.

Naturally you’ll come across people who govern their world with logic and knowledge and adventurous experience, touching on a side of Interesting you had never considered. You are bound to find some jokester and comedians who will spin some laughs into the scene and give the story a fun little twist and a giggle. And for the most part the post-script of a publication can open up all kinds of new and exciting avenues, colouring the topic of choice in an exhilarating way.

But then there are the other guys, and they are nothing like Ferrell and Wahlberg’s charming big screen duo. These depressed collections of doofus drowning in misery while hating beauty and the world over, all at the same time, who are these fools? I start browsing through the Comments section after filling my body with the warm-and-tinglies that only a story of success and hope can bring to a person, and I come across true mental vomitous. Did that one comment actually make a go of tearing into the kid’s work? I don’t know that I would categorize myself as having ‘the eye for art’, but I’m pretty sure that not only is his stuff at least above average, I believe he’s still only a FREAKIN 8 YEAR OLD! What kind of darkness needs to be hiding inside you before you can say ‘Ummm, I don’t know if the Piece speaks to me, the attitude is thin, and I get no sense of the artist's history’. Just a head-shake. That's all there is to say about it. Imagine an 8 year dashes down the 100 meter sprint in 12 seconds and the feat is dismissed because he's 3 seconds off Bolt's pace. He's 8!!!


Here are some of my favourites, true gems locked in the Comments section of this little article:

- “These remind me of the fodder you buy on the streets of Rome or Paris. Poor craft, lagging intellect and regressive aesthetic. Not so much "art" as reproduction of historically post-relevant work. I much prefer kids "art" that is creative, and coveys their own ideas and senses. That is what "art" is. This is merely reproduction of other ideas.”

- “At first I thought it was some abstract crap, but hey that's pretty amazing, he has a developed sense of atmosphere.”

- “As the saying goes, nail two things together that haven't been nailed together before and some idiot will buy it as art.”

- “Nice late 19th century impressionist knockoff - maybe more to say about brushwork if it wasn't on an LCD screen. From here it looks if the kid was older, he'd be selling in the "stock image" market for hotel suites and middle management boardrooms. So it's great to be eight. The real "stars" here are the agents and middle men who have worked his price up to where it is.”

… really? REALLY?!?! Pompous idiots. I wonder if they have trouble taking themselves seriously. These are the people who need the internet. These are the people who are not allowed to go out in public anymore due to the fact that the majority of the sane population has an overwhelming urge to punch them in the mouth. In the past, one might read a story in the paper, find themselves generating some inner dialogue, and share it around the water cooler or at the dinner table. But now, in the words of a devoted Hi-Jacked! reader "any goof ball with a key board can chime in". It’s like one big 'Tard party, and we all get to sit back and enjoy the lunacy.

Have a go at the article yourself, it truly is great. Enjoy the optimism of Hope and Success and the defeat of impossibility, imagine a life where at 8 you could create like this mini-Monet, consider what your world would be like if you were harnessing these powers, and of course, after finding that happy little place where anything is possible, don't forget to peruse the Comments, because that's where the good stuff is...

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/arts/8-year-old-boy-is-uks-newest-art-sensation/article1672122/

Riding the Fly-Overs

Visit Gillett Wyoming, check. There goes another one off the bucket list… no one has ever said that, no one actually knows what a ‘Gillett Wyoming’ is. But they should. Not because it’s hiding a fierce to-do list of summer Musts, or because it’s charm rivals my own, but because it’s a destination at the end of an adventure. What more do you need?


One of my own has been stationed in the quiet North East corner of that deserted in-between state of Wyoming. He’s manning a “Somebody’s Gotta Do it” post as one of those heroes who leave the real-world and battle the elements of the unknown. That was their plan for him, our’s was to life-line him back to reality.

Waiting 1300km from Calgary, Gillett was just close enough to tickle the idea of getting there on the pony. I hadn’t yet unleashed the Honda VTX on an endless highway since befriending it this Spring, so when a 5-day weekend gave the 1300km the respect in deserved, we started strategizing.

‘We’ was just enough of a team to be a convoy; Ali paved the way in the black Jeep making room for my VTX work-horse and the Royal Star’s two man team of Rick and Marie. We packed essentials, mapped out the possibilities, and drove off into the unknown lands of the Fly-Overs.

There’s something that carries the adventure a little deeper when you push yourself up off the crutch of jet-set travel, when you return to the road and become a part of the trip. On a bike it feels like you move the road, not the other way around. Without the window to hold back your imagination, freedom becomes the only thing that’s ever existed; you, the bike, and the unfolded stage are all in pursuit of the next line of the story. We were carrying everything we needed and charged south, one step up from the saddle of a cowboy’s old West ways.

