Chowderhead Bazoo

The Summer-Wreckers

Sun! Surf! Stabbin'! Fuckin' A. It's that time of year again when the vicious dregs of our far-flung dystopian suburbs migrate to the downtown shores for a little summer funtime R & R - namely, rockin' and rampagin'! Which of course means lots of beer, lots of yelling, and with the crazed consumption of the former, lots of looking for trouble. Or more accurately, lots of inventing trouble. I'll never quite understand this specimen's blueprint for fun. And they're everywhere, no matter where you go - any place known for fun and festivity - they'll be there, tiny eyes glazed over in a state of rodent-like ferocity, wiry little bad vibe time-bombs ready to blow, ready to ruin the scene for everyone. I picture the preparations: "Let's see, sunscreen, towel, backpack, shiv..." Who thinks like that? And how in Hell do they manage to stay out of frequent incarceration? Maybe they don't. Maybe they just don't give a shit about anything. Except partying. With knives.

Food-Hating Tower of Maintenance

She may have started out with good intentions - saving chickens, starting a garbage heap and all that - but all too often it's a slow and steady kayak cruise into a full-blown eating disorder. Today's concerned twenty-something has pretty much turned vegetarianism and veganism into a rite of passage; admirable enough, I guess, except perhaps for the often short-sighted perspective that will find many of them looking like frail, hollowed-out junkies by the time they're hitting their mid-thirties. It's like watching someone go slowly bat-poop crazy, their diminishing sustenance intake in direct proportion to their insane and wearying rationalizing. And yet as they sit there trembling and complaining of various wim-wams and vapours while you tuck into your burger and slug back java with a vitality they can't even remember, they will actually adopt a superior attitude and lemon-sucking expression as they toss out the textbook platitudes of the hopeless foodophobe. "I could never eat that." No kidding - you can barely get through your flax cracker and I'm the nut here?  Oh wait, nuts are deadly poison, aren't they? ...Sigh.

The New Lounge Lizards

Once this breed boasted proud pompadours and razor-sharp sharkskin suits as they trolled smoke-filled nightspots, quick with a Zippo and a loaded wink, hitting it hard with the skirts and even harder with the hootch - real drinks that had nothing to do with cranberries, ginger infusion, or energy drinks. Now look at them. Chances are they've never been to Europe or even L.A. - so where does the faux sporty Euro-trash-by way-of Hollywood look come from? And how do we send it back? Indeed, the puzzling pair raise more questions than they answer; are they talking to each other? Who the hell are they constantly dialing up? And if they're having such an awesome time, how come they always seem to be on the horn? I once spotted a gaggle of four or five of these guys all clucking away on their phones at the same time as the night and the world around them simply passed them by as if they were bit players in their own life stories. (A dull read to be sure.) It's the modern peacock syndrome, I suppose, and I guess the ladies really like to see how a - cough - man handles himself around a tiny twittering, beeping annoyance. And what could they possibly do for a living? So many questions... ones their reptilian forefathers could never answer.

Mass-Consuming Toddler Man

Based on the swelling numbers of this species, it would seem that the infantilization of the North American male is nearly complete - short of an actual diaper full of shit and accompanying bawling. But hey - the millenium's still young. Really young. He's the perfect stooge for our times; consuming anything you tell him to, easily distracted with useless shiny things waved in his face, and handily placated with the instruments of instant gratification. Requiring even less effort or thought is the fact that he can pretty much wear the same outfit from cradle to grave. Great! Life is one long kindergarten with super-sized drinks and a trail of crud down your shirt-front. Is it too early for man-bibs as casual wear? Go to any mall, airport, or casino and you'll see virtual armies of the Toddler Man, quite literally toddlin' and a-waddlin' along thanks to the cut of his massive crotch-heavy pants and sausagey McGirth. Turn on the TV and there he is again as the modern sitcom dad - the slow-witted slob on the couch, worshipper of the idiot box, sports-addicted, bereft of dignity and as feckless as a newborn - further infantilized by his sassy yet indulgent (and invariably disproportionately attractive) wife. Here he lolls, the new ideal.

Doobie Doofus

Let's get serious about pot! Oops, too late. But hey, if you enjoy a little indulgin' in the ol' "Mary Jane" now and then, why not crank it up a bit and turn it into a loud, clownish, and annoying way of life? Not only will you be learning more about rope and tunics than you ever thought possible, but you'll also be freaking out The Man. Now if only The Man could ever look at you without giggling and shaking his head. What's worse, this specimen - invariably going by some idiotic, ridiculously cliche old hippy handle like Captain Wizard - always seems to be elected spokesman for the local hemp activists, leading one to assume that this guy's practically conservative or lucid compared to the rest of them. Or maybe this is their vision of Utopia - who knows? Who cares? Got any Wheat Thins? But, hey - way to dispel those preconceived notions, Cap'n - thanks for all your hard work! Never mind the fact that the bud he's huffing is about fifty times stronger than that of his groovy forefathers, but maybe he could take a cue from them and the countless casual tokers before him and just shut the fuck up and smoke it.

