piece for solo car alarm
Saturday night - grad party season - Oilers advance to finals. Perfect storm. Whyte Avenue is ablaze with assholes again, no doubt, and good on them. Tear the fucking place apart.
The previous night we were in attendance at a friend's birthday party, at which like pretty much ninety percent of the people worked retail jobs on the Ave. The apartment was at ground zero - one block away from the maelstrom, where all the traffic gets routed once they close off the main drag. So, I guess understandably, the partygoers' prevailing opinions were that the Oilers are going to lose, deserve to lose, have shitheads for fans, and so on. The birthday boy's brother, who must have been a Calgary boy, was particularly vehement that the Oilers are done.
They've just finished off Anaheim, so fuck that anyways. They're in the Stanley Cup finals.
Earlier the birthday boy, a nice guy who I like, but who apparently is under the influence of a certain kind of mentality in this company, was not five minutes earlier bragging about how he had sold a six hundred dollar pair of runners to a fifteen year old girl.
He does not see the connection between this and the throngs of meatheads hurling bottles onto the sidewalk in front of his building every second night while the Oilers are winning.
Here in Alberta, all of the money is trickling down from the greedy maws of Big Oil into the pockets of high school dropouts. No wonder they don't know how to behave.
You know what? I don't give a fuck whether the Oilers are nice guys or not. In fact, I have no problem believing they're probably a bunch of dickheads. Not that I know. But whatever personal anecdotes you've managed to collect about, say, Ryan Smyth are a) probably hyper-inflated due to his level of name-recognition value, b) paling like primer in comparison to the daily screwings that prime real estate shops on the main thoroughfare are giving to tchotchke-obsessed parents and their spoiled-out-of-control kids.
You live where you live because it's four blocks from work, where you make hot commission on serious markup goods, and two blocks from the Black Dog, where you drink the half that's not spent on rent. I'm not judging. In fact, there's nothing wrong with it at all. But the whole thing works because there's a crowd of suckers keeping it all afloat and the money just keeps swirling around like in a radio station wind tunnel.
So when the whole goddamn town collides in joy over the performance of a sports team, and it spills into the residential neighborhood that's filled with people who chose the inflated rents and ballooning property values in order to stay close to the party, the anhomie looks kinda screwy. In fact, it's a bad faith move. It's cheap. It's ungainly.
People are looking for something bigger than themselves. Or they want a stage for tit-showing or guy-wire-hanging escapades. But you're muttering with the townies from the third floor balconies because you know how to party with class.
Yes, it's just hockey. But they're also just shoes. And you know what? No frathead dillweed's gonna be clinking glasses with newly transplanted immigrants over a bitchin' pair of Campers anytime soon. Stop looking at the negative and get over yourself. Go Oil!
The previous night we were in attendance at a friend's birthday party, at which like pretty much ninety percent of the people worked retail jobs on the Ave. The apartment was at ground zero - one block away from the maelstrom, where all the traffic gets routed once they close off the main drag. So, I guess understandably, the partygoers' prevailing opinions were that the Oilers are going to lose, deserve to lose, have shitheads for fans, and so on. The birthday boy's brother, who must have been a Calgary boy, was particularly vehement that the Oilers are done.
They've just finished off Anaheim, so fuck that anyways. They're in the Stanley Cup finals.
Earlier the birthday boy, a nice guy who I like, but who apparently is under the influence of a certain kind of mentality in this company, was not five minutes earlier bragging about how he had sold a six hundred dollar pair of runners to a fifteen year old girl.
He does not see the connection between this and the throngs of meatheads hurling bottles onto the sidewalk in front of his building every second night while the Oilers are winning.
Here in Alberta, all of the money is trickling down from the greedy maws of Big Oil into the pockets of high school dropouts. No wonder they don't know how to behave.
You know what? I don't give a fuck whether the Oilers are nice guys or not. In fact, I have no problem believing they're probably a bunch of dickheads. Not that I know. But whatever personal anecdotes you've managed to collect about, say, Ryan Smyth are a) probably hyper-inflated due to his level of name-recognition value, b) paling like primer in comparison to the daily screwings that prime real estate shops on the main thoroughfare are giving to tchotchke-obsessed parents and their spoiled-out-of-control kids.
You live where you live because it's four blocks from work, where you make hot commission on serious markup goods, and two blocks from the Black Dog, where you drink the half that's not spent on rent. I'm not judging. In fact, there's nothing wrong with it at all. But the whole thing works because there's a crowd of suckers keeping it all afloat and the money just keeps swirling around like in a radio station wind tunnel.
So when the whole goddamn town collides in joy over the performance of a sports team, and it spills into the residential neighborhood that's filled with people who chose the inflated rents and ballooning property values in order to stay close to the party, the anhomie looks kinda screwy. In fact, it's a bad faith move. It's cheap. It's ungainly.
People are looking for something bigger than themselves. Or they want a stage for tit-showing or guy-wire-hanging escapades. But you're muttering with the townies from the third floor balconies because you know how to party with class.
Yes, it's just hockey. But they're also just shoes. And you know what? No frathead dillweed's gonna be clinking glasses with newly transplanted immigrants over a bitchin' pair of Campers anytime soon. Stop looking at the negative and get over yourself. Go Oil!
posted by gibletquesterrs at 10:16 PM
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