Journal Entry #2

Last week's journal entry for English was about the Stanley Cup Riot.  You know the one:

This one.

In particular though, it was about an article that ran in the Georgia Straight, that posits that group-think was the real culprit.  I find it honestly a bit insulting, seeing as I felt complete disgust and abject horror watching the news as the event was happening.  But at the same time, I recognize that, for all I know, if I had been downtown at the time, I might have been a part of the riot too.

I'd certainly like to believe that I wouldn't have been, but we can't really know how a situation would have unfolded unless we literally experience it.  I could go on about this dissonance between how we perceive ourselves and how we would actually behave when presented a situation, but I was trying to just introduce the topic of my essay.  Which is as follows:

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At the end of the reading on Evolutionary Biology, article author Charlie Smith tells the reader to ask themselves “who is responsible for these kids going on a rampage?”  Based on the rest of the article, it is clear that Smith is posing the question rhetorically; giving his opinion that the city officials in charge of planning the Stanley Cup Finals’ viewing events should be held more responsible.  While not entirely blameless, they shouldn’t be the ones shouldering this burden though.

                The police were undermanned and underprepared seems to be the majority’s opinion.  Dozens, if not hundreds, of Vancouverites raised the call of “They should have been better prepared!”, but nowhere is there a concrete example of how their preparation model could have been improved upon.  Were they undermanned?  The answer is no.  Although police critics would have you believe that the force was neglectful in this, the fact of the matter is that the majority of the VPD was on duty on June 15^th, with a significant portion of officers deployed to the downtown area.  RCMO officers were also contracted to Vancouver for the occasion.  Their presence was there, and as Smith reports in his article, it was anticipated that 1% of venue attendees were looking for trouble; that presence should have been enough to contend with troublemakers.  The police were overwhelmed due to the other 20% of viewers who decided to riot as well.

                Smith takes a curious stance in attempting to exonerate the youths involved in the riot, pointing to the psychological dehumanization at play, while simultaneously humanizing the individuals who were a part of the riot.  If we are to take psychiatrist Dr. Elizabeth Zoffmann’s hypothesis that perhaps riots should be considered “normal” in some situations, then the characters of Nathan Kotylak, Tim Kwong, or any other rioters should be a factor.  Perhaps if this were normal behaviour for persons with under-developed pre-frontal cortexes, then the city is at fault for not instigating a “NO PERSONS UNDER 25” policy.  That is, of course, a ridiculous notion that would be met with the most cantankerous of uproars from the public; in other words, not an option.  In fact, the public showed during the Olympics that similar conditions don’t automatically lead to chaos, which means that there were discernible differences between the Gold Medal game, and Game 7.

                To address the most obvious difference, in 2010, the good guys won.  When we look back further, to 1994, again we find that a riot accompanied a loss.  This, however, does not mean that we can make the assumption that there is causation present.  If there were, then the Canucks would be partially responsible for the riot.  Yes, many a Vancouverite wished bodily harm would befall Brad Marchand, but those feeling were separate from the acts of vandalism that occurred.  The only connection to hockey was that several rioters were clad in Canucks colours and that the riot immediately succeeded the conclusion of the game.

                A more interesting difference between 2010 and 2011 is the social diversity that was present during the Olympics.  Yes, this theory flies directly in the face of what Dr. Zoffmann surmises, but can we perhaps consider that Vancouverites, or Canadians in general (look to Montreal, who have also had riots follow hockey losses), are more socially likely to resort to acts of mob violence?  In 2010, the rest of the world came for a visit, diluting the concentration of Vancouverites per square meter in the downtown district.  Yes, this seems to imply that Canadians are barbaric creatures, incapable of cognitive processes, and for that, I apologize.  I don’t really mean that to be considered a serious explanation for the riot; only an attempt to highlight for farfetched some ideas can be when people look too hard for an explanation.  That isn’t to say though that it couldn’t have played a viable role.

                Consider the crowds present during the Olympic Gold Medal game, versus Game 7.  In the Olympics, yes, the vast majority of viewers were Canadian, but they weren’t alone.  The rest of the world was represented, some clad in our colours for the occasion, and some still decked out in their native colours.  Heck, even the Americans were given fair representation.  But take a gander at Game 7; if you were in black and gold, you could expect to be beaten black and blue.  If you weren’t a Canucks supporter, you weren’t welcome.  Present in the latter situation is a much more potent mob mentality, and all it can take, as Dr. Zoffmann and Smith rightly point out, is a couple of people in that mob to get out of hand before the whole group gets worked up.

                So is the mob mentality then a plausible defense for the rioters, which would leave the city officials as the guilty party?  Well, it could be, if we are to ignore one very important fact: a mob is made up of individuals.  When we break the situation right down to the heart of the matter, these atrocious acts were committed by hundreds of individual people, who committed vandalism, and in some cases, assault.  Intoxication was present, but is in no way an excuse; if anything, that should be condemned more so.  We punish people for drinking and then putting themselves in a dangerous position such as driving; if intoxication can lead to rioting, then it too should be a socially condemnable act.  Dr. Zoffmann argues that the mob mentality could be a latent evolutionary trait; one that once served a purpose, but no longer is needed.  Well, the same has been thought about why some males are physically abusive to their girlfriends.  What Dr. Zoffmann (or Charlie Smith, who is the one using her words to create his thesis; I don’t wish to wrongly accuse Dr. Zoffmann of something that she doesn’t believe) fails to realize is that an explanation is not always an excuse. 

