ThinkThought #26 : Tis The Season

Have You Seen Them

ThinkThought #25 : UBCimprov Shuts Your Dick

Have you ever found yourself in a groove; one that may be tolerable, yes, but incessantly monotonous and menial. It's the same ol' same ol', and while the same ol' gets you through each day with some sort of sense of subdued satisfaction, it doesn't necessarily put that bounce in your step or that pound in your proverbial pump.

And then, when you think that you have finally entered the "real world", resolved to the notion of a tedious existence for the next sixty to seventy years (toes crossed), you get reminded that there are more people and more experiences out there for you to encounter, and that it's not yet time to sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. In fact, the previews haven't even started. Instead, Marc "Technology Douche" Saltzman is still trying to convince everyone in the theatre to pick up the latest digital picture frame that can also play MPEG-4 video AND has a nightlight attached to it for improved convenience (customize it with a stylish skincase!). You're a dumbass, Marc Saltzman, and no one is going to buy your digital picture frame. Not even if you can customize it with a Hello Kitty skincase.

This past weekend, I found myself crossing the expanse of lapping salty blue delight towards Gambier Island, home to the (New!) Camp Fircom, ecological ideals, and the attractive and yet entirely unattainable camp director. With me were thirty odd UBCimprovisers, each bringing with them a backpack full of clothes, food, enough alcohol to drown a pygmy, and a boiling sense of excited anticipation. And while most of what happens at the #UBCiretreat stays at the #UBCiretreat (that's called mixing social media)(and trust me, you don't need to know the extent of the expletives explored ["ROY G BIV! You f*cking rainbow..."]), as a whole, it was this weekend, as I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning with a few dozen people, some I knew, but most I was meeting for the first time, that I realized there is much, much more to life than an eight hour shift at a corporate drugstore, or learning about the theory of post-modernism as it applies to ancient gender roles in Anthropology (who knew?). The things that matter more are the conversations you share with the people you have so much in common with, and the humor that evolves from this. Where else would I have seen a pod of orcas swim past the point, the saddest on-stage hand job in the world, had the longest and most intense game of taboo ever (FIELD BUTT SEX!), and enjoyed an entire 48 hours with over 30 like minded people and shared countless moments of delight. If you ever get the chance, I would urge you to do the same, because you'll realize the best your life is can always be better. And way, way funnier.

Thank's UBCimprov. Y'all are classy as shit.

And barring substantial extenuating circumstances, you should come to our first shows of the year! Tuesday, October 25th and Thursday, October 27th at Scarfe 100... only $3! That's way cheaper than paying for sex, and you'll probably have a way better time. Plus there won't be as much crying at the end.

ThinkThought #24 : Haughty Indifference

Have you ever realized that there are some things out there that frustrate you more than anything else in the world, and you just simply can't explain why? Often they are insignificant isms that shouldn't affect your daily life whatsoever, but they do. Whenever I see a man completely shave off his sideburns, I find myself obsessing over how utterly nonsensical he must be to shed his ear turtlenecks, and I automatically assume that I would never speak to him, as I never speak with sideburnless freaks like that. Assimilate? No thank you. Let us be rid of them.


It's the same every time I watch an awards show and the winner, as they stand triumphantly in front of a crowd of adoring fans and malevolent peers, thanks God for their win. God has nothing to do with you winning the Teen Choice Hot Summer Crush award, Justin Bieber. If God is a considerate and rational being, then I am certain, in fact, that he has had nothing to do whatsoever with any of your fame or success, Justin. Now go back and coddle your $53 million while I hold my empty piggy bank and gently weep.

What I have recently discovered is that not only do I hate overzealous trimmers and god-fearing celebrities, but more importantly, customers who seem to find it entirely necessary to over-share. Working at Shoppers, I encounter my fair share of people hoping to discuss their classes, grand-children, or drunken binges, all of which I have no interest in, but am always able to feign a smile and force out monosyllabic responses, just enough for them to feel worthwhile. One such recent occurrence, however, changed all of that.

