First Breakfast Note of the Season
I wrote a number of notes last year while guests were having breakfast. That was mainly because that was about the only time I had during which to write anything at all, and I didn't have time to respond to any e-mails other than those for reservations. I've since had an entire winter of mental atrophy, yet the habit of writing notes stuck. Like most technological advances, it allows one to be lazy and lulls one into believing that one is indeed making or maintaining real connections to others.
Well, I've discovered that a lot of peole like Yeats... so that's something.
The point of this note is just to acknowledge that this is the beginning of yet another season of serving breakfasts and working 19 hour days. I shall be quite near death by the end of it. But in the words of cs., when if not now?
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Imported Facebook Note
Dressed for Sunday Night at the Purple Onion
The Whale Festival is on in Tofino. I'm not entirely sure what the whale festival is about, aside from the fact that it coincides with school and statutory holidays, and takes places in a town that seems to have something to do with whales. Tonight, there is a Whale Festival event called "Martini Migration"... which has nothing at all to do with whales, but rather involves (so I've heard) an entire town pouring into the community centre (which resembles something like an elementary school gymnasium, minus the basketball hoops and with lower ceilings) and getting drunk on "martinis" made by various restaurants in the area, who are all competing, I suppose, for the title of "best martini."
I had heard that this event is extremely popular, and that tickets sell out within hours of their going on sale. Knowing this, I had no desire to be there. As it turns out, however, the tickets were not impossible to get, and a co-worker offered to sell me a ticket. I still wasn't all that enthusiastic about it... but seeing as I live in Tofino, I felt that I should make some sort of effort to partake in the social going ons of this town...
I was told that this is one of those rare events in which one gets to "dress up"... last time I was told this, it was the Mermaid Ball... to which people showed up in togas and gumboots, I kid you not... this calls into question the local definition of "dressing up"... and I sure as hell wasn't going to show up at another one of these events dressed for Sunday night at the Purple Onion.
I was assured that people actually dressed *up* for this... in real clothes... not togas and gumboots and pirate costumes (I don't get the pirate costume thing... they seem really popular here). I was also assured that this event was a good place to "hook up"... which, given the nebulousness of the unintentionally long-term yet evidently meaningless entanglements of the past year or two, seemed like an opportunity to, at the very least, move along.
I could go through and describe the ordeal in detail, but it is as depressing for me as it would be entertaining for you, and I'm not feeling particularly altruistic at the moment.
Well. That's that then. Now I'm quite committed to never going to another social function in Tofino. Expectations are to be re-adjusted. Equilibrium is to be achieved between working and surfing, and the ultimate goal of a quick and painless death shall be constantly brought back to the top of the list. I only wish that, by the time it is my turn to croak, I play the flute as well as Schopenhauer did on the day of his death at age 72.
The Whale Festival is on in Tofino. I'm not entirely sure what the whale festival is about, aside from the fact that it coincides with school and statutory holidays, and takes places in a town that seems to have something to do with whales. Tonight, there is a Whale Festival event called "Martini Migration"... which has nothing at all to do with whales, but rather involves (so I've heard) an entire town pouring into the community centre (which resembles something like an elementary school gymnasium, minus the basketball hoops and with lower ceilings) and getting drunk on "martinis" made by various restaurants in the area, who are all competing, I suppose, for the title of "best martini."
I had heard that this event is extremely popular, and that tickets sell out within hours of their going on sale. Knowing this, I had no desire to be there. As it turns out, however, the tickets were not impossible to get, and a co-worker offered to sell me a ticket. I still wasn't all that enthusiastic about it... but seeing as I live in Tofino, I felt that I should make some sort of effort to partake in the social going ons of this town...
I was told that this is one of those rare events in which one gets to "dress up"... last time I was told this, it was the Mermaid Ball... to which people showed up in togas and gumboots, I kid you not... this calls into question the local definition of "dressing up"... and I sure as hell wasn't going to show up at another one of these events dressed for Sunday night at the Purple Onion.