The two bikes were sewn up at the hands of a couple of bungee-cord artists – bags draped across seats and saddle bags, equipped like life-rafts piggy-backing rocket ships. Our crew rolled out of the garage with more than enough enthusiasm to break through the city’s limits. We hopped from gas-bar to truck-stop, sampling coffee, beef jerky, and the best of the Diner’s 2010 circuit. Alberta faded away along with Wednesday’s setting sun. Time stalled only briefly as we waited at the border crossing, calming the motorcycles as they bagged us to push on. On the other side our introduction to Montana was a strange little world that existed only as two empty lanes. Beyond our modest head lamps, the secrets of darkness.

Nothing rewards the fight against wind and rain and bugs like bed. Like the distraction of competition found in sport, the open road and revealing landscape let you forget about the toll the task takes on you physically and mentally. It became routine for us to get off the bikes at the end of the day and instantly fall into a happy exhaustion.

The Thursday morning light mustered up an amazing Montana. This was why Gillett was introduced into our lives. Throughout the day the country side offered up everything from the big skies of the open plains, to the hidden valleys where land had escaped its surroundings, to towns that had always been there and never wanted more than their own existence. We weren’t in a rush. Scenic Byways, Alternate Routes, Rest Stops, Look Outs, Points of Interest, it was all part of our schedule. And along with some of the most beautiful performances that we could have hoped for, Montana carried us through into Wyoming with just as much disaster as dazzle. Depressing, desolate places that had seen nothing but tough times before coming across tough times. Ghost towns without the ghosts. And yet, even in the misery of broken down buildings, abandoned homes, and worn out schools, there was something captivating about this unknown. In each place that wandered across our path we caught a piece of the story, a sampling of what had moved through, shaped the community, changed the people into ‘folks’ (something that had found a home in these lonely states and felt comfortable enough never to venture on). In some cases the wild of the wild west had slowly started to take back what was once its own, leaving towns partially swallowed up by the land, half way between cute and crooked. If you didn’t keep moving, you would never move again - that’s how these places worked. We never stayed much longer than a fuel-up and a stretch, because although we weren’t racing the horizon, we could feel the next turn calling our names.

We left a short stretch ahead of ourselves for a Friday morning meet and greet with Gillett. Big Barbeque staked its claim on Thursday night, and worked hard to defeat our traveling appetites. Those American Cowboys know how to put together a meal, and they weren’t concerned with the confines of a single plate. There was almost as much barbeque chow on the table as there was great outdoors on the walls (it was a who’s who in the Wyoming zoo of trophy heads cozying up the cook house). We would pass other grill specialists, and our trip would eventually bring us to another BBQ house where once again I would be out done by the table full of plates that the kitchen challenged us with. Quantity, Quality, Atmosphere; these parts know how barbeque is done. The American Roadhouse has now become a staple of the open road in our circles.

Gillett, Wyoming. Over 800 miles had reunited us with Scotty. We settled into his apartment like escaped convicts resurfacing from the fugitive run. I was surprisingly comfortable with not moving. Even though the ride was the adventure and we had grown to love life on the road, a destination can be quite soothing; no need to play favorites. We told stories of the trip and were introduced into Scott’s new world. He had found his place in the town and had heard stories of the front lines, but only from the comfort of his desk. Scott wasn’t quite fighting the same pipeline battles that Daniel Plainview did in There Will Be Blood, but a pipeline’s a pipeline, things can get intense (I’d like to confirm that There Won’t Be Blood in Gillett, however I am told that evil Wyoming winters rile up the crowd something fierce…).

We toured by foot and by truck. On the run we got creeped out by the locals (antelope that suddenly appear in the open fields, watching, waiting, up to no good), but managed to convince them we wanted no part of their strange behavior. While seeing the sights via four wheels (I use the word ‘sights’ in a pretty casual way), we learned two things about Gillett; one, it’s entirely possible that no one is actually from Gillett (or visiting Gillett for that matter – you do your job and you get the he!l out of there), and two, you are only allowed to drive a truck. Motorcycles are allowed to cruise on through, but in no way does the term ‘Smart Car’ get you anything close to a nod of respect, it would probably get you a punch in the face. You gotta man up when you’re in Gillett.

