"There were nine of us that night. Seven agents. One astronomer. And one dumb kid who got lost on the wrong back road."
-Agent Kay, Men In Black
Now that I'm a university graduate, it seems that the fashionable thing to do is start a blog, so I decided to write this as a chronicle of the clichéd post-graduation "I'm, like, a student of life" period I now find myself navigating-- I'm back at home, living with my parents, and presently putting my Creative Writing degree to fine use working on the maintenance team at a golf course-- basically, my life is the premise of Adventureland. I have no plans to go back to school in the Fall, and, at a loss for what to do for the foreseeable (and indefinite) future, have decided to turn the intervening time between graduation and whatever-it-is-I-end-up-doing-next as an opportunity to finally learn about Vancouver.
You see, as anyone who knows me well will attest/rant, I'm a "tourist" in the broadest sense of the word: I'm terrible with directions, get lost easily, and generally just don't know what's going on. I'm like Marcus Brody after George Lucas abruptly decided to make him pitiably senile in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade and he gets lost in Iskenderun. And not just when I'm somewhere foreign-- despite being born and raised in Vancouver, I don't actually know much about it-- I'm embarrassingly unfamiliar with its layout, geography, or identity (and was just as lost for the past 4 years while in Los Angeles [my Tom Tom {Sir Thomas Thomas <a male name, even though it had the female voice |and I cursed him/her/it out as a "bitch" every time it gave bad directions|>} was my best friend in college]). Nested brackets.
I suppose you could also take this concept of being lost as a grand metaphor for the uncertain and directionless period of life I am attempting to negotiate, and my effort to find my bearings and cartographically orient myself in a tumultuously transitory period of shifting self-identity, but I think that would be pretty presumptuous of you.
So, my idea is that this blog will read something like a conventional blog-- sprinkled with narrative, cheap philosophical digressions, occasional uses of inappropriate words, and the odd ejaculation of poetic flourish-- and something like a travel journal, as I finally make a long-overdo effort to familiarize myself with the wondrous and hitherto unknown city that is my home. But enough introductory preamble--
The first touristy thing I did this summer was go to the Vancouver Flea Market-- my esteemed colleague Michael J. Saringer has been 'gasming to me about it for ages, and I saw it as the perfect inaugural event for this summer of exploration.
I was forewarned that the flea market is fairly hit-or-miss, but I was fairly impressed with the size and selection of random stuff they had. The place is huge-- a towering pornucopia of nostalgic pathological hoarding, and definitely-not-stolen trinkets, curios, knickknacks, odds & ends, and synonyms-- and has everything, from power tools to N64 games, to vinyl records, to new and vintage guitars, to this:
I've wanted that action figure since I was 10 years old-- sure, it may seem a tad juvenile to spend $4 on a child's toy at 22, BUT HIS HELMET COMES OFF.
After fleeing the market, Saringer, Peter, and I headed to Audiopile, this record store on Commercial Drive with a very impressive selection of new and used CD's and vinyl. I was intrigued by the music they had playing there, so I asked the clerk if they had anything by that band. Upon consulting with him, he cleverly recommended the more recent of their two albums (which he deduced by checking the date on the back of the album-- a bad sign), "because, you know, bands don't really change that much." It turns out the album he sold me wasn't even the right band. What a bastard.
[City: 1 Tourist: 0]
Dramatis Personae
 |
| Vancouver! (I think) |
You see, as anyone who knows me well will attest/rant, I'm a "tourist" in the broadest sense of the word: I'm terrible with directions, get lost easily, and generally just don't know what's going on. I'm like Marcus Brody after George Lucas abruptly decided to make him pitiably senile in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade and he gets lost in Iskenderun. And not just when I'm somewhere foreign-- despite being born and raised in Vancouver, I don't actually know much about it-- I'm embarrassingly unfamiliar with its layout, geography, or identity (and was just as lost for the past 4 years while in Los Angeles [my Tom Tom {Sir Thomas Thomas <a male name, even though it had the female voice |and I cursed him/her/it out as a "bitch" every time it gave bad directions|>} was my best friend in college]). Nested brackets.
 |
| "You know Marcus, he once got lost in his own museum" |
I suppose you could also take this concept of being lost as a grand metaphor for the uncertain and directionless period of life I am attempting to negotiate, and my effort to find my bearings and cartographically orient myself in a tumultuously transitory period of shifting self-identity, but I think that would be pretty presumptuous of you.