                The answer to Smith’s question “who is responsible for these kids going on a rampage” is far simpler than it seems.  It’s not a question of whether the city failed situationally; it’s not a question of if humans are innately violent.  It’s a matter of knowing that the only one who can ultimately make a decision for you is yourself.  At the end of the day, every other factor present on June 15^th was peripheral; the answer is quite simply: the kids who went on a rampage.

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A few thoughts that are pertinent to this, but wouldn't have fit an essay:

• I mention some people by name.  They are also named in the article, which is why I included them.  It is in no way meant to judge them as people, and I feel it would be neglectful to somewhere mention the fact that they did express what seemed to be genuine remorse for their actions.  Tim Kwong, for example, turned himself in at noon the very next day after being identified.
• I wonder if there would have been a riot if the Canucks had won?  (Again, this is an impossible hypothetical to answer since we can't alter time)  I suspect there would have been though.  
• I want to point out the wonderful things that Vancouverites did in the days following the riot.  People were voluntarily cleaning up the streets, writing apologies to the city on the boarded up windows, and there was even a police car found, covered in sticky notes that read "I'm sorry".  These are the acts that helped restore my faith in people that was in jeopardy while watching the riot unfold.

Even though it's heartwarming, I can't help but be disappointed that someone thought the correct spelling was "hulligans" (Third row, second column; at the bottom in black).

** Also of Note**


I said in my first Journal Entry post that anyone who commented with feedback on the essay could choose a photo or sentience for me to include in a subsequent post.  There have been no comments as of yet (probably unsurprisingly, seeing as there's likely a maximum of twenty people reading this), but I remain undeterred.  Instead, I'm upping the ante: Leave me a comment of criticism or feedback, and I will ask you for three topics of your choice.  Those three topics will then be spun into beautiful prose by moi and will be the topical basis of the next post.  That's right, an entire post, influenced by you!  What are you waiting for?

Sadness Piranhas

The saying goes "Don't let the little things get you down".  These are most definitely wise words, but some days it's just not possible.  The little things seem to have planned to gang up on you, gnawing away like a pack of piranhas, until you feel stripped right down to the bone, leaving only a skeleton of throbbing profound sadness.  This was one of those days.

This is a sadness piranha.

It started with waking up at quarter to ten.  Now, any other weekday, that's fine, but Thursdays I have classes begin at 9:30.  Thank goodness that I have the car today though.  Otherwise the process of waiting for the bus would have been absolutely miserable.

Now if I were trying to make up the tedium that wore me down today, the car would have been out of gas, but the sadness piranhas felt that would have been too obvious.  Instead, by the time I got up to the school, all of the street parking was taken.  Seeing as I refuse to pay to use the parking lot, this was a problem.  I know, I know, this is really, at most, a minor inconvenience, but driving back and forth, seeing a bumper-to-bumper wall of parked cars was reallllllly not what I needed.  I checked along 49th avenue, along Cambie St., along whatever is one block east of Cambie; I even checked the half-block of residential parking that can technically be parked in that is always available to fit 8 cars or so, and, wouldn't you know it, also all full.

After 10 minutes, I was finally able to get a spot and that ordeal was over with.  Time to go to class...  For a discussion about the Stanford Prison Experiment and the Abu Grahib situation.  Debating that everyone has the capacity for evil with a classmate who felt that all these people had some sort of undiagnosed mental psychoses was pretty much the opposite of what I would have liked to be talking about.

In case you were wondering, the opposite of that topic is Doctor Who.

By the time classes were done, I felt a vague numbness to my surroundings; uninterested would be a good description.  This is the point where the piranhas have breached all your defenses.

I got back to my car, and the song that was playing on the radio was Mumford and Sons "The Cave".  I'm pretty sure it's a happy song - I'm not certain, but there's a banjo; that's usually a giveaway - but a funny thing happens when the sadness piranhas are gnawing away at you:  they slip into your ears and contort all music so that it sounds sad. enveloping you in an acoustic blanket of depression.

Everything feels colourless; just shades of gray (and realizing that I had inadvertently dressed entirely in grey did nothing to quell the feeling).  I stopped by Kits High to pick up a cheque for the basketball tournament the team I coach is in this weekend, and ran into a former teacher of mine.  We chatted briefly, and she said "Well it's great that you seem to be doing so well!"  I do a good job of disguising my piranha attacks, you see.

I nearly hit breaking point when I drove up to the gym.  The entire block that I always park on was being occupied by production vehicles.  Who needs production trucks parked on a one lane side street?!  Seriously, what the fuck?!  Again, I know, objectively it's a minor inconvenience, but for the second time today, I was feeling despair while looking for parking.

But then a funny thing happened.  Not funny as in ha-ha, but funny as in at odds with the rest of my day.  I had an appointment to help my sister's friend study for her physics midterm, which is tomorrow.  A quick sidebar: Although I have only one actual sister, I think of two of her closer friends as sisters as well.  This is one of them.  In the spirit of equal, unconditional brotherly love, I jokingly rank them.  End of sidebar.  Helping her review physics while chatting about whatever popped into our minds - at one point the conversation was me telling an anecdote about dumb blondes who managed to somehow confuse computer programming as being connected to geology.  That's a true story, which is rather saddening in and of itself.

The funny part was that doing this obliterated all the building sadness from earlier.  By the time she felt entirely confident with the material, I was feeling mentally back to normal.  So, thank you Emily; I don't know how you did it, but I am awarding you the title "Emily the Sadness Piranha Vanquisher".

They don't look nearly as intimidating like this.