In the US, the July 4th weekend is 1 part pride, 1 part waving stars-and-stripes, and 34 parts Fireworks. Every stop we made on our way to Gillett was decorated with a roadside shack covered in ‘explosive deals’, ‘blow out sales’, and ‘FIRE!’. At one point, a clown-car of a hatchback opened up and a pile of kids jumped onto the scene. After a nice round of the kind of too-much-excitement that only flashy bombs can put in the hearts of children, their dad walked away from the Fire Work Stand with a Wiley Coyote sized crate of celebration. He tossed the kids, the crate, and all that July 4th enthusiasm into the back seat of his stay-out-of-Gillett hatchback and took off to make some memories. Every night we’d been south of the boarder there had been a light show, and Gillett was no different. We saw everything from ‘Professionals’ to ‘a dude in a field trying to start a grass fire’. Grass Fire guy wasn’t very good at getting the Fire Works to go up in the air, he was better at having them jump up ten feet, dropped down into a crowd of kids, and fizzle out. The Fire Work scene never got old and we spent Friday night in Gillett becoming expert Fire Work critics.

The road was calling and it called us back west. We were on the move again Saturday morning, but only after Scott’s hospitality filled our bellies with his homemade flapjacks. He knew what the trail had in store for us. We explored more of Wyoming, and like the road to Gillett, our new route revealed more of American’s ‘Best Of’. Rick reminded us that the first rule of Road Rides is, never travel the same route twice. So we had kidnapped Scott and the five of us rolled through State Parks and National Forests into the booming rodeo world of Cody. As it turns out, everyone in Wyoming was in Cody. This was a complete one-eighty from the peace and nothing that makes up the rest of the state’s hot spots, and we ate up the energy.

You don’t have to own a motorcycle for long before it becomes part of the family. Not in the sense that unconditional love is dished out and you ignore siblings and parents in order to max out the quality time with the bike, but more so in the sense that the motorcycle is now part of your photo collection. It’s come to the point where it may actually be more likely to find a picture of the VTX and the Royal Star mugging for a shot in front of some expansive Wyoming display, than it is to find any of the Webbs locked in frame. I have dozens of shots documenting the travels of my bike. Like the Travelocity Gnome, the background becomes a slide show and the VTX stands front and centre, smiling about all the attention.

By Sunday afternoon we were watching Old Faithful continue its Cal Ripken Jr. streak, and the 5 of us to pictures of each other taking pictures of Yellowstone’s geyser king. It was after circling the park’s scenic highway, dodging herds of buffalo, and catching a Yogi and Booboo photo shoot, that our convoy split apart and passed each other the good-byes. Even Long Weekends are still a little too much Weekend and not enough Long. Scott and Al turned back eastward while Rick, Marie, and I reigned in the bikes and pulled them north; it was time to head home.

There’s no way to fake the kind of connection that creates itself when a couple of motorcycles train it through the country side. At first the stories are told at the rest stops, the moment the helmet pops off. The bikes will stop rolling and the Did-you-see’s, Remember-when’s, and When-we-were’s begin to fly back and forth. It becomes circled wagons without the campfire every hundred miles. Then, after enough highway has come and gone the detail of the debriefs isn’t needed, and the group becomes synchronized. Before long the rest stops are filled with only cues, collections of words and incomplete sentences that bring everyone on to the same page. “Back when we first turned on to the 87…”, “Yep. Incredible”, “…and that green truck?”, “Hahaha, I love it!”, “I couldn’t believe it, that last town…”, “I know, same…”. It turns into code, a language open only to the privacy of the bike entourage. But that doesn’t mean that isolation will creep into your ride, the motorcycle is your ‘In’, and from there the stories really get wild. We met people who had travelled near impossible mileage, bounced off each corner of the continent, traveled solo, as a pair, in a group, on stripped down Harleys, in tricked out Gold Wings, and with glossed up Victorys. We ran into stories about great stretches of road, terrible weather, must-see sights, and encounters with the bizarre. We shot-the-sh!t, talked about nothing, and discussed everything. It was an exclusive club that hide in plain sight, and we’d found our way in.

The three of us shared the journey home like it was a secret we had stumbled upon; some great discovery that gave depth to our understanding of what was happening and why we were doing it. An experience like the motorcycle trip cultivates history within the group almost instantly. And this history only gets stronger on the other side because once the bikes are tucked away and the pursuit of the next horizon fades, the memories start to fuel that tickle in your mind. The road never dies, it simple swings to the side and waits for you to leave your day-to-day rest stop. The key is to plan to plan and start your next countdown to adventure before your last outing has taken you back to base camp again.