Urban Dog Brain

(Click to enlarge)

"Don't worry - he's friendly!" That's what you usually hear just before the wet slobbery snout starts probing your groin and the pooch's owner either wanders off or stands there grinning like a proud parent. The baffling Urban Dog Brain is a unique specimen in the pet-owning world as their love of city living and prepackaged lifestyle seems to directly correspond with their lousy pet-owning skills and sense of entitlement. They decide to cram an often too-large Fido into their tiny lofty living cubicles and then loudly bitch about the fact that large urban centres aren't more dog-friendly, which in turn compels them to flout the rules. When called on their inconsiderate behaviour the specimen will undoubtedly go into flinty-snippy overdrive with prepared platitudes more in keeping with the mindset of an eight year-old ("it's not fair!"), while positively stinking of the wrongheaded attitude of someone who gives you a dirty look for noticing that they're urinating in public. Angry missives to the local paper are not unheard of either, prompting yet another weary back and forth about what, oh what can be done to placate Dog Brain and provide Rover with all of his doggy needs - except for things like a yard, clean air, and peace and quiet. All because their love of dogs knows no earthly bounds.

Double Decaf Khak-Head

(This one fell through the cracks, originally posted only on the Sinners blog. Might as well keep the set complete.)

Perhaps the more uber-middle class, more conspicuously consuming cousin of the Uptight Seattleite, the Khak-head is nonetheless all about "doing the white, er, right thing" and chuckling knowingly at the proper NPR programs. Donning his weekend trekkin' outfit, the specimen is wont to feeling on top of the world - because he is. It's his world, we're just living in it. Sorry, Sinatra - some smooth, runny World-Beat-Lite is more his bag, purchased at his local Starbucks, naturally, along with his complicated and safe coffee-free coffee. And safety is indeed a big issue for the Khak-head, for while he may appear to be quite crunchily Liberal, he's been buying into a lot of fear-mongering in the last few years; outwardly snickering at the notion that there are crazed, freedom-hating terrorists lurking behind his top-of-the-line sports utility lawnmower in the garden shed, but truthfully a little nervous about the possibility. I mean, he's got a lot of stuff. He still may be clutching that Utne, but once you start peppering your political chatter with the words "post 9-11 world," it's a slippery slope into the GOP goose-step.

Neo Redneck Chic

A little bit Kid Rock, a little bit big-house "new fish" and a whole lotta' over-stimulated suburban rube, the Neo Redneck suspects he might be making a statement, but can't quite summon up the mental energy to figure out what it is. It's less a statement really than a nacho-infused grunt. With brow furrowed and expression set to "rodential," the specimen seems to be attempting to convey some sense of hard, hairy manliness and gruff my-way-or-the-highway forthrightness, despite resembling an underfed, ageing boy-band member. His only strength may lie in numbers as he is somewhat of a pack animal, but for the most part he will always look slightly overwhelmed and angrily confused, ready to lash out at the myriad things he does not and cannot understand. However, like a degenerating chain of photocopied photocopies, he does not exude the authenticity, the genuine chaos of the true-blue jerky-jawin', shirt-sheddin' trailer trash punk - extremely difficult to pull off when you live with your parents in Stripmallville, cozily nestled down with your video games and Spiderman bedsheets.

Freewheelin' Free-Range Playboy

A sub-species of the classic 70's "Sensitive Feeling Man" (see Alan Alda, Phil Donahue, Gavin McLeod, etc.), the Free-Range Playboy is primarily a West Coast creature, often found sprinkled about the adorable islands and cozy cove towns of the Pacific Northwest. Occupying a unique place in the male spectrum, he is like a strange hybrid composed of equal parts Tom Jones and Doug Henning; at once a walking vintage cologne ad, but also a bowl of crunchy granola. Years of practice have honed the specimen's passive/aggressive lady-killing ways, having perfected a line of devious patter that also comprises a lot of actorly listening - which also provides a virtual photo-op for some casual-sexy posing and dreamy, half-lidded staring. No one is really sure what the Free-Range Playboy does, but chances are he owns a kiln and has somehow managed to make gobs of money out of some quaint hobby like soap-making or cheese-sculpting. You'll find him at the local gastro-pub, usually near the fire (good lighting), staring seductively into the eyes of a special lady, all the while patiently waiting to spring his secret weapon - because the Playboy never, ever lives in anything as mundane as a house house - that just wouldn't be sexy enough. A houseboat or treehouse or a hillside Hobbit cave is where he's at, and the ladies don't stand a chance; "Oh? I didn't mention that I live in a treehouse? Yes, I built it myself - it's all found wood... Come on inside and I'll show you my kiln..."

The Mid-Afternoon Rambler

It's the thin edge of the wedge in the nearly interesting evolution of the sensitive "singer-songwriter" species, and quite possibly the death of the manly beard as well. Hey, life is  a state of mind, not a fashion statement, man. But I say that the big scarf alone exposes the dirty lie in these laid-back protestations of "casual" or  slackerish shrugs of "who cares?" As wimpy warblers like James Blunt and John Mayer pollute our aural periphery, one cannot ignore these freshly sprouting numbers of  earnest white guys with complicated feelings and their rambling hairdos. But did they ever really go away? Are there new generations timed to hatch at regular intervals throughout history, the genetic strands weakening with every sneaker-shod step away from Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan? It is more likely that in typical post-modern fashion, the troublesome troubador has simply chucked a few fistfuls of hand-picked history into the ol' Mixmaster to see what pours out. The unsavoury results of this lumpy concoction usually taste a lot like: " I'm kinda' going for a Van Morrison meets Jeff Buckley meets the Banana Splits type thing, ya' know...?"

Yeah, unfortunately I do.