I was assured that people actually dressed *up* for this... in real clothes... not togas and gumboots and pirate costumes (I don't get the pirate costume thing... they seem really popular here). I was also assured that this event was a good place to "hook up"... which, given the nebulousness of the unintentionally long-term yet evidently meaningless entanglements of the past year or two, seemed like an opportunity to, at the very least, move along.
I could go through and describe the ordeal in detail, but it is as depressing for me as it would be entertaining for you, and I'm not feeling particularly altruistic at the moment.
Well. That's that then. Now I'm quite committed to never going to another social function in Tofino. Expectations are to be re-adjusted. Equilibrium is to be achieved between working and surfing, and the ultimate goal of a quick and painless death shall be constantly brought back to the top of the list. I only wish that, by the time it is my turn to croak, I play the flute as well as Schopenhauer did on the day of his death at age 72.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Imported Facebook Note
George's South Island Adventure
George is an old dog. I don't know how old he is... but I'm sure he's quite old. He is, in fact, old and crazy... which is why I can't leave him with anyone... and which is why I took him on a surf-camping-trip.
s. and I packed up the newly acquired aerostar (which has been named "Steve"... because he's a Ford and therefore American... and Steve has always been, to me, the ultimate American name) and drove down to Jordan River. Steve is the best surf vehicle ever... it held two people, five surfboards (11', 9'1", 7'8, 6'6", 6'4"), two wetsuit bins, a dog, and all the camping gear and food required with room to spare... all of this *in* the car, nothing on top.
We were meeting s.'s friend Anatole, and Anatole's friend Miranda at Jordan River. It was to be a foursome of two non-couples.
I had never met Anatole, and s. had never met Miranda. On our way there, I mentioned that I know a Miranda who cycled across most of Russia by herself... alone... on a bike... with no support... the plan was to go from Vladivostok to Moscow... including a stretch of Siberia known as "the land with no roads"... she made it to the foothills of the Urals before her visa ran out, narrowly escaping death and fates worse than death on various occasions... and the Miranda I know is about to go off to cycle from Cairo to Capetown.
All s. knew about Anatole's friend is that her name was Miranda and that she took up surfing while hanging out with the surf press in Australia. The Miranda I know also took up surfing in Australia while in the process of "becoming a writer"... well, it's a small small world... because three years later, there we were, meeting at Jordan River through people we didn't know.
We logged almost 1000kms for this surf trip... and surfed only twice (s. and I, anyway... I think Anatole and Miranda got in a session before we arrived and after we left)... I didn't catch a single ride... but did managed to get bruised all over from the rocks. Paddling out was easy... but experiencing the pissing contests that were Sombrio and Jordan River just wasn't all that worthwhile. s. and I agreed that this surf trip was perfect, in that the camping part was fun and friendly, and, most importantly, in that it taught us to love Tofino all the more. We love our beach breaks. We love our closeouts. We love the impossible paddle-outs. We have a home break... and it's perfect. (well, I have one, anyway... s. is moving back to Vancouver, or at least that appears to be the plan right now)...
And, unexpectedly, George had an excellent time on this trip. He joined us in every single one of our misguided surf checks... and ended up hiking to what we had hoped were secret surf spots along the Juan de Fuca trail. He navigated terrain that I would never have expected him to... steep trails, large boulders, fast moving creeks... but s. and Anatole were George's personal cheerleaders, encouraging him at every questionable juncture to make the jump, or the climb, or whatever it took. George had a totally awesome time. George loves the aerostar, too... he slept outside one night, and the next night, in the aerostar with me and s... and there was enough room for all three of us to stretch out.
s. and I won't be going to South Island again anytime soon... but the trip was still sort of perfect. We confirmed that Schopenhauer was right... and I got a chance to catch up with Miranda.
