A misanthrope's guide to summer fashion

Great White Dispatch
Notes From Damn Near Canada
No. 51
17:50
06/04/10



Guys. Guys. I’m just going to be blunt: Your outfit is ridiculous.

Look. I live in Minnesota, where the truly nice weather shows up late and checks out early. In fact, I had to warm my car up at least one morning this week. And it’s goddamn JUNE. So I don’t think it’s really out of line for me to say that I understand the need to worship the sun better than most.

But I also understand that I don’t have to look like a jorts-wearing douchebucket to do it. Seriously. I get that right about now, that sun is enticing you to start showing off the goods. I get it. I do. After all, I have calves that BEG to be displayed. Seriously. You see these things and you want to lick mayonnaise off them. But do I rub them in YOUR faces? That’s a negative, Ghostrider. So here’s the thing: If I can button my shit up for these scant weeks of summer, even though I clearly need all the vitamin D I can suck up, I think the rest of you fellas can manage to not dress like an eight-year-old at a pajama party.

I mean, really. Does losing the bottom 18-inches of your pants REALLY cool you on some monumental level? Does exposing those pockmarked shins all day save you from that dreaded heat stroke you’ll surely snag while loping around the mall, ogling the goth girls slouching in and out of Hot Topic? Shorts should be worn in exactly two environments: the beach and the athletic arena. As such, there is ZERO need for fucking DRESS SHORTS. Hey, buttpipe. You want to be ‘dressy’? Extend those khaki legs all the way down to the ground. If I can see your gross goddamn spidery leg hair, you ain’t dressy. And tucking your shirt into the shorts? Ain’t helpin’ bub. Turns the pot into a cauldron, if you know what I mean. Eff-why-eye.

And sandals. Oh, I wasn’t aware that the tops of the feet were such hotspots for sweltering air-current activity. I mean, simply by exposing those hobbity bastards to room temps you lower the old body temp by 12 degrees, right? Whatever, asshole. I don’t want to sniff your fuzzy toe knuckles any more than I want to see the bootleg Calvin & Hobbes tattoo on your ankle. Sandals are to be worn in two venues only: the beach and the gay bath house. Because you don’t want to get ringworm while you're juggling some grizzly bear’s lap potatoes. What I don’t need is a waft from your hobbity hoofparts assaulting my face while I’m trying to enjoy my goddamn Sbarro. Cover them yellow nails, kid.

Boys, I’m certainly no fashion expert. My standard uniform is work boots, jeans and either a nice button-down or a t-shirt sporting a smarmy catchphrase. It’s simple and easy because I’m too lazy to put a whole helluva lot of thought into it and still want to hit the food court without looking like I just got done mowing the lawn. Sometimes I’m underdressed, sometimes I’m overdressed. And somehow I manage to look halfway respectable and make it all the way through summer without pulling a Korey Stringer. THIS CAN BE ACCOMPLISHED IN LONG PANTS. (And if you’re going to go through the effort of wearing a button-down shirt, for the love of Jeebus, wear long sleeves. Unless you’re actively trying to look like the Geek Squad.)

We all want to be comfortable. But can’t we do it without looking like roadies for a fucking Grateful Dead tribute band?

*Two notes, here. Around your own house? Shit be OFF. Anything goes. Comfort is king. Balls need to be easily accessible at all times. This is understood. And ladies? The only rule: show off them shoulder blades. Golly, I love me some shoulder blade.

Greener pastures or bluer shores?

Great White Dispatch
Notes From Damn Near Canada
No. 50
16:47
05/17/10

*Author’s note: I wrote this like three weeks ago. Pure laziness is the reason it hasn’t been posted. Deal wit’ it. *

Let me preface this by saying that I LOVE my current habitat. My setup in Minnesota is the ideal place to live, die, run dogs, raise kids, etc. It’s not a home, it’s an environment. If I kicked it tomorrow, you could chuck me to the coyotes and turkey vultures and I wouldn’t have anything to complain about.

But…


When I was a kid, all I wanted to do was live in a big city. Move to NYC, get a sweet studio loft and basically become Kevin Bacon in Quicksilver. Seemed like a sweet way to live.

Over the years, I’ve outgrown that idea. As my antisocial tendencies grow, my need for elbow room and seclusion grows, and the thought of spending every instant amongst the people and pother and pigeon shit doesn’t seem like such a hot idea. But then I spend time in a place like San Diego where you can just amble to any of a million places to eat, drink and be entertained, and for the first time in years I question my decision to set up shop 60 minutes from the nearest book with a price tag.