So, my idea is that this blog will read something like a conventional blog-- sprinkled with narrative, cheap philosophical digressions, occasional uses of inappropriate words, and the odd ejaculation of poetic flourish-- and something like a travel journal, as I finally make a long-overdo effort to familiarize myself with the wondrous and hitherto unknown city that is my home. But enough introductory preamble--
The Amble
The first touristy thing I did this summer was go to the Vancouver Flea Market-- my esteemed colleague Michael J. Saringer has been 'gasming to me about it for ages, and I saw it as the perfect inaugural event for this summer of exploration.
 |
| Disappointingly not actually operated by fleas |
I was forewarned that the flea market is fairly hit-or-miss, but I was fairly impressed with the size and selection of random stuff they had. The place is huge-- a towering pornucopia of nostalgic pathological hoarding, and definitely-not-stolen trinkets, curios, knickknacks, odds & ends, and synonyms-- and has everything, from power tools to N64 games, to vinyl records, to new and vintage guitars, to this:
 |
| This is why I probably shouldn't go to the flea market... |
 |
| Oh, no wait, this is why I SHOULD TOTALLY GO TO THE FLEA MARKET! |
I've wanted that action figure since I was 10 years old-- sure, it may seem a tad juvenile to spend $4 on a child's toy at 22, BUT HIS HELMET COMES OFF.
After fleeing the market, Saringer, Peter, and I headed to Audiopile, this record store on Commercial Drive with a very impressive selection of new and used CD's and vinyl. I was intrigued by the music they had playing there, so I asked the clerk if they had anything by that band. Upon consulting with him, he cleverly recommended the more recent of their two albums (which he deduced by checking the date on the back of the album-- a bad sign), "because, you know, bands don't really change that much." It turns out the album he sold me wasn't even the right band. What a bastard.
[City: 1 Tourist: 0]
 |
| "I listen to a lot of, like, alternative music." |
Undeterred, I embarked on my next touristy expedition, heading to Science World (formerly "Science World," the "Telus World of Science," and now officially the dizzyingly tautological "Science World at the Telus World of Science") with Saringer and Vanessa. For those who have never been there, Science World is a colossal, gleaming orb of metal and glass triumphantly looming over the water of False Creek as a monolithic 1980's interpretation of a beacon of technology with a small building beneath it dedicated to science exhibits. Of course, I've been to to the S-Dub plenty of times before, but it had been several years since my last visit, and I really wanted to see if they still had that room where they freeze your shadow on the wall.
Because part of Science World is closed due to construction (or because I look 14?), we only had to pay the children's admission fee. Unfortunately, this meant that Science World was way smaller than I remember it being. Somewhere between being fooled by the "Body Works" exhibit (which I excitedly mistook to be "Body Worlds," but was really a shoddy informative alcove with cartoons and child-ravaged anatomical dummies) and actually forcing myself to sit through the "hilarious" show on optical illusions, I realized this place was not quite as fun-tastic as I remembered it being.
However, the true lowlight was graciously provided by Vanessa, who, spotting a small child playing an (incredibly scientific) videogame that involved wheeling a wheelchair as fast as possible to win a virtual wheelchair race, proceeded to sit down next to him and out-wheel him, snatching victory away from the bright-eyed youngster just a few pixels from the finish line, and thus instilling a deep-seated pathological hatred of science, and condemning the poor child to a lifetime of liberal arts.