A certain man who was, how shall we say, unafraid to eat more than his share, came to the counter. Conversation ensued as per the usual.

"Man I was so wrecked last night, went to such a rager, it was absolutely insane!"

"Ah,"

"Yeah man. One of my buds was like God, you must have been living the dream, and I was like yeah man, now I'm living the nightmare."

"Wow..."

At this point in time I look down at what he's placed on the counter. A bottle of Pepto Bismol. Makes sense. For the first time, I try to shrug off my sometimes haughty indifference and engage in verbal communication with another human being that I may not know, but still could very well deserve my respect.

"So you feeling pretty hungover then from last night? That's why you're getting Pepto?"

"Naw man. Ate some bad curry last night, and it's coming back out the other end pretty bad."

I have decided to stick with haughty indifference.

ThinkThought #23 : The Science of Sun

Starting today, I have decided to give up on modern science. While it may be true that I was never truly in touch with the Einsteinian methods and practices regarding the workings of our world, seeing as how the extent of my knowledge regarding the "science of life" is restricted to watering bean plants with coffee and calling it a science fair (I got an A+), I still feel as though this is a major step that I have decided to take. You may ask why it is that I would decide to take this proverbial leap of faith into the unknown, and I would like to tell you that it has come from hours of thought and meditation within some sort of spiritual enlightened state, however, in reality, the sole reason is that it is May 29 and I'm still as pasty as Macaulay Culkin's agoraphobic red-headed half brother.

Tell me how we are on the brink of summer (I can almost smell the sweat dripping out from under a Wreck beach nudist's sarong), but I have yet to have a single opportunity to baste in my own perspiration until I'm golden brown and pretend I'm loving every minute of it. No child has kicked sand in my face, all the while screaming "BEACH MONSTER" as his nanny chases him past a throng of marginally affected, but seemingly entirely perturbed, bikini-clad Earls hostesses (you know exactly who I'm talking about). I have not smelled the delicate waft of BC bud coming from a group of insubordinate teenagers wearing Iron Maiden t-shirts and ripped jeans, rolled up just past the ankle (like they want to ruin the creamy complexion that they've worked so hard to upkeep whilst brooding in their parent's basements), who are rebelling against not only their parents but SOCIETY TOO MAN by sharing a joint on the beach. And, perhaps most importantly, I have not seen what appears to be a small leather pouch containing a single golf ball swinging in the breeze, although on second glance, realizing its simply an elderly testicle attempting to emigrate from the ill-fitting Speedo that it has so begrudgingly called it's moist home.

Instead, I've been privy to countless days of rain and squalor, grey skies, a brisk wind, and just a handful of days that can only be described by your mother, who somehow finds the silver lining in every overcast Vancouver cloud ("Well at least we can be grateful it's not raining!"), at which point you would toss her a "Pessimism rules my life" side eye before dragging your feet to your room and listening to Band of Horses while contemplating how much Vancouver sucks, save for the Canucks being in the playoffs (you only watch the games because you want to get drunk).

It's been that kind of summer.

For some reason, I feel that by abandoning all good judgement, and telling Science that I cheated on it and had a lovechild with a 40 something sexy-pirate latina housekeeper named Mildred, and that our relationship was simply based on true lies, thus the reason for terminating it (well if that wasn't the most unoriginal, embarrassing sentence I've ever written), I will not only be validated, but there also won't be weather forecasters telling me that "Summer is almost here!" before projecting seven days of light showers and below-average temperatures. The weather will have no choice but to cheer up! In the most round about way, I am quite certain that that makes sense.

On second thought, I don't even think the weather (wo)man on the television is even a scientist. They might just be failed actors with a keen eye for green screen graphics and President's Choice-grade haircuts. I feel cheated.

So I'm sorry Mr. Brooks. Despite your best attempts at convincing me of the valours of science in Grade 11 Biology, it's time I ended this relationship once and for all. Now will you please excuse me while I go melanomize myself.