As I write this, I’m leaning against a tree on the edge of San Diego Bay with the bulk of my week’s stay in the rear-view, and my old desire to try the city on for size is forcefully announcing its long-forgotten presence. After six days of bumping around the coolest place I’ve been in a long while, I can’t help but plot ways to spend more time here. From where I’m leaning, I see seven dogs, three aircraft carriers, two bigass pelicans and about 50 sailboats, and it’s all framed by azure water and a heartbreaking skyline that hides more treasures than you can ever know as an outsider. All those childhood wants are once again tap-tap-tapping my pleasure centers.

Obviously, a week with no responsibilities makes every place taste a little sweeter. I’m well aware that vacation life and real life are two separate beasts. Once you factor in a job and grocery shopping and an annoying upstairs neighbor, the dream fades and you realize you’ve left your wife for a high-priced whore. I know that I live where I belong, and the enticing mistress that is downtime in the sun ain’t THAT alluring.


Still. The breeze is warm and carries the smell of fresh seafood and the sounds of the city –of culture, happening RIGHT NOW – and all I can think about is how I’d like to live here, if only for a little while.

*I took as ASSLOAD (technical term) of pics whilst drifting around San Diego. Seals, dogs, Padres and a POSSIBLY tipsy Airika. They're all here, if you're interested:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/vangoat/

Gifts and skinning tools readily available.

Hey, if you're in the market for either A) cool gifts or B) weapons with which to sacrifice a struggling animal to your Pagan deity, check out my sister's site. All this stuff is handmade and very cool. You know you want a sword. You KNOW it.

http://www.themetalcraft.com/

Check your balls at the door

Great White Dispatch
Notes From Damn Near Canada
No. 49
19:30
01/25/10

As punishment for dragging Airika to an afternoon of soggy pond hockey, she drug me to an orchid show! Huzzah!

Some observations about orchids and their 'people':

- Many of these crackers smell like they've been playing in the dirt just a little too long. Of course, that may be just the actual flowers. Some do, in fact, smell like rancid horse piss. AND THIS IS A SELLING POINT.
- Orchid salesfolk seem like they had to make a decision early in their lives: Cats or flowers. I see some of these old broads sitting around the house, watching Idol in the tropical climate that is their apartment, spritzing the overheated air with chemical water, or flat Faygo, or old Sanka, or whatever it is that these plants eat, while muttering about the color of Ellen's new teeth-caps, waiting for a response from Maya the Guatemalan suneater...AND GETTING ONE.
-Some of these goddamn plants look...ominous. I'm not saying they're meat eaters, but I'd like to see how many stray rodents are hanging around the typical orchid farm. Methinks there's at least one Little Shop of Horrors lurking out there.

Luckily, orchids make for some nice photographin'. There are a ton more vaguely dirty flowers on my Flickr page.

Assimilation

Great White Dispatch
Notes From Damn Near Canada
No. 48
17:24
01/24/10

Becoming a true Minnesotan involves more than just moving north and bitching about the cost of propane. There are certain things you have to do to actually be from here.

-Buy a 4WD vehicle.
-Prepare a winter emergency kit for said 4WD vehicle.
-Eat and enjoy fried cheese curds.
-Use the phrase ‘Holy buckets!’ in casual conversation.
-Catch a show at First Avenue. The band doesn’t HAVE to be originally from Minny, but it certainly helps.
-Participate during the winter in what sane people from other lands consider summer activities. You know. Fishing. Hiking. Going outside.
-Wear a hat with ear flaps.
-Make a declaration with an upward lilt, so it sounds like you’re actually asking a question.
-Hockey.

In our year and a half in Damn Near Canada, I’ve managed to knock out most of the list whether I’ve wanted to or not. This weekend, I checked hockey off the list. The U.S Pond Hockey Championships take place in the Twin Cities every year. They pick one of the bigass lakes, rope off a bunch of rinks, and let 150+ teams play 4-on-4. The Gus Macker meets Mystery, Alaska. It’s kind of a big deal.

Minnesota in January is the perfect place for pond hockey. Unless Mother Nature decides to dump a week’s worth of Ohio weather on you. Seriously. We had 5 days of 40+ degree weather leading up to the tournament. And then it poured all weekend. Being out on a frozen death trap is unnerving enough when it’s 15 below zero. When it’s melting before your eyes, covered in 2 inches of standing water and you’re sharing it with a 500 yoked-up hockey yahoos and 1000 spectators? FROZEN HELL.

Still. Broke the hockey cherry and did not drown or freeze to death. I’ll consider that a success.


Want to see a near-panic attack? Airika is not a fan of the ice.


The 'warming tent' was...moist.


Players on some of the rinks had to wade through 2 inches of standing water and slush. Not the best or fastest hockey.

Soon I'll be watching Two and a Half Men

Great White Dispatch
Notes From Damn Near Canada
No. 47
0722
01/08/10

Sigh. I used to be such a fast reader. Once upon a time, I averaged a book+ a week, but now I'm lucky to finish one in a month. In the three years I've been tracking what I read every year (yeah...does anyone else do this? Please tell me someone else does this.), my annual number has decreased every year. 42, 33, 28 1/2.

