Author: Nic Olson

The bricks and the hardwood. Those tiles that decorate the pillars. The bar with the stools. The old timey feeling. This building is one that matters. It is a place that is worth something.

My past ten years of life has been highlighted by a few places. My home in White City. I somewhat grew up there, it was pretty big. White City School. I kinda grew up there, it was pretty cool. The Exchange, the venue in Regina. I grew up there.
I don’t remember my first show at this venue, it was probably some local punk bands in the summer of 1999 or 2000. And I’ve seen literally hundreds and hundreds of bands display their talent, or lack there of, on a stage of spit soiled carpet.

I have more memories from this shady underground music establishment than anywhere in Regina. Than anywhere in the world. Like:

I’ve seen 400 people packed in, to see three local bands. The smoke looming in the air like the heavy memories of the past. The past that allowed smoking in venues and bars.
I’ve seen a few legendary bands in front of less than 30 people. The room awkwardly empty, until the bands play and the passion comes through the speakers and into the soul, filtered through earplugs.
I’ve seen some of my favourite bands in the past, play concerts of serious quantity and quality, showing people what real music is all about.
I’ve seen music; local and touring, struggling and well-paid, bands and artists, in the purest form of sound there could ever be.

Tonight I went to a concert. I had no idea this concert was happening until I heard from a friend, about ten minutes before the first act was due up. I drove there quickly, knowing two of the acts well, and the third not at all. The first two reminded me of why I love music and the people around it. The third reminded me of why I love The Exchange. I was planning on leaving after a song of the third band, just to hear what they were like. After one song, I couldn’t leave. I was loving it too much. I couldn’t leave. I had no choice but to stay to the end and buy my second album of the night, one that was a wallet emptying $15.

As I sat, listening to live brand new music, I became somewhat emotional. Thinking of the things I’ve seen there. The affect music has had on me. And soaking in a perfect new band. I can’t properly express the importance of this building to me. The channel for any type of music, keeping independent music important, this building.

Check out:
The Exchange.
Andy Shauf.
The Rural Alberta Advantage.

My brain has been melting lately. I’ve been doing nothing for the past week, which would explain my semi-regular very-mediocre blog list as of late. Doctor’s orders: don’t do anything for a few weeks. Living with mom has really made that a reality. But I can’t say like she’s forcing me to do nothing. I’ve been pretty hard into it lately.
Lots of ESPN coverage of Wimbledon, so you know that’s not making me any smarter. Brad Gilbert is the Pierre McGuire of tennis. I just want someone to hire him so badly, so I can have a few months of peace before he gets fired as his employer realizes his true idiocy. And then there’s Mary Carillo. She has a voice that makes me shake with fear and want to curl up next to a pile of dead and decaying rabbits.

Lots of episodes of Lost, the hit television series. The show pretty accurately describes my life. It makes no sense, is bound in the past and present with no sense of time, and time travel makes sense. It’s also an awful mess of a show. A brain melter.

Lots of video games. PS3 on HD TV. Brainmelter at it’s finest. And most expensive.

But I’ve been reading. It was a poorly written book about a car driver in India, but a book nonetheless. And I’ve been studying Hindi. So my brain isn’t fully melted. But right now it is soft like a wedding night with Mary Carillo.

I’ve been struggling with all those ‘meaning of life’ questions. Where, why, what, especially. And these questions are not very approachable when my brain is half-melted from my past week of living, and half-melted from the culture shock that maybe hit me like a well struck Slazenger. So I figured that I would spare you my usual trying to figure out the world crap, and tell a story of my recent travels. It’s not much of a story, but I’ve thought about it everyday since it happened.

