Thursday, July 26, 2012

The Zen of Grease

In an increasingly materialistic world, the greasy lifestyle seems simple in comparison. It has an almost zen-like minimalism to it. While it is true that it might be stressful to search for an elusive carburetor part or lacking funds for another tattoo, the solution is not overly complicated. Equally stressful is the demise of CD stores, making the acquisition of music that more complicated. There are some among us who find it difficult to download music , either due to lack of sufficient computer skills or bad credit bordering on the criminal. Even more stressful still is the sound quality of MP-3's, which in my opinion sounds likes flies buzzing around a pile of dogshit. These situations can all be resolved as we patiently wait for the carburetor part that was found on e-bay or perhaps purchasing a USB D/A converter to make MP-3's sound better ( that's D/A as in digital to ananlog, not Duck Ass, although that would be an interesting gizmo to own; a Duck Ass Converter) All these greasy conundrums solve themselves in the long run and we can go on with our lives.

I am not going to launch on some tirade against rampant consumerism. We all need basic stuff like underwear, booze, Marlboros, gasoline, lots and lots of hair product, power bars, drunk 3 am pizza, and did I mention booze? Regardless of income, life, in particular the greasy life, does not have to be complicated. There is, however, shit out there that completely perplexes me as to why anyone would want to acquire it.

1.The Box.

I am no real estate expert by any means, but Vancouver BC has one of the most over-inflated and fucked up real estates market in North America. In recent years, developers have gained a ravenous appetite for even the smallest patch of land onto which they will erect a condo tower. I hope that my friends South of the border are currently sitting down, because the average 500 square foot condo will set you you back for a cool half million. You read that correctly; 500, 000 bones. For a box, In a tower. Surely this is what hell must be like. Crammed into a little box surrounded by two hundred other  boxes all inhabited by pretentious squares.

All these pretentious squares are only to happy to tell you what you can and cannot do, and will whine and complain at the slightest sound emanating from your box, or evil of all evils, catch a whiff of cigarette smoke. There are condo fees and a myriad of rules and regulations, some as petty as not being allowed to bring something as innocuous as a bicycle into to your own box for which you have just laid down an obscene amount of money. But, wait, the fun is only just beginning. Each tower has a governing body called a "Strata Council".

This is where a bunch of half-demented angry old ladies, condescending yuppie types and aristocratic wannabes, all drunker on power than the dirtiest hobo on Aqua-Velva, feel that they have the absolute right to dictate every aspect of your daily life and what goes on inside your concrete box. Any form of dissension is not tolerated and these people even feel that they have the right to reprimand you.And you thought hell didn't exist. It's all academic however, cuz you can bet yer boots that they don't want my kind in their multi- box universe. That's fine by me, because I would never choose to live that way. Not that I would be able to cough half a mill anytime soon, and even if I could, I find the thought of living in a trailer somewhere more and more appealing every day. Funny thing about trailers and Winnebagos; People ( by people I mean mainly strata council type people) will assume that you are a big sack of  redneck white trash shit if you live in one of them, but will be very impressed if you were to live on a boat. Same thing in my mind, just no wheels on the boat.

2. Shit That Floats

I don't have anything against boats per se, it's just something that never interested me. I once had a bunch of beers with a buddy who lives year round on a boat and it was pretty cool. Boats are dangerous enough on open water, but I couldn't imagine coming home after a night of drinking and trying to navigate those narrow walkways that are bobbing up and and down to try to get in my boat. I would soon drown. We are surrounded by water here on the West Coast and many people, it seems, own boats. I have taken a few boat rides and I got so bored that I could kick a dog. Even copious quantities of booze cannot dilute the boredom for me. As I sit by the water from time to time enjoying a beer near a marina , I am often left wondering why anybody would want a boat that is bigger than the average house. It seems to be an ostentatious display. I , for one, am not impressed. Much bigger but just as boring, stinks like rotting fish, probably sinks very easily and if they catch on fire you are screwed( which is ironic because they are surrounded by water).

For a true adventure in boredom however, I recommend taking a three hour ferry ride. The capitol of our Province is located on an island ( another sound bureaucratic decision) and the only way to get there is to take you and your a car on a very, very expensive ride on what is, essentially, a floating loser cruiser. There literally is nothing to do on a ferry, and much to my dismay, I found out the hard way that they don't serve booze on the ferries. You can get as much crappy coffee and over-priced burgers as you want, but no booze. They also don't sell smokes, but you may purchase 10 different varieties of moose t-shirts or 5 gallon cans of maple syrup in the depressing convenience store located on board. If you happen to miss the return ferry, you are almost guaranteed a sleep-over in your car. For some reason, the ferries up here keep smashing into things or are prone to sinking. Another good argument for staying on dry land, where nothing moves and the liquor stores are plentiful.