Also, for this feat, you have been upgraded to sister #1:

A business venture/Guide to my tattoos

On the Hockey Night in Canada broadcast tonight, it was mentioned that Scott Gomez hasn't scored in nearly a calendar year - February 12th was his last goal.  He makes $7 million per year.

Think about that for a minute.  That's a lot of money.  If you aren't familiar with the basic principals of hockey, allow me to put this into context for you:

As a forward in the NHL, Gomez's job description could be adequately summarized as "Put hockey pucks into the opposing team's net."  So, in effect, he has been paid $7 million dollars for failing at the job he's intended to perform.

Every variation of "Scott Gomez" I search on Google Image in an attempt to find a photo of him rubbing his wealth in the faces of the audience yields this result.  Somehow, this is worse.

Now, I can understand if you are currently feeling a certain level of hatred for Scott Gomez and his bank account, but I'm channeling those feelings into a positive direction:  Figuring out a way to also achieve fortune by doing absolutely nothing as well.  That's right, Scott Gomez is my new financial idol.

The question now becomes "How can I make money with no effort involved?", or, to pose it as a calculus word problem, "Maximize  P(x) with profit (P) being subject to effort (x) being asymptotic to line line y = 0".  It's important to frame the question in a suitably math-y sounding way for two reasons:

1. It allows me to turn around and use a phrase like "Math-y sounding" without my intelligence being too badly compromised.
2. Putting this into an intellectual context allows me to make the following tenuous segue:

They're tattoo sleeves and sadly exist outside of the sitcom-television world.  Here's a quote describing the product.

With this incredible invention, you can get a fierce tattoo as quick and easy as putting on a shirt. Just slip one of these tattoo sleeves over your arm and you'll be the envy of every dock worker and biker chick for miles around.

 I'll make personalized tattoo sleeves so that you can make your arms look just like mine!  They may not be the first tattoo sleeves on the market, but I feel I can provide a welcome alternative to the zebra pattern that is currently available.

My apologies; it's called "Blue Feather".  Also, I'm going to tell you right now, this isn't what biker chicks like...

Obviously I can't expect you to just order a pair without being properly informed, so I'll now provide a guide to my tattoos.  Then you can order them.  Just send me money (I prefer cash) and expect to receive them within 4-6 weeks.

Hobbes

These were my first tattoos, in December from when I was 18.  Lots of people who see them go "So are you a big fan of the comics?

....... Well they are, you know, permanent, so I should hope so.  The 'stuffed Hobbes' is taken directly from a strip (although I can't remember which), and 'live Hobbes' is adapted from the first strip, where Hobbes is caught in the tiger trap.  The meaning goes beyond just an adoration for the comics, which are, collectively, an absolute masterpiece.  Allow me to paraphrase Bill Watterson regarding whether Hobbes is a creation of Calvin's imagination, or a legitimate character.


I left it [Hobbes' nature] intentionally ambiguous, because it really doesn't matter.  Firstly, it would dilute some of the charm if I gave a definite answer, don't you think?  But also, it makes no difference if Hobbes is "real" or not.  What is it to be "Real" anyway?  It's all a matter of interpretation.


This is the best visual metaphor I can think of for my belief that we all interpret the same things differently, and that that's entirely natural.  As for how I picked which arm each would go on, it went like this:  'Live Hobbes' is the more dynamic interpretation; I am right handed, therefore right-side dominant, so 'live Hobbes' found a home there.  Also, at the time, my dad expressed the opinion that they should have been the other side up, but I disagree.  My tattoos are for me, so I like that when I look at them, they are properly oriented.


Approximate time of tattooing: 2 and a half hours.

Anarchy is Love

A quick word if you're planning on getting a tattoo on the inside of your bicep:  It hurts.  This was both my shortest tattoo, and also the most painful.

Anyway, this was the tattoo that went the quickest from concept to tattoo; all the others were planned for months and months (in some cases, years) in advance.  This one though, got pushed to the front of the line for a few reasons; it's relatively small, I wanted to incorporate colour in my next one, and I was enamored with heart imagery for tattoos.  

It's a take on the "Anarchy is Order" symbol, and I outlined in my mind what I wanted it to be before heading over to Google to try to find it (second result).  It was essentially a walk-in appointment - I went in and asked "When's the soonest you can book me for this?", and two days later BOOM.  

I'll now explain it.  I feel that the process of questioning why we are supposed to do or think certain things is a philosophical form of anarchy - cognitive anarchy, if you will.  I feel that this can be interpreted as a form of love for the self.  If you notice, the heart and the A are intertwined, which to me signifies that it can go the other way too: Love itself is a form of anarchy.  Humans biologically are not programmed to be mate for life.  Yet we treasure the notion of love more than anything.  It's anarchy against our biology, and I feel there's something beautiful about that.

Approximate time of tattooing: 1 hour (thank goodness it wasn't longer).

Open Your Eyes, Life is Beautiful

I mentioned this tattoo in another post.  This is the aforementioned years-in-the-making tattoo, the idea behind which, is a song.  This song.  It's one of my favourites and the first verse is one that I adore.  Anyhow, I finally decided to get it done.  This isn't what I had in mind when I brought the idea to my dad's friend though.  In my mind's eye, both lines of text were under the girl, and she was originally meant to have eyes of the backs of her hands, as if she were both seeing and not.  Several of my friends were adamantly against this, Keillor most eloquently summarizing it as "Dude, that's fucking creepy Pan's Labyrinth shit."  In the end, it wouldn't have worked angle-wise, and honestly, I think it looks better like this.

