A “Hanger-On” in Paradise

A sad fact of my life is that many of my happiest years are just a blur to me and I rely on people who were there to remind me of what they were like.

I got my job as a DJ at The Sandy Cove Cabaret during an unexpected Boxing Day rush. I just started spinning tunes when the bartender was unable to do so. What I didn’t know at that time was that being the club’s DJ also meant I had to mix the bands as well. I managed.

Thinking back on my “entrance” to the bar music scene I often wonder what the hell was I doing DJing on Boxing Day? Surely there was family about, other close ones to be with. The rush that night also meant that there were a lot of other people like me who wanted to be “out” that night. They became fellow travellers in a dark world.

I half-mananged to climb out of the hole that began developing back then. Today, I look back fondly at the music I heard in those days, the bands, the comraderie the bands felt…

Today, I seek not to re-capture the old feelings those old memories release, but to create new memories with a new crowd amongst old faces. I am The Aging Rockstar and I love every new minute of it.

The Long Haul to Wellness

My doctors have decided that they don’t want me to die. I concur. My health isn’t really all that bad but I am reaching that point where if I don’t start caring about my health, a few years from now it will be way too late to do anything about it.

Apparently this means that I have to stop drinking Coca-Cola, cut down on my beer intake, and quit smoking. Shit. One at a time those’d be hard enough but all at once? Never happen. I’m going to start with exercise, get off this ass of mine and start a scheduled workout. My doctor figures that 30 minutes, three times a week will be good to start. Easy for him to say.

With the impending start to a scheduled exercise program, I have decided that it might be time to get back into a mental regimen as well. This basically means writing everyday. Only problem with this is that I don’t have anything terribly interesting to say all the time (this blog entry being the evidence of that). I have always taken issue with the general state of blogs: so much self-absorbed logorrhoea about pets and trips to the doctor, er, trips to the mall, ahem.

So, if I do keep up the writing, I endeavour to make it interesting and topical, not that anyone actually reads these things anyway.

 Baron S. Cameron,

The Aging Rockstar

The Last [Hu]Man Standing

Ever notice how people stopped writing folk songs about the I.R.A. when the Provos starting blowing up shopping malls? There is nothing heroic about being a bully. It would seem that the greatest number of folk songs and stories that deal with violence of any sort are usually about the proud few who stood, who refused to run in the face of overwhelming odds.

I feel that way sometimes. Looking out over the horizon of Western culture and seeing nothing but a wasteland of stunted potential.

In all but the rarest instances, the Ancient plays we study survived because they were popular, mass produced, thus increasing their odds of survival. Was Sophocles the Stephen King of his time? I sincerely hope not. But if history continues as it has, future civilizations will judge us as placing Dan Brown and Miley Ray Cyrus at the zenith of our cultural achievements. Argh…

So we fight.

Someday, while Dan Brown is held as high art, a singer will sing songs in a small cyber-cafe. On the wall behind them will be a poster of what trees and blue sky looked like and the customers will drink replicated coffee. The song will be about us, those who did not go gentle into that good night but cranked our tube amps up and kept the neighbours awake ’till dawn.

BSC.

TV has all the answers

If the battle between Senators Obama and Clinton will be fought on TV, maybe they should look to TV for viable strategies. American audiences seem more involved in voting for the next American Idol than they do choosing a president so it only makes sense.

I find myself watching the Scooby-Doo movie on TV and I have formulated a plan for the Democratic nomination race: run up and pull off the mask. James Carville and Paul Begala could slide nicely into the roles of Scooby and Scrappy Doo, with the one exception being that the Ragin’ Cajun is more of a Pit Bull than a Great Dane.

I can see it now. “That’s not Hillary Clinton! That’s Edgar Bergen in a pants suit!” Sen. Obama would end up being a boy scout on poorly constructed stilts.

Maybe we should send their staffers to Starfleet Academy. This way they would know how to react when they are called upon to write a memo, pen a Xerox joke, or make a phone call to the Canadian Consulate, the political equivalents of being the unknown ensign on an away mission.

Perhaps we could solve the problem of the unseated delegates from Florida (what is up with Florida anyway?) and Michigan by having Drew Carey mediate while Obama and Clinton try to guess the price of new primaries without going over. Come to think of it, The Price is Right could solve the whole thing and put the budget together at the same time: What’s the next item up for bid? It’s Universal Health Care!

I think the TV angle might really work. The public could watch the nominations the same way they already watch TV. As soon as it starts, they know how it’s going to end and their brains turn off until sweeps week.

The “Hot or Cold?” Coffee Conversation

My fingers are freezing as I write this.

With that being said, I would still rather be too cold than too hot. It has always been my belief that if you are too cold (within reason; I’m not talking Antarctica here) there is something you can do about it: put on a coat, run around in circles, etc. Whereas, if you are too hot, unless you have a conveniently placed lake at your disposal, you’re fucked.

I am currently sitting outside at a favourite coffee joint and it is cold. Granted, it’s Vancouver cold, but the reason they call it “Vancouver cold” is it freezes Vancouverites. Hovering around zero degrees centrigrade may seem like a brisk chill to some in the world but for those of us out here in Lotus Land, it’s cold.

A conversation with a pretty, young blonde just ended. She wants to clear up all her debt and move to Honduras. She doesn’t want a closet or dresser. All she needs, so she says, is a bikini, a tank top, and a sarong. Personally, I can’t think of anything worse; cooking things makes them soft. Perhaps that is why New Yorkers have their trademark tough skin and the denizens of the City of Angels throw a temper tamtrum and threaten to sue someone if their latte isn’t the perfect temperature.

The steaming jungles of Africa and Central America may be filled with “hardened” killers, but if you check the labels on their gear, it invariably originates in the frozen climates of the Warsaw Pact countries. In other words, heat brings passion but cold, hard steel is required for any job to be done properly.  

Wouldn’t be nice to just lounge around in the sun all day like so many raisins? Perhaps, but I think there is an inherent freedom in those of us who thrive in the cold. We are forced to create our own heat; therefore, we never sink into the true duldrums that a real paradise would most certainly spawn.