Now for an adventure in boredom of analogous to the fires of hell, a cruise on a cruise ship would do the trick. This the absolute last thing on earth that I would choose to needlessly dispose of my hard-earned cash on. Stuck on a huge boat for two weeks would be bad enough, but all the excess would kill me. How many seven course meals and all you can eat buffets can one indulge in without eventually blowing an artery? All that insincere overly-fawning customer service would drive me nutso as well. It's like those situations in upscale restaurant where the server comes around every 60 seconds to ask if everything is OK ( it always seems to be when you have a mouthful of food ) with a cult-member like vacant smile. Except that on a cruise ship it's much worst, they are paid to literally kiss your ass. I don't like having my ass kissed; I prefer a surly barkeep who just keeps the drinks coming at a steady pace.

If that wasn't bad enough, the so-called entertainment that is provided is definitely hell's soundtrack. I'm sure some of these entertainers are talented and a steady gig is a good thing to have, but it must kill some of them to be forced to play the same cheesy music over and over again. But the squares love it! The crappier the better, they love it! Keep in mind that to these people, the house band at the Las Vegas Motel 6 is avant-garde. That brings up another point, can you imagine the type of people that you would be forced to associate with for two weeks? It would seem like a floating Jehova's Witness convention. Man Overboard!

There can be another sinister side-effect from taking one of these cruises. These ships are more or less analogous to a large sealed tin can. With 3000 people jammed inside it. Coughing, belching, farting, wheezing people. It seems that it makes the news with alarming frequency, where cruise passengers suddenly develop some mysterious illness en masse and the health authorities are at a loss to explain it. A PHD is not required to figure it out; you jam 3000 strangers together into a poorly ventilated tin can, and an outbreak of Ebola virus is bound to happen.

3. Nice Doggie.

I won't digress onto the subject of people who put hats on chihuahuas , I think that I had ranted sufficiently about that in a recent post, but suffice it to say that I like dogs. More specifically; other people's dogs. I simply do not relish the thought of picking up poop. I just ain't doing it. If you don't mind picking up poop, that is indeed your prerogative. I get to play with your dog and you get to pick up the poop, a very good arrangement.

My issue lies with people who are obsessed about dog "breeds" and the lineage of said dogs. Dogs are descended from wolves who eventually became domesticated because they followed stone age humans around to eat their trash. To this day dogs love trash and will heartily eat trash at any given opportunity. From a genetic point of view a dog is a wolf,  therefore all dogs are genetically identical. The concept of breed is a recent human invention. Essentially, and without exaggeration, pure-bred dogs are inbred. This is sad for the poor critters, as many pure-bred dogs have congenital genetic defects. Has the movie Deliverance not taught us anything? Inbreeding does not produce good results.

As a result, pure bred dogs are some of the dumbest critters around. Some have the doggie equivalent of Tourette's Syndrome and will bark incessantly for hours on end and run head on into walls at full speed. Others are too dumb to understand the concept of fetching a stick and will blankly stare at you after you have thrown said stick or will chase the stick, take off and keep running, never to be seen again. Some breeds are so dumb, it takes them 8 hours to figure out that have the left the house, so they barely notice when you come home from work. Other breeds will pee right there on the spot if you so much as look at them. Like humans, some of the best  dogs are mutts, so maybe get yourself down to the SPCA and adopt a nice mutt.

That's about enough ranting for today I suppose. I was going to go on how they have absolutely nothing that I would ever need at Wal-Mart, but they have some scary lawyers. Yes Wal-Mart lawyers, those 9 dollar stretch jeans fit me just fine, it don't matter if that lamp I bought set fire to my house and the food poisoning that I got from the Cashews that had monkey-poop in them will eventually go away.

The weekend is almost here folks, so let us spend our hard-earned cash wisely. I'll see you at the liquor store.

1 comment:

  1. For Greaser Hot-Rodders, one of our biggest problems is tool addiction. Shortage of money to buy tools and shortage of tool storage space. I bet all of your Hot Rodding buddies bitch about running out of toolbox space!

    Oh and I don't know about Walmart in Canada, but the Walmarts here in the states sell Rustler jeans, the lower-budget version of Levi 501's. I wore Rustlers back in my teenage Greaser days before I could afford 501's.