inflatable elvis is dead. A revolutionary force in the early days, he got fat and sucky at the end. The cycle of of rock n' roll is like this.
Nakurmiik, all the best, and we'll see you somewhere else in the blogosphere someday.
8.5.09
22.4.09
so long Deke
Well, this blog has become a cesspit of update suck and prose fail over the last month, and I don't really care. Words are kind of stupid anyway. Cake and mag-lev trains are cooler.
But I could not let pass some very upsetting news from the world of professional hoops. Dikembe Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean-Jacques Wamutombo, the oldest NBA player at 42, and master of the legendary post-block finger wag, is likely finished in basketball after sustaining a knee injury during a playoff game against the Portland Trail Blazers last night.
As mentioned in an earlier post, Mutombo speaks nine languages, has a degree from Georgetown University with majors in diplomacy and linguistics, and spent $29 million of his own money to build a hospital in his home country of DR Congo.
Professional athletes who are actually interesting people are going the way of the daily newspaper. Deke was old as hell for a pro ball player, so the end was coming sooner or later, but nevertheless, it's sad to see him leave the court for the last time on a stretcher. From the AP story: "Afterward in Houston’s locker room, the 7-foot-2 veteran was on crutches and fighting back tears. 'Nobody ever thought they’d be carrying the big guy out like a wounded soldier,' he said."
Nuts.
Soundtrack: shuffle, but I wish I was listening to Torche, Meanderthal.
But I could not let pass some very upsetting news from the world of professional hoops. Dikembe Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean-Jacques Wamutombo, the oldest NBA player at 42, and master of the legendary post-block finger wag, is likely finished in basketball after sustaining a knee injury during a playoff game against the Portland Trail Blazers last night.
As mentioned in an earlier post, Mutombo speaks nine languages, has a degree from Georgetown University with majors in diplomacy and linguistics, and spent $29 million of his own money to build a hospital in his home country of DR Congo.
Professional athletes who are actually interesting people are going the way of the daily newspaper. Deke was old as hell for a pro ball player, so the end was coming sooner or later, but nevertheless, it's sad to see him leave the court for the last time on a stretcher. From the AP story: "Afterward in Houston’s locker room, the 7-foot-2 veteran was on crutches and fighting back tears. 'Nobody ever thought they’d be carrying the big guy out like a wounded soldier,' he said."
Nuts.
Soundtrack: shuffle, but I wish I was listening to Torche, Meanderthal.
12.4.09
epic blog fail
I'm still alive. There's some doins afoot down to the ol' ranch.
I'm gonna drink a beer and watch baseball.
I'm gonna drink a beer and watch baseball.
27.3.09
blog fail
I have spent most of the past week inside, building a fortress out of sofa cushions and yelling at people to keep off my property. That's strange behaviour at the best of times, stranger still because I live in an apartment building.
Ever feel as though you were losing it? You know your behaviour is becoming more and more unreliable and far from telling yourself, "I'm gonna get my shit together," you just wallow even more. Pretty soon people call and urge you to come on out tonight, we're getting shitfaced, we're picking up chicks, and you say, "No thank you, I'm going to lip sync to Motorhead in my underwear." They think you're joking. They wish you were joking.
Good things happen in life, and they come to an end, somehow. Bad things happen too, and they usually also come to an end, even though at the time it feels as though your body is being pulled through a fine mesh screen.
This would all be so much easier if you still lived in Vancouver, and you could get on the Skytrain, get off at Main St. and buy weed off some sketchy guy with a skullet (so wrong), or some hippy chick with hairy armpits (that's cool though). You could talk to the world's most eloquent homeless guy about the time two VPD cops pulled him into an alley and kicked in his teeth. You could, imagine it friends, eat cheap and delicious Thai food. You could walk into a book store, remember those?
But instead you live in a bubble, as though those geniuses had actually built that dome over the city back in the 50s. Everything is public, every fuckup, every fight, and every goddamn shithead, yourself included, gossips as though one derived life-giving oxygen from the process. And you even blog about it, in an elliptical, rambling and off-topic style, only partly because you don't feel like actually doing any work.
Blair Waldorf, I feel your pain. Screw Yale or Sarah Lawrence, let's move to Belize together.