When I told Rickie I wanted to get it soon, he asked me to being him a photo to gauge the angles off of, so I enlisted Maria's help.  Rickie included Maria's ring and wristband as well as the fact that she was wearing a hoodie to give the image more flare, and consequently, Maria's likeness was captured on my shoulder.

Here she is, oddly enough wearing a wristband on the same arm.

This has given birth to an odd question from people who sort of know both of us, but not really well.  The question is some variation of "Oh, you and Maria, are you / were you / do you have aspirations to be an item?", at which point, I shudder (Not meant to offend you Maria).  I think that getting a tattoo for/of a girlfriend is both the tackiest and the worst thing you could ever do tattoo-wise.  Also, Maria and I would be a terrible couple; she'd probably murder me within weeks.  

As I said, this was the only tattoo that was pretty much entirely artist-created in terms of design, and I love how it turned out.  There's an explanation of its meaning on that other blog entry (go read it).

Approximate time of tattooing: 3 and a half hours.

Dad's Soul

This was done over two sessions; one for the outline, one for the shading.  Here's the background behind this:  Rickie has done a few paintings for Dad, the first of which was a depiction of his soul.  I saw it, loved it, and when I decided that I wanted a tattoo for each of my parents, knew this would be my dad's.  

The skull in the center with the rosebud eyes is my dad, surrounded by skyscrapers; the hustle and bustle of the city (They're hard to see from that angle; look at the back of my arm in the middle to see one side of them).  Above and below lies imagery pertaining to Heaven and Hell, symbolizing the presence of both Good and Evil withing the individual.  That's the short explanation; there are many smaller intricacies within.  It's definitely the largest of my five.

Approximate time of tattooing: 3 and a half hours for the outline; 5 hours for the shading; 8 and a half in total.

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There's your guide, feel free to order multiple pairs of Tyler Tattoo Sleeves; they make great gifts!  Just send me your arm measurements (length and circumference).  Not for sizing, but because I have an arm-size fetish..... (Google says that isn't a thing.  This is an instance where my policy of not editing out the weird things I type makes me seem weird.  That's okay though; I am.)  They sell for $39.99 a pair, or $300.00 for a dozen pairs.  Gotta take advantage of that bargain!  Order now, so that I can become as rich as Scott Gomez while applying just as little effort.

Honestly, he's a more efficient hockey player like this.

Save me from the Writing Center: Journal Project

Well I've been meaning to write an update for the past few days, and it's the damnedest thing, but schoolwork keeps you rather busy.  Who woulda thunk, eh?  Really though, I was writing a journal entry for my English class earlier tonight, lamenting the fact that I would have no time to pay my blog any attention, since I would have to start reading my Canadian Police Work textbook reading right after the journal was complete.

I should explain the journal project.  In my English class (English 2233 at Langara if you're interested), we have a whole bunch of readings to do, which are then discussed in class.  Each week, we are then to write a first draft essay (can be any sort of essay; argumentative, formal, literary etc.) about something that ties in an aspect from that week's readings and/or discussions.  My instructor then wants us to at some point go to the Writing Center to go over the journal entries, make revisions, and at the end of March submit all the entries (drafts along with revised copies).

Here's the thing though: the Writing Center is intimidating.  Don't ask me why I think that, I don't have a good answer.  I mean, the majority of the people who work there are students themselves - I even know several of them, so they're not even strangers - and I do consider myself to be quite capable of doing good writing.  So from a logical standpoint, there's absolutely no reason for me to harbour any aversion to going there, yet I imagine it would be something like this:

That's the entrance to Hell in case that wasn't clear.  The girl is probably a peer tutor who works in the Writing Center.  Now do you see why I don't want to go there?

 Anyways, while writing, I had a flash of brilliance.  Okay, maybe brilliance is a little too strong of a word; genius will suffice (On a side note, does anyone know which of those two words implies more intelligence in this context?  I feel as if there's a terrible irony if I got them mixed up...).  I can put the journal entries up here!  After all, that way I'm updating my blog, and I did say I would put actual writing up here to counteract the hoards of rambling words I pass off as proper blog entries.  And you guys can feel free to give feedback, advice, or words of derision, depending on how good/mediocre/bad each entry is.  Please do so!  Save me from the scary people of the Writing Center!!!

The first journal entry is below.  If you should need, here are links to Genesis I and to the... Hmmm, can't find a link to the Nootka creation myth I reference.  I'll give a quick overview:  Raven eats some berries that give him (her?) diarrhea, and he (she?) effectively creates the Earth with the ensuing.... Use your imagination.

Wow, that was a very brief overview that really doesn't paint the Nootka belief system in a very positive light.  For that I apologize to my Nootka readers (Of which I assume I have many).  ANYWAY, getting sidetracked again, here we go:

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          What motivates mankind’s fascination with creation myths?  Is it an innate curiosity within us that compels us to search for an answer to the question “Where do we come from?” just as adopted children are expected to be at least somewhat curious about who their parents are?  So it would seem, as nearly every culture has its own take on the creation of mankind. 

                The most influential creation myth in Western culture is that of the Christian faith, Genesis, in which God creates the Earth and all that is in it.  Man is created “in [God’s] image” with the intention that the Earth is ours to rule.  The Nootka creation myth is much different in its relative simplicity and its lack of apparent hierarchy.  What I mean by this is that Raven populates the Earth entirely by accident, and mankind is simply a by-product of that accident.  This difference highlights a big difference between the two cultures’ mentalities; the Christian faith chooses to believe that man is superior to the other races on Earth, whereas the Nootka tribe is of the belief that we (that is to say, mankind and the other animals of Earth) are all equals, and should treat other animals with greater respect.