Upon reflection, I suppose it's a tad lazy to consider Science World part of my summer of discovery-- instead of finding something truly new to do, I fell back on something familiar. It's something of a chicken-and-egg paradox: I went there because I don't know what there is to do in this city, but I can't learn what there is to do if I just keep doing the same old things. However, since I made the decision to start this blog, I've been making a more conscious effort to seek out new things to do, and have been really pleased with what I've found so far (but more on that next time).
Well, I think that's enough for an introductory post. I've since had numerous blog-worthy experiences, so I should be able to update this fairly regularly with continual accounts of my hilarious hijinks as I attempt to finally cure my touristism (Touristiness? Tourismness? Tourette's?). Tune in next time for thrilling true accounts of bold marine expeditions--such as kayaking, wakeboarding, and fishing--death-defying hikes, daring, Marlowe-esque barhopping, high-stakes gambling, and even a little salsa dancing.
Hopefully my riveting prose will be enough to sate your saucy little appetite, and lure you into the dark mildew-scented 1970's van that is my next post.
If you don't feel like bushwhacking through the lush loquaciousness of my posts, you can follow me on Twitter (@MaxSzentveri), where I will condense my usual prolixity into 140-character updates on my wanderjahre of psycho-geographic discovery (I know, I know, first a blog, now a Twitter account-- from here, it's a slippery slope to writing 800-word reviews of fro-yo places on Yelp).
Hope to see you next entry. In the meantime, a little this:
And a lot of this:
That's all for now. Ta!
-Max
 |
| That's no moon... |
However, the true lowlight was graciously provided by Vanessa, who, spotting a small child playing an (incredibly scientific) videogame that involved wheeling a wheelchair as fast as possible to win a virtual wheelchair race, proceeded to sit down next to him and out-wheel him, snatching victory away from the bright-eyed youngster just a few pixels from the finish line, and thus instilling a deep-seated pathological hatred of science, and condemning the poor child to a lifetime of liberal arts.
Upon reflection, I suppose it's a tad lazy to consider Science World part of my summer of discovery-- instead of finding something truly new to do, I fell back on something familiar. It's something of a chicken-and-egg paradox: I went there because I don't know what there is to do in this city, but I can't learn what there is to do if I just keep doing the same old things. However, since I made the decision to start this blog, I've been making a more conscious effort to seek out new things to do, and have been really pleased with what I've found so far (but more on that next time).
Well, I think that's enough for an introductory post. I've since had numerous blog-worthy experiences, so I should be able to update this fairly regularly with continual accounts of my hilarious hijinks as I attempt to finally cure my touristism (Touristiness? Tourismness? Tourette's?). Tune in next time for thrilling true accounts of bold marine expeditions--such as kayaking, wakeboarding, and fishing--death-defying hikes, daring, Marlowe-esque barhopping, high-stakes gambling, and even a little salsa dancing.
Hopefully my riveting prose will be enough to sate your saucy little appetite, and lure you into the dark mildew-scented 1970's van that is my next post.
If you don't feel like bushwhacking through the lush loquaciousness of my posts, you can follow me on Twitter (@MaxSzentveri), where I will condense my usual prolixity into 140-character updates on my wanderjahre of psycho-geographic discovery (I know, I know, first a blog, now a Twitter account-- from here, it's a slippery slope to writing 800-word reviews of fro-yo places on Yelp).
Hope to see you next entry. In the meantime, a little this:
A little that:
And a lot of this:
That's all for now. Ta!
-Max
Dramatis Personae
People in this post:
Michael J. Saringer:
Michael J. Saringer:The Constable in charge of the Watch.
Peter St. Quintin:
Attendant on Don Pedro, a singer.
Vanessa Iverson:
Waiting gentlewoman, attendant on Hero.
Attendant on Don Pedro, a singer.
Waiting gentlewoman, attendant on Hero.