Ah, but running away doesn't help, now does it? What character does that build? What other reasonable excuse is there to listen to Slayer? No amount of distance will drive those big brown saucers from your skull, so you're best to let time, the sworn enemy of memory, do it for you. And that will be that.
In other, less self-indulgent news, your unfaithful correspondent has also been spending a lot of time at the local sausage factory, also known as the Legislative Assembly. After some marginally interesting uppity behaviour, things have mostly died down. So much so in fact that yesterday I was forced to briefly close my eyes during another somnambulistic question period. When I opened them, I noticed the honourable member for Nanulik grinning at me, not without some sympathy.
I hope to post another tale of air travel later today, or some time this weekend. In the meantime, I highly recommend Slingin Lingo's epic and poetic tale of bird shit.
Soundtrack: Trap Them, Sleepwell Deconstructor; TV On The Radio, Dear Science.
Ever feel as though you were losing it? You know your behaviour is becoming more and more unreliable and far from telling yourself, "I'm gonna get my shit together," you just wallow even more. Pretty soon people call and urge you to come on out tonight, we're getting shitfaced, we're picking up chicks, and you say, "No thank you, I'm going to lip sync to Motorhead in my underwear." They think you're joking. They wish you were joking.
Good things happen in life, and they come to an end, somehow. Bad things happen too, and they usually also come to an end, even though at the time it feels as though your body is being pulled through a fine mesh screen.
This would all be so much easier if you still lived in Vancouver, and you could get on the Skytrain, get off at Main St. and buy weed off some sketchy guy with a skullet (so wrong), or some hippy chick with hairy armpits (that's cool though). You could talk to the world's most eloquent homeless guy about the time two VPD cops pulled him into an alley and kicked in his teeth. You could, imagine it friends, eat cheap and delicious Thai food. You could walk into a book store, remember those?
But instead you live in a bubble, as though those geniuses had actually built that dome over the city back in the 50s. Everything is public, every fuckup, every fight, and every goddamn shithead, yourself included, gossips as though one derived life-giving oxygen from the process. And you even blog about it, in an elliptical, rambling and off-topic style, only partly because you don't feel like actually doing any work.
Blair Waldorf, I feel your pain. Screw Yale or Sarah Lawrence, let's move to Belize together.
Ah, but running away doesn't help, now does it? What character does that build? What other reasonable excuse is there to listen to Slayer? No amount of distance will drive those big brown saucers from your skull, so you're best to let time, the sworn enemy of memory, do it for you. And that will be that.
In other, less self-indulgent news, your unfaithful correspondent has also been spending a lot of time at the local sausage factory, also known as the Legislative Assembly. After some marginally interesting uppity behaviour, things have mostly died down. So much so in fact that yesterday I was forced to briefly close my eyes during another somnambulistic question period. When I opened them, I noticed the honourable member for Nanulik grinning at me, not without some sympathy.
I hope to post another tale of air travel later today, or some time this weekend. In the meantime, I highly recommend Slingin Lingo's epic and poetic tale of bird shit.
Soundtrack: Trap Them, Sleepwell Deconstructor; TV On The Radio, Dear Science.
19.3.09
reporter's notebook, part 1
Today we begin a series (read: two or three posts) of outtakes from my notebook written during my recent pass through Baffin and the Kitikmeot. Some of it is boring crap, some is rewritten to make me look and sound cooler and more witty. You are warned.
March 1, Iqaluit.
Maybe it's military efficiency, or maybe just blind luck, but our Summit Air charter took off from Iqaluit, bound for Qikiqtarjuaq, a whole 15 early. This despite the fact that one of the Joint Task Force North civilian employees, Alan, who was to become my roommate for this trip, forgot his kit bag on the shuttle that brought us from the hotel to the airport. When travelling with soldiers, never do this. You will not hear the end. Alan, himself ex-Army, did not for the rest of the trip.
At any rate, wheels were up at 3:45 on a mild and breezy sort of pre-spring day that reminds you this planet of ice still thaws out every year. The wind was enough to kick up some snow that blurred the horizon, and, as the sun set, make it seem as though we were flying over another planet. Hoth maybe? I'm a geek.
There's some brass on this flight. The Brigadier General is up front, right behind the pilot, accompanied by some lesser officers in the following rows. They're checking itineraries and typing up letters on military letterhead. Am I spying? I'm pretty sure Operation: Nuke Alaska is a joke. Right?