                The questions posed at the beginning of this essay were not meant to be rhetorical so as to merely introduce the topic of creation myths; I really am asking.  I’m asking because I don’t find creation myths to have any great importance.  My problem with Genesis is that it’s too perfect; that is to say, deciding that God one day chose to bring us all into existence isn’t really an answer to the questions of where we came from at all.  Rather, it explains it away by simply decreeing that “God saw that it was good”.  Further, it implies that mankind should not be held responsible for any acts of cruelty to other animals, since the Earth is ours to do with as we please.  By this pattern of thought, our disrupting natural habitats so as to landscape them and build over is entirely within our rights. 

                On the other side of this particular discussion, the Nootka myth ties in closer with what I am willing to believe.  Note the presence of the word ‘willing’ there; it will be of importance soon.  The Nootka creation story, to me, illustrates an example of the First Cause Theory (FCT).  To give a brief explanation, FCT surmises that the universe could not have come into existence without the actions – intentional or not – of some being.  In the Nootka case, that being is Raven.  An important aspect of FCT though, is that this being, who we shall refer to henceforth as a god, may not have the ability to have any further impact on the universe.  I will freely admit that my knowledge of the Nootka belief system is limited at best, but to my knowledge, Raven has a resume that encompasses more than “I created the Earth”, which to be fair, is quite outstanding already.  It is here that I and the Nootka people arrive at an impasse. 

                I am absolutely willing to believe that a god created the universe.  I see no reason not to; logic dictates that something must have started the universe in motion and by the same logic, that something could not have previously been a part of the universe, seeing as it did not yet exist.  Therefore we can conclude that something is or was capable of existing outside of our universe.  I dub that something a god.  But here’s the thing: the universe has now been set in motion by a god, and the universe’s rules (physics for example) must be observed.  This means that the god cannot have any subsequent effect on how the universe unfolds.  I am willing to believe that.  But does that belief hold any meaning?  The answer is no.  I have no interest in giving special attention to a god that had only tangential effect on the universe billions of years ago, just as I have no interest in giving special interest to the notion of a God, since His actions would sometimes not agree with the rules of logic that I believe in. 

                I suppose I can see the place of creation myths: they’re stories.  They’re akin to the back stories that some adopted people fabricate about their genetic parents being incredibly wealthy people, hoping that their children find their way back to them (does this really happen, or just on bad television programs?); not necessarily harmful, but also not based in fact.  I on the other hand, choose to fully embrace my adopted family, the human race of the 21^st century, and to be thankful that they’re happy to have me.

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Give it a read, leave feedback.  Please.  Save me from the Writing Center and it's scary inhabitants.  Don't make me go see the people I know there; they're scary enough as it is.  If you do, I'll incorporate a picture of your choice (or sentence; your pick) into my next post.  That applies for each journal entry.  There we go, now you have actual reason to give me free editing aid.  Aren't I awesome?  Yes, the answer is yes.

My high

Occasionally I have a conversation with someone that goes a little something like this:

Them (noticing I have multiple tattoos): I hear those can be quite addicting.

Me: Yeah, just over a year ago I had none at all.

That's the answer I give, but really, they have no idea just how right they are.  For almost 5 hours today I lay on my back as my Dad's friend finished the tattoo I had started back in November, and realized that I have a rather addictive personality.  My high just happens to not be a drug.

Heroin users can keep their needles, I have a variety of my own.  I'm currently reading Russel Brand's memoir My Booky Wook, and he describes what heroin meant to him: "Heroin gets the job done."  (You'll need to read the excerpt linked in the previous sentence so that I'm not taking him entirely out of context.)  Well today I felt as if I was in the same state of nirvana; feeling the scrape of the needles across my arm put me into an entirely content, peaceful state of mind.

These are my rigs.

Everything else was simply peripheral; the loud techno music reduced to a whisper; the conversation between my Dad and Rickie just perceivable, but somehow unimportant.  The only noise that I was hearing at a normal volume was the buzz of the tattoo gun singing to me.  It's really a wonderful sound, I've loved it ever since my first tattoo.  I remember going with my ex-girlfriend to have her first tattoo done; my job was moral support (a.k.a. let her crush my hand).  Between the pain in my hand - which I maintain was worse pain than the process of being tattooed - and the incessant monotone hum of the gun, I began to feel woozy.  I had to leave the room briefly.  But now that I know the feeling that accompanies that hum, I adore the sound.

As for the feeling on my arm, don't get me started.  I have few words for how alive it makes me feel.  There are generally two feelings I experience during the process.  The first is when I can sense that a line or some shading is being done, but I can't feel it, which causes a giddy sense of "Wow, I'm impervious to pain!"  Then the second feeling happens; the needle hits a nerve, sending a pang from my shoulder, right through to my finger tips.  But while you may think this is a bad thing, I find it to be the opposite.  I've never cut, but several people I know who have have told me that at that period of their lives, it was the only time they ever felt actually alive.  My feelings don't have the same disparity, but I can certainly empathize with the enhanced sensation of life in that instant.

I retreated into myself during that tattoo session, not for protection, but because it was just so peaceful.  I know for a fact that I ignored questions directed at me, but I couldn't have said what exactly they were.  In those moments, they just didn't matter.