Time for bed now. Got to go out to my favourite beach break tomorrow morning at 7AM and catch a whole lot of rides before it's time to go to work.
George is an old dog. I don't know how old he is... but I'm sure he's quite old. He is, in fact, old and crazy... which is why I can't leave him with anyone... and which is why I took him on a surf-camping-trip.
s. and I packed up the newly acquired aerostar (which has been named "Steve"... because he's a Ford and therefore American... and Steve has always been, to me, the ultimate American name) and drove down to Jordan River. Steve is the best surf vehicle ever... it held two people, five surfboards (11', 9'1", 7'8, 6'6", 6'4"), two wetsuit bins, a dog, and all the camping gear and food required with room to spare... all of this *in* the car, nothing on top.
We were meeting s.'s friend Anatole, and Anatole's friend Miranda at Jordan River. It was to be a foursome of two non-couples.
I had never met Anatole, and s. had never met Miranda. On our way there, I mentioned that I know a Miranda who cycled across most of Russia by herself... alone... on a bike... with no support... the plan was to go from Vladivostok to Moscow... including a stretch of Siberia known as "the land with no roads"... she made it to the foothills of the Urals before her visa ran out, narrowly escaping death and fates worse than death on various occasions... and the Miranda I know is about to go off to cycle from Cairo to Capetown.
All s. knew about Anatole's friend is that her name was Miranda and that she took up surfing while hanging out with the surf press in Australia. The Miranda I know also took up surfing in Australia while in the process of "becoming a writer"... well, it's a small small world... because three years later, there we were, meeting at Jordan River through people we didn't know.
We logged almost 1000kms for this surf trip... and surfed only twice (s. and I, anyway... I think Anatole and Miranda got in a session before we arrived and after we left)... I didn't catch a single ride... but did managed to get bruised all over from the rocks. Paddling out was easy... but experiencing the pissing contests that were Sombrio and Jordan River just wasn't all that worthwhile. s. and I agreed that this surf trip was perfect, in that the camping part was fun and friendly, and, most importantly, in that it taught us to love Tofino all the more. We love our beach breaks. We love our closeouts. We love the impossible paddle-outs. We have a home break... and it's perfect. (well, I have one, anyway... s. is moving back to Vancouver, or at least that appears to be the plan right now)...
And, unexpectedly, George had an excellent time on this trip. He joined us in every single one of our misguided surf checks... and ended up hiking to what we had hoped were secret surf spots along the Juan de Fuca trail. He navigated terrain that I would never have expected him to... steep trails, large boulders, fast moving creeks... but s. and Anatole were George's personal cheerleaders, encouraging him at every questionable juncture to make the jump, or the climb, or whatever it took. George had a totally awesome time. George loves the aerostar, too... he slept outside one night, and the next night, in the aerostar with me and s... and there was enough room for all three of us to stretch out.
s. and I won't be going to South Island again anytime soon... but the trip was still sort of perfect. We confirmed that Schopenhauer was right... and I got a chance to catch up with Miranda.
Time for bed now. Got to go out to my favourite beach break tomorrow morning at 7AM and catch a whole lot of rides before it's time to go to work.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Imported Facebook Note
Eating Broccolini
I don't agree with the time. I don't feel that it's as late as it's supposed to be. It is past 11PM and I have just begun having dinner.
Dinner tonight is a plate of microwave steamed broccolini, which is an odd looking, chewy, and rather tasteless imitation of broccoli. I found it in a bag on my kitchen counter, and, not feeling like cooking anything else, decided to have it for dinner.