On the way, we buzz Auyuittuq National Park. I assume that insane cliff face that looks like it should be called Mount Thor is Mount Thor, the longest uninterrupted cliff face in the world. Somewhere around this point I become aware that I have crossed the Arctic Circle, thus FINALLY losing my Arctic Circle virginity. "Seems like all my friends lost theirs first."
Next: Clyde River to Pond Inlet.
Soundtrack: office chatter.
March 1, Iqaluit.
Maybe it's military efficiency, or maybe just blind luck, but our Summit Air charter took off from Iqaluit, bound for Qikiqtarjuaq, a whole 15 early. This despite the fact that one of the Joint Task Force North civilian employees, Alan, who was to become my roommate for this trip, forgot his kit bag on the shuttle that brought us from the hotel to the airport. When travelling with soldiers, never do this. You will not hear the end. Alan, himself ex-Army, did not for the rest of the trip.
At any rate, wheels were up at 3:45 on a mild and breezy sort of pre-spring day that reminds you this planet of ice still thaws out every year. The wind was enough to kick up some snow that blurred the horizon, and, as the sun set, make it seem as though we were flying over another planet. Hoth maybe? I'm a geek.
There's some brass on this flight. The Brigadier General is up front, right behind the pilot, accompanied by some lesser officers in the following rows. They're checking itineraries and typing up letters on military letterhead. Am I spying? I'm pretty sure Operation: Nuke Alaska is a joke. Right?
On the way, we buzz Auyuittuq National Park. I assume that insane cliff face that looks like it should be called Mount Thor is Mount Thor, the longest uninterrupted cliff face in the world. Somewhere around this point I become aware that I have crossed the Arctic Circle, thus FINALLY losing my Arctic Circle virginity. "Seems like all my friends lost theirs first."
Next: Clyde River to Pond Inlet.
Soundtrack: office chatter.
17.3.09
the pompous ass
This strip is worth reading. Man, I miss The Newsroom.
"About those 11,000 people you allegedly murdered. How did you feel?"
"About those 11,000 people you allegedly murdered. How did you feel?"
16.3.09
beard battle
A quick update from the facial hair front.
Greg the Banker has opened up a new front in the beard battle with some decidedly undiplomatic rhetoric. We're talking trash like Kevin Garnett commenting on Zack Randolph's shot selection. A sample:
Greg the Banker at 6:05pm on March 13th, 2009: I get 5 o'clock shadow at 11am. I will destroy you.
bob izumi jr. at 6:25pm on March 13th, 2009: My facial hair used to play bass in Venom. Prepare for pain.
Greg the Banker at 5:57pm March 16: too bad countries can't grow facial hair.
bob izumi jr. at 6:39pm March 16: Don't write checks your face can't cash son.
Okay so maybe the Venom comeback wasn't so hot, but there's only one way this contest gets decided: folically.
Soundtrack: That Simpsons episode where Ralph gets a crush on Lisa.
Greg the Banker has opened up a new front in the beard battle with some decidedly undiplomatic rhetoric. We're talking trash like Kevin Garnett commenting on Zack Randolph's shot selection. A sample:
Greg the Banker at 6:05pm on March 13th, 2009: I get 5 o'clock shadow at 11am. I will destroy you.
bob izumi jr. at 6:25pm on March 13th, 2009: My facial hair used to play bass in Venom. Prepare for pain.
Greg the Banker at 5:57pm March 16: too bad countries can't grow facial hair.
bob izumi jr. at 6:39pm March 16: Don't write checks your face can't cash son.
Okay so maybe the Venom comeback wasn't so hot, but there's only one way this contest gets decided: folically.
Soundtrack: That Simpsons episode where Ralph gets a crush on Lisa.
13.3.09
My naked face
Against my better judgment, I have shaved off my beard. It's for two good reasons though: the chance to win a free plane ticket and art.
Toonik Tyme is reprising their facial hair contest this year, and they needed contestants, so I took the plunge, and my chin is exposed to air for the first time in more than two years. I don't like it, because I look way better with facial hair, and it's fucking cold when I go outside, but for a free crack at a $1500 plane ride, well, I will bleed. And bleed I did, boy howdy. There's still smeared hemoglobin on my bathroom floor. I, and possibly my razor, are rusty.
