if i were australian i'd want to tour as much as possible as well

i am no friend of tourists. in fact, i hate them. this is mostly because they take up valuable sidewalk space, crowd stores, ruin the beaches, and support the moose-dressed-as-rcmp-officer industry singlehandedly. whenever i am in gastown i stand infront of the steam clock with a sad expression on my face like i'm having the worst time ever and someone is forcing me to have my picture taken, just to stick it to those foreign dickwads. everytime i bump into a tourist i wish they'd go back home to whatever lousy country they're from and leave me alone. apparently the city wants to attract more of these pests because they're good for the economy or something, which is such a load of shit. i don't own a restaurant, hotel, or tacky store, why should i have to suffer so those jerks can get rich?

the worst tourists of all are australians. they're loud, rude, and usually drunk. additionally, all the australians who come here tend to stay for weeks or even months at a time. i don't know why this is, maybe it's to escape the poverty and oppression of their awful homeland? if it were up to me, i would deport every person with an australian accent back to their prison colony island. i'm not being unreasonable here, i've met one or two australians who weren't all bad, and even they were embarassed by the drunken stupidity of their hostel dwelling, beer swilling, outdoor voice inside talking countrymen.

for example, the last time i spoke with an australian was at the cambie (before i started avoiding them), he sat down beside me and started telling me how great vancouver was with lots of swear words i didn't understand. i remember he leaned over to me, pointing at a very fat girl at the other side of the room and, in that drunken slur they call english, informed me that you were not a man if you hadn't had sex with a woman you couldn't lift. charming.so it was with this attitude that i went to richard's on richards to see midnight juggernauts. i even brought a bag of rotten kiwis to throw at them and spent the better part of the afternoon looking up australian swear words, just in case.

as it turned out, the band was actually pretty good so neither of those things were necessary (i left the kiwis in the men's room behind a toilet and forgot the slang). this was actually the first pleasant evening i have ever spent in the company of australians. even though they're apparently justice's favourite band they were pretty listenable. also, the guys in the band were quite skinny, so they were probably all men unless they secretly have really strong upper bodies.

they were loud and cheerful, but not in a drunken frat boy way, more like a klaxons with more bass and less neon way, which was really nice. anyways, these guys and cut copy are about the only australians i don't mind bumping into in the evening.

reckless abandon

the rising sun found me sitting alone in the master bedroom of my country manse holding my head in my hands, a dead prostitute sprawled on my bathroom floor. not knowing what to do, i stood and began to pace. obviously i needed some sort of alibi: there is no prison safe enough for a man as handsome as myself. my mind began to race, concoting and rejecting wild stories to tell the police when the inevitable questions began.

after what seemed like hours, my frenzied imagination finally seized upon one plausible enough to work: i would tell them i was at the teenagers show!

but i knew a good story would not be enough. i'd need details. i checked on the girl in the bathroom one more time, still dead. think craig, think.

they'd probably ask general questions about the show, like what time it started and how big the crowd was. i'd have to tell them something that sounded plausible.

the show was scheduled for 10, so i decided it would be safe to say they started at 11 because french people are rude and don't care about other people's time. that sounded pretty good, i knew if i were a cop i'd believe that. and if they asked me about how many people were there i'd have to tell them that the crowd was pretty big, but nowhere near capacity, which is probably for the best, because there is nothing worse than a room packed with people you don't know.

believing this to be a workable solution, i stopped worriedly pacing. the whole thing was just an accident, nothing more than a simple misunderstanding, really. a misunderstanding i would be able to clear up as soon as the cops arrived and i told them my story.


unfortunately, things didn't go exactly as planned. i met with them in my large rose garden, my face a picture of shock and innocence, but the cops who questioned me asked a lot of specific questions i hadn't prepared for. i told them that the new song (i even made up a name - streets of paris or something lame like that) was pretty boring but homecoming was still badass and i would have given them all high fives if it were a true story. they pressed me further and i told them that this time only two girls went on stage, but they both seemed to know most of the words which was better in some ways but far less awesome in others. gaining confidence, i told the officers that the teenagers' problem was that there weren't enough beautiful women on stage. they need more attractive session musicians and they also need to sing blink182 style pop punk ballads about making out with girls at parties or pretending not to be high when your parents come into your room because that is what i think of when i hear the name "the teenagers."

things seemed to be going well until i was asked about their clothes. the cops wanted to know if they were better dressed than last time. i began to sweat. was this a trick question? the band had only been touring north america for 3 months, do they still look like the drama team from my highschool? did that one guy with the tape holding his shoes together get new shoes? i had no idea. my story was ripped to pieces, and i slumped down to my knees and stained the floor of my gazebo with tears while confessing the entire thing.

i guess the cops took pity on me or i was able to explain my position very reasonably, because after i had recovered my composure, i was told i was free to go, but warned never to do it again. i can honestly say that this weekend i learned a very valuable lesson about honesty and french people. also, it turns out they were better dressed than last time.

birthdays are terrible

i've never really understood why people make such a big deal about birthdays. they were fun until i turned 14, but after that they've just become a lot of work and another reminder that i am getting old and will die soon.

birthdays are very similar to new year's in that they're supposed to be big milestones and people get desperate to have a good time, even if it makes them miserable. why should getting older and recieiving a dozen facebook comments from near-strangers saying "hppy bday!" be a milestone to celebrate? maybe it wouldn't be so bad if you only had to see your good friends, but birthdays become a terrible reminder of your wasted life when every drug addict loser you know from highschool wants to talk to you. the only times i've been able to have fun on recent birthdays have been when i've managed to forget that it was actually my birthday because they're fucking depressing.


i've always wanted to have a fun birthday, or atleast know what one is like, which is why i ask everybody i meet from california if their 16th birthday was on mtv. no success yet. all my friends must be poor. i bet having just one fun birthday party would change my entire outlook and maybe even be the one ray of sunshine in the otherwise grey and cloudy day that is my life which keeps me from killing myself. it wouldn't matter if my daddy bought me the lexus or not.

perhaps it is foolish of me to invest so much hope in what could still easily become a catastrophe for the ages to be recorded in a thousand largely-unread blogs, but i am very excited about this year's birthday party even after it was forcibly rescheduled at the last minute: my one chance of ever being happy was very nearly stolen from me by a Cormac McCarthyesque twist of fate. i've put a bit of work into this one so everyone should come if they want to still be my friend in the morning. or don't, see if i care... actually that isn't true, i base my self worth on how many people show up so if you don't come i will feel like a miserable failure for weeks and not even my mom will be able to cheer me up by telling me how smart and handsome i am.


finally, getting older has been a totally bogus experience for me. sure i can vote and drive and feature in pornographic films, but i have yet to attract one teenage girl who grew up without a strong father figure with my chest hair and partial beard. when i was younger i was always getting cockblocked by older guys who had tricked girls into thinking they were cool, why isn't it working for me?