The Bee Hive

So, I have confession to make: this is the first blog entry I've made on my own free will. That's right--until now every entry I have made in The Bee Hive has happened because it was a mandatory assignment for my web-writing class. But tonight I am inspired to write--partly because of an evening filled with interesting events; partly because my friend, and fellow blogger, Vince, inspired me to do so. Check his blog (http://personthatwritesthings.blogspot.com/) and see how his interpretation of this evening matches up with mine.

We kareoke, straight-up, every Thursday night at Scruffy Maguire's Pub, located in crack-head central (aka New West Station) and very conveniently close to our school. "We" being the Print Futures crew that came--a group of five (sometimes more or less) who find salvation for two hours a week, every Thursday night, at shady bar we call just "scruffies".

We are loyal to scruffies, like Norm and Cliff were to cheers, but not quite that loyal, I suppose. We just go every week and have fun. No talent required--smiles and good company are the only requirements to join in the festivities.

But every week, this creepy, balding, sits-at-a-computer-and-does-things-I-don't-wanna-think-about, kareoke guy DJs the evening. And every week, Glenn, the Kareoke guy, sings "When I'm gone" by Three Doors Down to my good girl-friend in a stalkerish-serenading kinda way. One night, about four weeks ago, we trusted him to walk my friend to the Sky Train platform, and after he assured he would be as trustworthy as we expected, he proceeded to attempt to maul her down and try to lay a freaking, sloppy-ass, gross, disgusting, kareoke-weirdo kiss on her! SICK.

She was beyond disturbed as she recounted this horrifying series of events the next day, and the next week I made a point of calling the creep out on it. He laughed it off and continued on with his DJing, and as usual sang his, now beyond disturbing, Three Doors Down serenade, specifically dedicated to my mortified, but still trying to hold a smile, friend. And he sang this serenade, with a passion that I guess we all chose to ignore given it's dement, and did so for four more weeks in a row. That's right my friends, five weeks of creepy serenading.

By now the owner/main bartender and regular waitress know us by, well, drink. But they know us, and know that we are good bunch of regulars that come for goodtimes and spend our fair share at scruffies on a regular basis. And tonight, the staff knew something was arie...

As Glenn cut, once again, into the middle of the kareoke festivities to sing his regular stalkerfest-serenade to my continually mortified friend, the bartender caught on.

"This song is going out to ******..." he says into the microphone, with a sideways smile.

We all cringe at eachother across the table, and retreat to the smoking room in our own kind of "fucking cut it out weirdo" protest. After Glenn wrapped up his ridiculously over-rehearsed, make-us-wanna-puke song, the bartender/owner obviously noticed our reaction, and asked how we felt about him taking up time to sing when others obviously wanted to get up there.

I'm an honest gal, and well... I'd lipped Glenn off once already with no avail and this time I was gonna sack the loser where it counts and give my honest opinion to someone who matters--his boss.

"Well," I said, " if you mean 'Do I think that he shouldn't be singing the same creepy song every week to my friend when his job is to push the buttons on his little laptop and let the paying customers sing...', then yes, I do think he spends too much time in front of the mike."

Hah, take that slimeball.

So a situation ensued and Glenn quit... or got fired... or whatever... no more scruffies for him. And I can honestly say I feel like, for the first time in my life, I directly had something to do with someone being fired. But, oh well--for a good cause and buddy needs to learn how take the chip off his shoulder and be satisfied with kareokeing it up on his own time--because when he's at work he's there to make the customers happy.

Glenn, if you're out there... let me just tell you that YOU ARE NOT A BAND. Got it? Nobody comes to scruffies to listen to your weird-ass sing...

We came here for a good time, not a long time--only 20 days till grad. And tonight was Classic Rock night, dammit. I still wanted to sing "Old Time Rock and Roll" by Bob Seger...

After any visit to my hometown I feel a little like Hank from King of the Hill.

A week passes quickly--days filled with nothingness that is good enough to never let go. Drives aren't just drives when you're really home. One road can trigger so many memories; ones seemingly gone but easily remembered.

You notice the little things that an out-of-towner never would: dents in the street signs from beer bottles being thrown by passing teenagers. An almost invisible mark in the metal and yet it means something to you because you get why its there... Because you have marked your own metal in your own time.

To know a town so well that you know it too well. It can happen. As soon as my body enters the city limits of my home town I feel different inside. Words come out differently--and sometimes have different meaning. People change, but everything seems still and the same.

Right. So why do I feel like Hank?

Simple. Hometown conversation. Abbreviated yet meaningful. Simple yet significant. Casual yet important. You know... When "yup" and just the right look can mean so much more than anything else.

"um-hum." Hanks says it so nicely.

He is a content man on familiar territory. His beer is cold and his friends are close.

I am glad that going home makes me feel a bit like Hank.

I'll take William Hung over Madonna any day. That's right... When it comes to the push and shove of the music industry, amateurs and weirdos take the cake.

Last night American Idol was aired at the same time as the 2005 Grammy Awards. I am proud to say that I tuned into neither... (I watched the documentary "The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill" with my Dad, check it here: www.wildparrotsfilm.com/ ) but the results are in, and American Idol put the Grammy's to shame.

Nearly twice as many people - 28.3 million - watched "American Idol" than watched the Grammy Awards - 15.1 million - when the two music programs went head-to-head in prime time Wednesday, according to Nielsen Media Research.

Can you believe it?! Actually, I, most shamefully can. To be honest, last night's American Idol was the only episode I have missed so far this season. I am shamed... But at least I am out of the American Idol closet. Usually, I couldn't sit through a whole episode--but this time around I caught the initial auditions and realized that I really do enjoy this front-end part of the show. Once the judges (and America!) have narrowed down the contestants--COUNT ME OUT. Then the cheese-fest begins and viewing may be one thing, but ask me to listen and I would rather... Oh I don't know... Tune into the Grammy's or something.

Another stormy day here in New Westminster.

I have superb view of the Pattulo Bridge (AKA Bridge of Death) from my living room window, and I just spent a good hour staring out of it. Our apartment building is, let's say, antiquely, so when the winds flair up the single-paned windows shake, rattle and literally, roll on their sills. A dark and stormy day; no more interesting than any other day, until about mid afternoon.

Sometimes there are moments in life that we anticipate so much, that the moment itself can start to seem like a fantasy that will never be real. Sometimes willing something excessively will only add to burden and problem itself. But most often, we only obsess over something if it really matters. If we have a vested or emotional interest in it. If we care for it and reasons don't matter.

I have been willing something to happen for many months now. Now that it has finally happened, on this windy, rainy afternoon, my relief is unsettling. Relief it surely is--undeniably and without doubt the hallow feeling inside has subsided substantially, for now anyways. And I feel glad that my conscious can relax, for now anyways. And all it took was a call. A call from a long-lost friend, who apparently did receive my wishes and prayers for strength and managed to make that all-important, mid-afternoon call.

On such a dark and stormy day.

Such a bright and sunny day, to me.

The beginning blog.
To start, I am somewhat unsure as to point of this blog. Ever since I first heard of "blogging" and "bloggers" and "bloggees" (okay, I made the last one up...) my attitude has been fairly cynical. Really, I do not yet understand or can imagine what the real advantage to blogging is. I cannot fathom who in this world would be just randomly interested in my free-time babble about relatively insignificant happenings in my life. Do these people exist? Well, they must, because blogging is so popular these days. If you are reading this, you are proving to me that there is a point to this other than typing practice... furthermore; that people who just read blogs for the heck of reading blogs, really do exist. That's all for now. Nothing much buzzing at the moment...
Eng beginning blog.