I was in Cochin, Kerala, India. I was staying in a nearby town called Irinjalakuda (it doesn’t prounce phonetically, so don’t even try) and went to Cochin by train with a new friend that I was staying with. We went to Cochin to see the sights, as it is a classic tourist town. We took a boat ride, went to a shopping centre, ate some eats, drank some tea. We were only there for a few hours, because there was a city wide half-strike, meaning that the majority of the city was closed down, excluding a few buses, autos, and some shops, because of some political party that was angry for some reason and decided to make the world more difficult for everyone. We headed back to the train station for our hour long journey back home. We were early for the train’s departure, so we sat in some empty seats on the northbound train waiting for the engine to start hauling the thousands.
A little girl came up to me. She couldn’t speak English but was wearing rags, and with the tears in her eyes and with an outstretched hand, I knew what she was looking for. I had no cash with me. My friend had cash with him, as he bought he and I a deep fried banana and shoed her away at the same time. Before I thought of giving her the fried banana that he bought me, she was shooed away to the next train compartment. The fried banana was delicious.
We arrived back at his place, spent the night and another day at his place before I took off again alone. I took the same train to Cochin again, and spent the day and the night there on my way to another tourist town. I stayed in a hotel nearby the train station, because my train departed around 6am. I spent a night eating expensive fresh seafood, watching Indian busboys fight over customers and taking the bus with Malasian army men. I woke up around 5am, went to the train station to wait for my three hour train ride to begin. I sat on a bench near the outer wall of the station, reading the newspaper, drinking a tea. I looked up from my newspaper when I heard someone approaching me. It was a little girl. She looked at me. I looked at her, making a motion for my wallet. She looked at me harder and began to giggle quietly. She was the same little girl that I saw a few days before. I remembered because of her eyes. Full of tears and dancing with colour. She remembered me too. I gave her a few rupee notes for her unbelievable smile and her huge eyes. And for the fact that she was shooed away She laughed again and ran to her friend, waiting nearby. I waved her and her friend over, gave her friend some rupees, and they ran away laughing, staying within sight, so they could keep looking at me and giggling. I smiled. And couldn’t think of anything else for the rest of my trip. And still can’t.
I don’t know what this means at all. But I liked it.

I wrote this in March. I haven’t posted it until now, I don’t know why. Probably because it doesn’t make sense.

The ultimate crappy scifi plot. I was at a house for tea and the TV was on in the background. The Matrix 2 or 3 was on. Some spaghetti robots were chasing a super space plane, eating electronics and killing people. My Indian friend asked me if this movie was a joke, I didn’t really
know the answer. Then I remembered, of course it is, it’s Keanu Reeves.

Every person I meet, I label them. Not on their sex, language, colour, education or otherwise. But by my system of Robot to Real Person. There is no real scale to this system, you are either a robot, real person, or somewhere in between.

My scale works this way: if you swear, smoke/drink/chew the betel etc, think church is boring, work a job you hate, have passion for something, think about and question the things you are told, love somethings; you may be a real person. Now this may not make sense to you, and that’s OK. It doesn’t even make sense to me. It is just how my brain works sometimes. You can be a real person without these, but they help solidify the fact. You can be a real people and do all the opposites of these things, but those are rare cases. And if you are a real person it doesn’t automatically mean you are worth anything. You could still be a crappy real person. A really crappy person.
A real person of worth has a purpose. A real purpose.

If you only talk in small talk, only laugh in the same amount of syllables everytime, text more than 100 texts in a 24 hour span, do the exact same thing everyday, love everything, think the Leafs are a legitimate organization, work for only money, you might be a robot. But just because you are a robot doesn’t mean you are a monster. Monster movies and robot movies are obviously
very different things. There are decent robots out there. Like that one owl robot, HootBot, from RadioShack in the ’80s, or the Jetsons maid robot, Rosie, also possibly from around the 80’s. But you’re not part of the majority.

Real people are refreshing. They live a life that is real, obviously. They are fluid, they struggle, they have personality. They may be personable, they may not.
Robots are awkwardly mechanical, up tight, without personality. They may be personable, they may not.

In this technological time, the world needs less robots. It needs more real people with real purpose. And less robots with purpose, because robots with a purpose will ruin the world. Just ask Keanu Reeves. He would respond with a raspy, “I love it when you call me big papa. Ahhaah.”

