His topless ex is mess your pants scary
It’s depressing uncomedian, Jim “The Grinch” Carey
Merry Christmas cornholers! You may have heard via social media channels that myself and Meg are now engaged and not just to the political ideals of Teddy Roosevelt. That guy really knew how to break up monopolies and murder Cubans. No, we have decided to get hitched in the style of all of history’s greatest couples, Sonny and Cher (I’m Cher), Mark Antony and Cleopatra (Meaghan is Mark) and Jim Carrey and clothes-optional harpy Jenny McCarthy.
Jenny McHarpy. Not that they ever got married. Anyway, we got a lot to figure out in terms of details including canapes, venue and what mixed-gender strip club we will go to for our joint stag and hen night. For my money it’s got to be the Androgenous Figleaf, exotic bar and Vietnamese breakfast buffet.
Apologies for the lateness of the posting by the by, I am typing all this out with my stubby Twix fingers on a very small tablet a good 8 hours behind my normal timezone. In short, to me I’m on time.
I am currently sitting in my hotel room in Vancouver safe in the knowledge that I am the third least outdoorsy person in this whole city. Meaghan and her sister beat me to the championship belt and I’ll be pushed further down the league once her parents fly in. First impressions are pretty much in line with the prevalent stereotypes of the place i.e. think Alpine, hipstery LA.
The airport has a great deal of water features with a lot of pretty cool bits and pieces of sculpture from First Nations designers. For those not in the the know that is the way that Canadians refer to those communities that in the US would be described as Native Americans. Or if you’re an American football fan, a “Redskin” this still beinone of the teams in the league.
The owners of the NFL are a sensitive bunch (um palefaces to a one), one would imagine especially so when it’s pointed out that their business plan has basically been to monetise concussion via expensive ad spots about extra large pants with super-elasticated crotch zones, for optimal bulge exaggeration. But hey, they’re romantics.
I for one believe these fine gentleman have my best interests at heart. Especially those with 1920’s villain moustaches.
I’ve had a good saunter around the city and seen some of the residents who fall into the broad range of characters that are fairly interchangeable across the Western US. There are a mix of the hearty cheeked older dudes who took last weekend off to sprint up the Andes to punch a condor. There are hipsters of every description, including coffee artisan hipsters, rude clothing store employee hipsters and crappy but deeply confident busker hipsters (“Check me out girls, I’m gonna be fucking star!”) There are hipster prequels (aka hippies) men and women who were full on granola and Greenpeace back in the day but on the balance of things you can now say too much so as they are sprinting up the middle of the street holding up traffic in a high-vis orange coat screaming “he’s got it!!” That was a real thing. Smoking some real strong granola that guy was. And crystal.
As a result of these demographics, the city of Vancouver is entirely gluten free and has been ever since St Patrick drove the gluten out and into the sea in 1312. It was the weekend after he sorted out Ireland’s snakes. How did he cross the Atlantic and Canada in 7 days? Jesus, that’s how.
Meg was in the UK, taking a taxi from work to the airport for this very trip and her driver it turned out was a fellow Canadian, indeed from Vancouver. As well as being a bit of a douche generally, he was rather down on our current home town (whereas the normal reaction is more “ooh lah lah, check out Mr and Mrs triple-ply terlet paper”), the only reason for which being ” it doesn’t even have hot yoga.”
Hot yoga is hot in the temperature sense as opposed to the sexy sexy sense, unless you find standing on one leg while sweating a pint a minute sexy. Which as a pervert, I do.
That and a saucy piece of fruit.
We also took a little bus journey out to an artisanal food and beadcraft market on a tiny island in the bay. 27 kinds of vegan terrine arranged by dominant theme of each of the years of Kurt Cobain’s life. On the way back The chap sitting beside me on the bus started up conversation. Turns out he was a wood carver from the Yukon who was originally from Finland and spent the late 60’s in North AND South Vietnam selling beer wholesale to all the armies who were otherwise fully ensconced in murdering the snot out of each other. It was not the bus ride I had expected.
So in short, people here are very cool. Much cooler than me. Just ask Meg.
In other news this trip has provided our intro to Stella and Charlie, Megs sister’s new dog and baby respectively. Charlie, like his namesake (I am assuming Professor X from the X-Men), is still bald as a coot but has a powerful pair of legs (benching 250, more weight less reps) and a set of bowels on him that could sink the Bismarck. Stella on the other hand is at an age where she is hitting adolescence and is a bit moody. Meg in particular has been looking forward to meeting Stella as she is fairly dog obsessed but her expectations (“Mark, I got good dog-liking skills”) have not entirely been met. Not because Stella keeps sucking on a cow hoof and bringing it over to show off her fanciness to you. Not because she’s a bit unpredicatable, freaking out over a girl in the street with a pram, but ignoring neighbourhod dogs. Not even her duelling banjos fart sessions with Charlie. But because she keeps trying to bite Meg’s face. Just Meg’s.
Poor dog-liking skills.
This time next week, Whistler! Also a valid nickname for a particularly farty baby.
Yukoner of Leek