And here is how broccolini came to exist in my kitchen:
Yesterday, I went and looked at the surf with a vegetarian friend and decided not to surf. We also decided that the a vegetarian Delissio(tm) rising crust frozen pizza would best be accompanied by some steamed broccoli, so we went to Beaches Groceries in search of same. We arrived in separate cars, went into this little tiny grocery shack one after another, and for reasons to which I hadn't given any thought, acted like we didn't know eachother (okay. lie. I probably did think about it... though not for very long). I bought eggs, milk, and strawberries, and left and drove home. He arrived several minutes later, sans broccoli. "This is broccolini. They didn't have broccoli. Pacheabel said it's even better than broccoli because it has a cute name." Pacheabel? Could there be more than one? "Yeah, she's Andrew Struther's daughter"
Pacheabel... I had read about her. The book was written by her father, and published in 2004. In the book, she was a tiny little girl... not much older than my niece, I would imagine (she's 7). I could add on a few years for the time it takes to write and publish a book... but seeing her as a real life adult caused a little cognitive dissonance... time is moving too quickly.
Milton was 24 when he wrote "How soon hath time"... then boom! next thing you know, he's old and blind and considering how his light is spent... and now... he's been dead for more than 300 years.
Tic. Tic. Tic. Tic. Tic. Tic. Tic. Tic. Tic....
I don't agree with the time. I don't feel that it's as late as it's supposed to be. It is past 11PM and I have just begun having dinner.
Dinner tonight is a plate of microwave steamed broccolini, which is an odd looking, chewy, and rather tasteless imitation of broccoli. I found it in a bag on my kitchen counter, and, not feeling like cooking anything else, decided to have it for dinner.
And here is how broccolini came to exist in my kitchen:
Yesterday, I went and looked at the surf with a vegetarian friend and decided not to surf. We also decided that the a vegetarian Delissio(tm) rising crust frozen pizza would best be accompanied by some steamed broccoli, so we went to Beaches Groceries in search of same. We arrived in separate cars, went into this little tiny grocery shack one after another, and for reasons to which I hadn't given any thought, acted like we didn't know eachother (okay. lie. I probably did think about it... though not for very long). I bought eggs, milk, and strawberries, and left and drove home. He arrived several minutes later, sans broccoli. "This is broccolini. They didn't have broccoli. Pacheabel said it's even better than broccoli because it has a cute name." Pacheabel? Could there be more than one? "Yeah, she's Andrew Struther's daughter"
Pacheabel... I had read about her. The book was written by her father, and published in 2004. In the book, she was a tiny little girl... not much older than my niece, I would imagine (she's 7). I could add on a few years for the time it takes to write and publish a book... but seeing her as a real life adult caused a little cognitive dissonance... time is moving too quickly.
Milton was 24 when he wrote "How soon hath time"... then boom! next thing you know, he's old and blind and considering how his light is spent... and now... he's been dead for more than 300 years.
Tic. Tic. Tic. Tic. Tic. Tic. Tic. Tic. Tic....
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Imported Facebook Note
Gluttony is a sin?
I've had more coffee since Thursday than I usually have in a month. I've also eaten enough food to feed a small Ethiopian family for a week. I think I may have personally been responsible for a world shortage of teff flour.
It is roll up the rim to win time and I have (despite the outrageous coffee consumption) yet to win anything.
I have noted that despite all the light pollution in the city, you can still see Orion in the sky. I have noted that men look better in suits, but that men in suits are not better looking.
I dreamt that Angelica Houston became my boss and was unbearable, and made me fly back into the open arms of my old job, which my real-life replacement unceremoniously abandoned this Thursday.
I am ready to go home.
I've had more coffee since Thursday than I usually have in a month. I've also eaten enough food to feed a small Ethiopian family for a week. I think I may have personally been responsible for a world shortage of teff flour.
It is roll up the rim to win time and I have (despite the outrageous coffee consumption) yet to win anything.
I have noted that despite all the light pollution in the city, you can still see Orion in the sky. I have noted that men look better in suits, but that men in suits are not better looking.
I dreamt that Angelica Houston became my boss and was unbearable, and made me fly back into the open arms of my old job, which my real-life replacement unceremoniously abandoned this Thursday.
I am ready to go home.
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