But, like a pretentious New York City performance artist, I spill my blood in the name of visual art. The lovely and talented Kate Nova is making a short film out of all this, currently bearing the working title "Chris Makes a Beard." I don't know who Chris is, but Kate said it made for a snappier title than "Bob Izumi Jr. Makes a Beard." I'll defer to her judgment there.
The early footage is encouraging. We are hilarious.
11.3.09
advisory
Hey stinkies.
Instead of padding my post statistics with a bunch of photos, I invite you to all stampede over to my Flickr site, Frozen Grapes, to see photos of my trip through east and north Baffin, as well as part of the Kitikmeot. Some stuff is going up as we speak, and more will roll out over the coming days.
Belated apologies to The House and Way Way Up, for not saying hi during the swing through Arctic Bay. Pretty tough to do on the insane schedule we were keeping. I know that the mucky-mucks got to stay at the lovely The House, while we slugs had to rough it at the hotel, which is more expensive and not, it goes without saying, The House. I know for Nunavut bloggers it's like making the pilgrimage to Mecca and not even bothering to get trampled to death, but hey, next time.
Soundtrack: Propagandhi, Supporting Caste.
Instead of padding my post statistics with a bunch of photos, I invite you to all stampede over to my Flickr site, Frozen Grapes, to see photos of my trip through east and north Baffin, as well as part of the Kitikmeot. Some stuff is going up as we speak, and more will roll out over the coming days.
Belated apologies to The House and Way Way Up, for not saying hi during the swing through Arctic Bay. Pretty tough to do on the insane schedule we were keeping. I know that the mucky-mucks got to stay at the lovely The House, while we slugs had to rough it at the hotel, which is more expensive and not, it goes without saying, The House. I know for Nunavut bloggers it's like making the pilgrimage to Mecca and not even bothering to get trampled to death, but hey, next time.
Soundtrack: Propagandhi, Supporting Caste.
9.3.09
let's get our kicks on route 666
Another interesting Newsweek article (where the hell have I been? Newsweek is pretty good.), this time about how the "crazies" believe that Obama may well be the Antichrist. The rapture, according to raptureready.com (yes), may well be nigh. The rapture index is at 161 people! This time for sure!
Most of it is based on the usual claptrap: a time of war and economic upheaval (both caused, incidentally, mostly by the policies of fundamentalist Christians) overseen by a progressive liberal President. Also, obviously, the numbers of the state lottery in Barack Obama's Illinois recently were 666. All this is irrefutable truth that Jesus will soon return to Earth to take paid-up Republicans to heaven while the rest of us suffer for eternity in a hellfire. Or something like that. There are a few variations on the theme.
I have a thought about this. Given that most of the planet is indistinguishable from fire and brimstone, thanks to unrestrained economic expansion which many American evangelicals regard as their divine right (see Chris Hedges' excellent story in Harper's from a few years back) and no small number of religious wars, maybe we heathens should be embracing the rapture.
Maybe we too should be hoping for Jesus to come back so he can relieve us of the 700 Club? Then I can finally listen to my Ozzy records in peace.
Yeah, 20-year old references are awesome.
Soundtrack: Against Me!, Against Me! as the Eternal Cowboy.
Most of it is based on the usual claptrap: a time of war and economic upheaval (both caused, incidentally, mostly by the policies of fundamentalist Christians) overseen by a progressive liberal President. Also, obviously, the numbers of the state lottery in Barack Obama's Illinois recently were 666. All this is irrefutable truth that Jesus will soon return to Earth to take paid-up Republicans to heaven while the rest of us suffer for eternity in a hellfire. Or something like that. There are a few variations on the theme.
I have a thought about this. Given that most of the planet is indistinguishable from fire and brimstone, thanks to unrestrained economic expansion which many American evangelicals regard as their divine right (see Chris Hedges' excellent story in Harper's from a few years back) and no small number of religious wars, maybe we heathens should be embracing the rapture.
Maybe we too should be hoping for Jesus to come back so he can relieve us of the 700 Club? Then I can finally listen to my Ozzy records in peace.
Yeah, 20-year old references are awesome.
Soundtrack: Against Me!, Against Me! as the Eternal Cowboy.
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