I'm fortunate that I'm too idealistic to be an addict.  I suppose that it's a bit arrogant to claim that as a blanket statement, but I'm not changing it.  That 5 hour session was my 'fix' for the next little while.  But I have the tendency to make a habit of things, I do consider myself to have a somewhat addictive personality, but I am free from super harmful vices.  Cigarettes aren't an option; I remember in Grade 4, Mrs. Derby was teaching us about the effects of smoking, and when the whole class professed to never take it up as a habit, she told us that while we said that now, there was a large chance that a significant portion of the class would, at some point, be cigarette smokers.  I've taken that as a challenge for the past decade, and for now, I'm winning it.  Besides, cigarettes taste gross.

Alcohol has never created any sense of relief or euphoria.  Weed did for awhile back when I smoked, but that too faded, which was the large reason as for why I stopped.  I have absolutely no interest in the hard stuff; I've read too many accounts of the horrors of crack and heroin addictions to ever even consider that path myself.

Read this.

I'll stick to my intermittent tattoo sessions for my fixes.  It's practical in that the expense keeps me away for a substantial period of time between sessions.  And now, my body has decided this post is done.  My adrenaline storages have been entirely depleted after dealing with what is effectively putting road rash on your arm, and wants to just lie in bed.  And I feel that my body deserves that right now.

Coaching rant (a.k.a. This is what I did during school today)

I'm coaching the 'B' team for senior boys at Kits this year.  Last weekend, we had a tournament in Delta during which we had no more than 8 players for any single game.  In fact, two of the games were played with less than half of our squad.  Quite simply, unacceptable.  So I spent my day at school today writing what I wanted to say to them after today's practice, in between taking notes in class.  To their credit, they've had a meeting since then and have been much better this week, so kudos where it's due.  With their commitment improving, I felt it only necessary to paraphrase my message in a much more matter-of-fact way, instead of reprimanding.  So now I get home and realize I'm left with this writing, so may as well throw it up here:

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The Delview tournament, frankly, was an absolute low point, in my opinion.  So here's the deal: From hereon out, you guys will make a full commitment to the team; that means to yourselves, to your teammates, and to Olivier and myself.

We have practice roughly twice a week, with games once or twice as well.  That works out to a rough average of 6 hours per week; not a large chunk of your time.  You guys have the schedule of games, and can assume practices are Mondays and Wednesdays, so make sure you've freed up those times.

Olivier busts his ass to be here and to have a full practice plan ready to go.  And when only 6 players show up for practice, those drills that may need 8 are rendered useless; we can't run our sets on offense or defense, and it is overall, a lesson in extreme futility.

As for myself, I'm arranging my schedule as best I can to be here as much as possible, and believe me, it's tough to do.  This semester I'm doing a relatively light 3-course workload, but that still entails about 35 hours per week between classes and homework.  The schedule for my classes has been built around the fact that I'm here for practices and games.  On top of that, I work 23 hours a week, again, built around basketball's schedule.  I'm here because I have a tremendous, perhaps unnecessary, amount of pride for this school and for its basketball program.  So much so that I've kept my jersey from grade 8 and have no intentions of returning it.  So much so that when last year's Juniour girls team got me a 'Coaching Staff' jacket, I genuinely teared up.  So much so that I can sit here and score-keep, referee, or just watch a game, be it Bantam Girls or Senior Boys, and enjoy every minute of it.  It is a privilege to wear Blue Demons jerseys; treat it as such.

With that in mind, you guys are student-athletes, and you are all obligated to fulfill your academic responsibilities.  If I hear that any of you are falling behind due to negligence or absence, you will not play.  Take that seriously; I've personally seen guys lose out on scholarships because they were being, excuse my language, lazy fucks.  Conversely, you need to arrange your school schedules so that you can be here.  Do your homework either before or after; don't tell me you have too much work to attend practice.

I'm not interested in hearing excuses as to why you can't make it.  I know them all; remember, I'm only a year and a half removed from being a high school student myself.  Really, the only reasons for not being here are illness or injury; both of which Olivier or I need to know about in advance.  This extends outside of basketball guys, you really don't want to be the type of people who make excuses in life.  The only person I harbour feelings of actual hatred for is this type of person, but that's tangential to my point.

So to reiterate, get yourselves organized and prioritized, commit yourselves to your peers, and take some fucking pride in wearing gold and blue.

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Well, I just wanted to put that to use in some way, so there we are.  My rendition of this was far gentler than I had thought it would have to be, for which I am grateful.  It means they already know they fucked up, and are working on changing that.

Old writing

So I feel the need to update this since it's been a few days, but I also kinda want to go to sleep...  Thankfully, I recently came across the first piece of writing I did in post-secondary, and will share it here, after which I will go to sleep.  A few things to keep in mind before reading this:

• This was written two weeks into my first semester at Langara (which means a 7 month period between graduating high school and starting at Langara - I took the first fall semester off - during which I did no writing whatsoever.
• The topic to write on was taboos.  
• Following up on that, this was written about a month after I had gotten my first tattoos, ergo it was something that was on my mind quite a bit
• The instructor for this English course was big on 'catchy' titles
• She gave me a B+ on this, although when I read it now, I neither think it particularly good or agree with parts of the premise of my topic.  But more on that later.

And so, I present to you, a hastily written in-class essay.

In S'ink': The Right Reasons to Get a Tattoo

Tattoos have been around for generations, but only recently have gained an immense popularity.  For every person getting 'inked', there is another who protests the practice.  However, as long as you don't see anything wrong with tattoos, go about it safely, and have a good reason for your tattoo, by all means do so.