I'd like to blame the steady decline on the fact that I had much more free time back in the day, but, jaysus, I used to go to school full-time, work full-time and drive an hour both ways to work, and I still managed to knock out at LEAST five books a month. I'd like to blame it on the fact that I'm reading more 'substance' these days, learning more and taking time to reflect on what I've learned. But shit like Men With Balls and all the random sci-fi on this list blow that argument out of the water. I'd like to blame it on the fact that I live in a natural wonderland and I spend all my time Enjoying Nature and Being Active. Yeah. That's the ticket.

I'd like to blame it on a lot positive, progressive reasons. The real answer? Comic books. I hammered back damn near 100 graphic novels this year, in an attempt to catch up on everything I missed last year. Hey, words is words, right? Right?

It's either comic books, or I'm just getting dumber. Valid arguments could be made in either direction. Anyway, here's the list of book-type-books I bagged in 2009. BECAUSE I KNOW YOU GIVE A SHIT.

A Year in the Main Woods, Bernd Henrich
Beat the Reaper, Josh Bazell
Dear American Airlines, Jonathan Miles
Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safran Foer
How I Became a Famous Novelist, Steve Hely
In the Lake of the Woods, Tim O'Brien
Men With Balls, Drew Magary
Minions of the Moon, Richard Bowes
Mr. Clarinet, Nick Stone
Old Man's War, John Scalzi
Population: 485, Mike Perry
Prince of Thieves, Chuck Hogan
Red Mars, Kim Stanley Robinson
Snuff, Chuck Palahniuk
The Book of Basketball, Bill Simmons
The Book of Joe, Jonathan Tropper
The Digital Photography Book 1, Scott Kelby
The Digital Photography Book 2, Scott Kelby
The Longest Winter, Alex Kershaw
The Lost City of Z, David Grann
Understanding Exposure, Bryan Peterson
Walking Dead, Greg Rucka
Wastelands, Anthology
White Jazz (reread), James Ellroy
Whitetails, Erwin Bauer
Winterbirth, Brian Ruckley

Partial reads
Black Echo, Michael Connelly
Drama City, George Pelecanos
Dune, Frank Herbert

Warm holiday greeting

Great White Dispatch
Notes From Damn Near Canada
No. 46
12/31/09

I hate New Year’s. Just hate it. This crap-ass holiday depresses me more than reading The Road while watching Mystic River. After two weeks of festive good cheer, parties and presents, fireplaces and holly, you wake up January 2 and Everything. Just. Sucks.

All those Christmas decorations – glimmering symbols of fun and warmth just a week ago – now serve as reminders that you have to get back to work. Get your ass up that ladder and pull those lights down, bitch. You spend two hours sweeping up the evergreen splinters that your Christmas tree – now nothing more than a dead and brittle fire hazard – so kindly deposited all over your house when you finally evicted its rotting corpse, but your feet will still resemble that dude from Hellraiser until March. You suddenly go from having worked maybe 2 full weeks in the last 6, and now you don’t get a day off until what? Good Friday? New Year’s Day is nothing but the first of 365 Monday mornings.

And you kid yourself with these ‘resolutions.’ Let me enlighten you here: If you really need some contrived reason to do something, it ain’t gonna happen. You either want to do it or you need to do it. Making a promise to yourself just because the picture on your calendar changed isn’t the best motivation in the world. I’m the perfect example here. A few years ago, I started wearing a flab suit made of neoprene for the express purposes of hiding all my fabulous muscle definition. I really need to take it off. Problem is, I can only do that by moving my legs at a ridiculous speed for minutes at a time. Jogging. I hate jogging. HatehateHATE. Yet I live in a place seemingly custom-made for jogging. And if I haven’t been able to get off my ass and do it in the spring, summer and fall, in the middle of this land of parks and scenery, I sure as shittin’ won’t start doing it because I made a promise in the dead of winter to a baby in a golden sash. Or Dick Clark. Who do you make resolution pacts with?

Here’s an idea. Maybe we need some incentive to keep these resolutions. Say you break one. What if Dick Clark showed up in the middle of the night and showered you with stroke drool? Good god, I want to go for a subzero run just thinking about that scenario. But if the only motivation is a promise made to yourself while slurping down sauerkraut and watching Ryan ‘I am a pimp’ Seacrest, guess what? You will stay fat. You will remain at your desk. You will keep smoking. You will continue killing hobos and wearing their flesh. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with these things. I’m just saying we should all stop kidding ourselves.

Anyway. I love the holidays. Had a very nice month sequestered here in Minny. Saw some good people, got some great gifts and gave some better ones. But the holidays are over. We can hope that 2010 sucks less than 2009. But we can’t count on it. Happy New Year. Back to work.