1. I was laying in bed listening to the patients around me. One was a 65 year old carnie, worked the games for 20 years. Another was a 15 year old mom getting gallbladder sugery. Her mother said, “Next time I get surgery I’m bringing a bag of my own blood. Do you know how long it takes to recover from someone else’s dirty blood? Plus, God doesn’t like it.” She might have been a Jehov…

2. When I first woke up, I woke up in the Recovery room, 100% high. I thought I was in Yellowknife. Then I think I started speaking Hindi and asked about my possibly Indian anestesiologist. He got to wear a disposable belaclava to cover his beard. Cool guy.

3. I snorted cocaine in front of my father. They brought me a little plastic bag full of Columbia’s finest and offered a key, the back of my hand or to line one up for me. I chose all three. But actually, before anything else they gave me a nasal mist of cocaine, it was labelled. I was high, I’m sure of it.

4. After I spoke Hindi for a while, I tried to roll on my side for comfort, but I couldn’t roll over my mostly dead body. It was like someone was laying dead weight on me. Cool.

5. While getting naked presurgery, I didn’t tie me gown up so well, but it all stayed in there. The nurse later informed me that I could wear my undershorts. Had I known this I would have wore the Lucky Reds to add a “Successful Septum Renovation” to the list. I guess the Maruti Macromans performed well. Yeah, that’s what they’re actually called.

6. I only saw one cute nurse.

7. I now look like Owen Wilson, as planned.

As some have pointed out, my nose has the same birthday as Kris. Happy Birthday, may you both never break again, although I think it was probably you that did this to me. Thanks.

The only thing I feel comfortable wearing over my shoulders and under my backpacks is T-shirts. Button-up long-sleeves are alright, but the boob support that a slightly elastical cotton T-shirt offers is unmatchable. I once had two or three dress shirts, but the last month has seen me lose my only non T-shirt shirts. One has a hole burnt in it.

I started to collect old T-shirts a little while back, noting how many deadly ones I have. World Junior Gold Medal year number one XS tee. Good Clean Fun sleeveless maroon shirt from grade 5. Good Riddance shirt, Canada tour 2001. Only Crime/CHL hybrid. Rider Grey Cup champ longsleeve. My first pingpong Start with Bronze turqouise beauty from grade 3 or something. Old Means stuff. An I Heart India shirt from Delhi in ’08. The best days of my life represented by paint spread on cotton.

I bought a shirt at a show last year. The back of it read, ” SEE, FEEL, THINK, DO”. When I read this at the show, it just felt good. I liked it because it made sense, so I bought it, and think about those words everytime I peel it off the floor and throw it over my head. Good thoughts.

The day after I returned home from India I saw a show and bought another shirt, since I left most of my old ones around the world, and also had no more clean ones left. I bought this one, and didn’t realize the small words hiding in the bigger font, that said “Avoid Success.” Depending on what your of idea is success is, this could be good advice. You can think whatever you would like about it, but to me the word means a compilation of all the crappiest things out there, and usually summed up with an eye full of money. I know these days people say that success can be obtained in many different ways, but I say that success is a place that none of us really want to be at.

So my advice, to avoid success and go to heaven wear more T-shirts. And even wear them to church.

I don’t want to take credit for the Penguins Stanley Cup, but…
My lucky reds. They’ve won me a Grey Cup, French Open and Stanley Cup. The power is in the package.

Hossa. That 10 million isn’t so sweet anymore.

A week ago I literally had a vision of Crosby lifting the cup.

When I was about eight years of age I was a Penguins fan with Kris, while Jeremy was a Habs fan. They played a regular season game and I told them both that whomever won that game would be my new favourite team. Montreal won, but Pitts has since had a small place in my heart.

Although I didn’t think it would happen (how could both Soderling and the unofficial Swedish national team lose?) but either way Pittsburgh, you’re welcome.

Pictures soon.

I often look at my things and think of where they’ve gone. Where they had been before they arrived at where they are now. The road they traveled to get here in ‘the now’. For example, my waterbottle. I once had a Nalgene bottle, red, the ones that give you cancer, alzheimers, cancer again, and an empty head for believing that crap. Anyways, Jeremy and I won a doubles tennis tournament in Yellowknife and with the gift certificate for an overpriced sporting goods store called Overlanders I bought a red Nalgene. It was one of the new ones with the unbreakable lid.

I’m here again. Physically and mentally.