"You'll regret that when you're older."*  So says the most common argument against getting tattoos.  Simply put, if you think that you may, in fact, regret getting a tattoo, don't do it.  Stick with ones of the rub-on variety.  If you're worried that it will affect employment opportunities for you, make sure you don't get any work done in an easily visible spot; stick to the back.  The arguments against the practice of getting tattooed apply only to matters of personal preference, so long as one is aware about what one is getting into, there is no logical reason for them to not.

*This is the exception.  This will be regretted, not only when older, but almost immediately.  Or so I hope.

Getting a tattoo done involves an artist's using multiple needles to permanently place ink under the first few layers of the skin.  The matter of utmost importance in any act of body modification is safety.  If a tattoo is done in a safe, controlled environment, there is absolutely nothing wrong with it.  Make sure that the needles are sterile, and the environment around you is clean, as well.  That means that when your friend asks if he can tattoo your arm for fun in his bathroom, the answer is no (*I feel I should mention that I received a smiley face directly after this sentence in the evaluation*).  Find a local tattoo shop; they are licensed, regulated, and regularly inspected for hygienic cleanliness.

Now that you've got the green light from the health board, it's time to get it from yourself.  Have an idea in mind and discuss it with friends before getting it done.  Tattoos should mean something to you.  If there is a deep, personal, or philosophical reason for your tattoo, no one can take that away from you, or tell you it's wrong.  But unless you are absolutely sure that this is, for a fact, the Chinese symbol for 'peace'*, find another way to represent it.

*Using my level of knowledge of Chinese, this has an equal chance of meaning 'peace' as it does 'I am a moron.'  (I have no clue what this actually means.)

As someone with tattoos, I encourage people who want one, do get it done.  Hobbes, of Calvin and Hobbes comes everywhere with me, on each forearm, both as a tiger, and as a stuffed animal.  In my case, emplyment was not a factor, as my place of work okay-ed it; as long as they're covered, there's no problem (*Even that isn't an issue for me; they are fully visible and no problems have ever arisen.  In fact, I have lovely conversations with customers about tattoos on a regular basis because they notice Hobbes.).  They were done safely, and symbolize the ways in which people view the same things differently.  If you can be confident about not regretting a tattoo, go about it safely, and if it truly means something to you, by all means, have ink done.  Whether you like it or not, tattoos are here to stay.  They are permanent, after all.

.... So there you go; first piece of writing for marks in post-secondary.  I have issues with it, but I'm tired, so I'll make another post later addressing said issues.  In any case, I was glad to have stumbled across this so that I could read it, and subsequently shared it here.  And now, goodnight.

Learn Fast, Die Hard (yes, I realize that's a stretch for a pun)

I was in DAVIDsTEA this evening and working there was my friend Megan.  She told me that she had intended to read my blog, but that there were just too many words (she was joking...  I hope.).  Well, Megan, you're in luck; the hockey game is over and I have nothing to do, so I will give you a personalized entry.  This is the Hollywood-ized retelling of my day's events: That means short words, little plot emphasis and, most importantly, lots of explosions.  Enjoy.

It was the first day of the semester today.  I woke up, and oh no!  Gotta get to school, and I've only got 10 minutes to do so!  So I jump into my ...uh, what's a suitably expensive car for a Hollywood movie?

Google Image says this is what I drive.

I hop into my orange car, and I'm off!  Now, you the reader, are probably wondering why it's so vital that I'm on time.  I would like to call your attention to the email that's open on my laptop.  Are you mentally zooming in on it while dramatic music plays in the background?  Yes?  Good.

Dear Mr. D'Souza,
I would like to remind you that if you are late again, I will have no choice but to expel you.


Regards, Dean Evil-Doer.


Now you understand how high the stakes are.  If you're done reading the e-mail, cut back to me driving Fast & Furious-ly toward the school.  All of a sudden, I realize all is not right.  Dangling from my rear-view mirror is a falcon, and in it's beak is something that looks suspiciously like a camera.

"Well hello there," blares a voice that I have no trouble recognizing as Dean Evil-Doer's.  "I do hope that your first day back ignites your mind.  Mua-ha-ha-ha."  Realizing what's about to happen, I roll out of the car just in time, before: KABOOM!

Explosions evidently change the car's shape and design...

Brushing myself off, I check my watch.  6 minutes to go!  So I sprint down the stairs of the Canada Line station that happens to be just on my left.  While on the train, I notice a bunch of thugs harassing a woman, so, as movie logic dictates, I single-handedly fight off all 5 of them, return the woman's purse (which they had stolen.  Also, who mugs someone while on a Subway?  Ah well, I'm not going to question the logic here, and neither should you!)  As I hand it to her, we look into each other's eyes, and she's about to say something, but the doors open; it's my stop.  I take off, leaving her looking confused but grateful.  Quick note, she's the mandatory love interest in this script, so feel free to picture her as your favourite action movie actress.  I have selected Olivia Wilde, but you can modify that if you'd like.

I make it to my desk with just seconds to spare.  Dean Evil-Doer pops his head in wearing a smirk, which instantly dies on his face when he sees me sitting in my desk.  With a glare, he returns to his office, muttering to himself what I'm sure is a plan to take me down, which will surely be seen in the sequel to this.

(Also, if you're confused as to why the Dean hates me, don't worry.  Either the third or fourth installment of the franchise will be a prequel, which will, in time, make everything clear.)

After classes have finished, I had a basketball game to coach.  During the game, I noticed some one in the stands.  It was the woman from the Canada Line, and she was giving me a big smile.  As for the game itself, well it came down to the wire.  Thankfully it was captured on video.  I'm the one in the suit.

(Quick break for reality: This isn't too off-base; the game was close, and we did lose by two.  Also, I gave that exact speech after.)

After the game, love-interest-woman and I walked off screen together, and steamy, passionate lovemaking was implied to have occurred.  This is rated 14A so as to sell more tickets, so the sex scenes are only implied, but it totally happened.

...And so Megan, there you go.  I have Hollywood-ized my day in the hopes that you now feel able to read my blog.  Also, when you asked how my day was, and I answered "Very good", this is what I was referring to.  So if that's ever my answer again, assume there was plenty of explosions and inspirational speeches and sex and stuff.  Thank you for the tea!

There's nothing like being there

Why do people enjoy going to watch professional hockey (or any sport for that matter) games live?  I found myself wondering that at one point while I was at tonight's (or yesterday's; it depends on how you measure time) Canucks game.  I am a diehard Canucks fan, but I find it difficult to provide a logical explanation for shelling out money to attend the game.  (Okay, the tickets were a Christmas gift, so technically I myself did no "shelling out", but this is about the principle.)

The first answer I came up with was So that you can experience the game.  This seemed logical to me for all of a minute, at which point I remembered that literally thousands of people are watching the exact same game on their televisions.  They too are experiencing the game, and upon further inspection, watching from home seems almost more preferable.

If you'll allow me a momentary lapse in humility, I have perfected the art of watching Canucks games on TV.  PVR has been integral in said perfection.  If I have to work on game night, no worries, I just set the machine with a half-hour carry-over and I'm good to go.  Of course, I must then ensure that no one spoils the score for me, and so begins a feat that is either incredibly impressive, or painfully pathetic; your interest in organized sports directly correlates with whether you find this to be the former or the latter: I avoid any interaction that may result in the score being revealed.  My coworkers know this and comply; it's the customers that are the (potential) problem.  This was far more difficult during last season's playoffs, but I found a way: I simply greeted people who were wearing hockey-related clothing with a friendly "Hi, if you know anything about the hockey game, please don't give anything away, as I'm recording it.  How can I help you?"  For the most part, this worked.  Some people though, tried to ambush me by bringing up hockey when they were wearing clothing that offered me no hint that they might want to discuss sports.  My evasive strategy in these scenarios was less than brilliant: I ran to the back while covering my ears.

I am entirely serious about this by the way.  And you know what, it worked.  Not one game was spoiled, and more importantly, no customers were offended by my actions.  I apologized and explained my situation when needed and they took it in stride.  Folllowing my shift, I would get home as quickly as possible.  If I was driving, no problem, but if I was walking, I needed to take side streets so as to avoid any restaurants or bars that might have had the highlights playing.  Once I got home, I turned the recording on and indulged in a completely unspoiled game.  Oh, and if you've read this far and don't find yourself passing judgement on me as something of a lunatic yet, I also cut myself off from outside communication until I've finished a game; remember, for all intensive purposes, I'm hours behind the real world's knowledge.  This means no Internet and no checking my phone until the final buzzer.

All of this effort to experience the game, and it doesn't require physically being in attendance.  So I wracked my brain for another possible explanation.  Aha, I thought, it's the atmosphere that holds the allure; thousands of like-minded fans is the value of attending the game.  This theory was proven false near the end of the second period.  I decided that in order to beat the line to the washroom, I would head there with a minute of play remaining, seeing as I couldn't just hit pause on the remote.  Even with this head start, there was congestion at the washroom door, and returning to my seat was akin to swimming against a strong current.  Add to this the fact that I consider Canucks fans in general to be some of the worst hockey fans there are, and that takes away the 'like-minded' portion of my theory.

I began to think that the value lay with inter-personal interactions, but on an individual level.  After all, my first date with my ex was at a Canucks game (also the first game I attended live), and I've only ever gone to games with people I like being around.  This particular theory almost had me convinced until I realized that the hockey was entirely tangential to the value; our first date could have been anywhere else and I would have enjoyed it still.

Other logical reasons against going to the games that crossed my mind are as follows:

• I only get the replays that are provided in-house.  These are often not intensive enough to fully understand what just happened.
• There's no commentary when you watch live.  Because of this, I couldn't figure out why the Canucks' defensive pairings switched for a significant amount of time in the second period.
• I couldn't (or rather, felt that I shouldn't, swear, seeing as there were small kids around me.  Factor in that my normal reaction to the opposing team scoring is a loud "Fuck!", and now I have a problem.
• $8 for a glass of watered down beer.  That should be a crime.

I agree with your sentiment.

Even with all of this logical reasoning against the notion of enjoying being at the game live, when the final buzzer rang, I was immensly happy with having been at the game.  This leaves two possible conclusions.  The first is that I'm insane.  Granted, you're probably thinking this makes sense based on how much effort I go to in order to avoid having the score spoiled for me, but I'd like to think that I'm not insane.  Slightly crazy, certainly, but not insane.

This leaves me with the conclusion that there is an intrinsic value in attending the games of sports teams you like.  Those last two words are critical to my conclusion; I wouldn't find value in attending a Blue Jackets vs. Islanders game for example.  But give me the opportunity to attend any Canucks game, and I will happily do so.  It doesn't matter that I'm giving up the luxuries of watching from my couch, and with that in mind, I eagerly await the Blackhawks coming to town, as I will be at that game too, cursing the bathroom lines, the $8 beer, and the hoards of objectively bad hockey fans.  And I will love every minute of it.