Category Archives: drugs

Hot Tub Hobo!

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Paging John Cusack: I sense a sequel. Calling all angels…

Sadly, this call could not be completed as dialed.

Mark Eskelsen, the Hot Tub Hobo

Mark Eskelsen, the Hot Tub Hobo

It seems Mark Eskelsen, a true aficionado of convivial outdoor bathing, free spirit, alfresco-dweller, and (at least mentally) time-traveller from reformed hippieville Beaverton, Oregon, is not a rock. Nor yet is he an island.

He is a loser.

From the New York Daily News (really, we’re getting our Cascadia news from NYC now? really, interwebs?):

The 45-year-old called 911 from his cell phone on Sunday morning and identified himself as the “sheriff of Washington County,” Beaverton police said. He then asked for medical attention, later admitting that he wasn’t the sheriff.

Eskelsen also said he had been in the hot tub for 10 hours and that his towels had gotten soaked.

“I just need a hug and a warm cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows in it,” he told the 911 operator.

In fact, the police lied: the poor man actually called 411, as any right-thinking, cocoa-seeking hot tub hobo would do in a time of need. Can you imagine the conversation he and the friendly operator must have had? If not for the fact my readers are still recovering from my recent OD on YouTubes, I’d post the scene from 28 Days where Sandra Bullock’s character is driving around wasted in the stolen limo wearing her underwear and drunk-dialing 411 to find a wedding cake, right here. But I won’t.

The operator knew a true human emergency when s/he heard one, and handed off the unsuspecting hug-seeker to 911 emergency response, who promptly responded to our warm-hearted if pruney-toed protagonist’s cri de coeur by calling in the SWAT team to roust him from his roasty roost and put him on ice in the cooler.

And to think: all he wanted was a hug, a cup of cocoa with marshmallows, and some fresh towels. Really, when it comes right down to it, we are all Juan Mann, alone.

“…how hard it must be to live only with what one knows and what one remembers, cut off from what one hopes for!… There can be no peace without hope.”

~ Albert Camus, 1948, The Plague (Trans. Stuart Gilbert), p. 262-263

Emo Luv

Emo Luv

Dry Spell

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Those of you who have been following the ol’ raincoaster blog for some time will know that I’ve been on a largely raw vegan die(t) for three months now, with the result that I’ve gone from an XL to an L and no, it was NOT worth it.

It was most particularly not worth it because I had to give up my beloved cocktails; in fact, I believe I only consumed alcohol one day in the month of July and that was my birthday. In August I gave myself a few more “days off” and enjoyed some wine, but it must be said that in this, as in most things in life, Dean Martin had it right.

Dino is my hero

Listen to Dino; he KNOWS!

“I’d hate to be a teetotaler. Imagine getting up in the morning and knowing that’s as good as you’re going to feel all day.”

Well, exactly.

So, how does it feel to be a neo-teetotaler in Lotus Land, when one knows all the best bartenders and they all know it’s a Negroni, up, when you walk in the door unless it’s cold outside and then it’s probably Jack Daniels or if it’s been a very bad day, Champagne? Well, it doesn’t feel good. Have you ever been the only sober person at a blowout? That’s right: it feels like a bad dream. It feels, in fact, just as depicted in this incredible documentary, 28 Drinks Later.

And, lest we forget, here are some words of wisdom from Diogenes:

“What I like to drink most is wine that belongs to others.”

Quiz: Which Celebrity Drunk Are You?

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Well, I don’t know which you are, but I’m apparently a closeted lesbian cutter:


Find out what drunk celebrity you are at LiquidGeneration!

Is very weird and possibly even incorrect, as all my friends tell me that when I get drunk I actually get friendlier. The one time someone slipped me Roofies I went up and down the halls of my apartment building, knocking on doors and introducing myself with “it’s high time we said hi!” God, it was hilarious. Or so they tell me.

Crazy Little Thing Called Rehab

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We’ve been on an Amy Winehouse kick lately (and yes, are consequently in desperate need of a de-lousing, even though only one apartment in my building is reported to have insect-y kind of vermin), so here’s a wicked-good mashup: Crazy Little Thing Called Love and Rehab. It’s bad when looking at pictures of a healthy woman makes people think of death, but I defy you to watch this and not think about what she looks like now. The saline implants are probably the healthiest part of her; anyone else wondering if she went off to her Caribbean retreat specifically so she could get healthy enough a doctor would operate on her? Going through rehab to get a pair of new tits: yes, welcome to the 21st Century. Here’s your six-inch miniskirt, here’s your coke, here’s your fake tan, and here are your tattoos. You now look like a homeless hooker from 1968; in fact, if you’re anything like Amy here, you probably look like the same age, too.

The Most Canadian Story Ever Told

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Bear none.

I mean Bar None, which is a nice bar in Yaletown and surprisingly unsnooty, although that’s probably just because it’s too dark to see if they should snub you and also because I know the right people. But the bar is not what I mean, unless you’re speaking with a broad Eastern accent, in which case yes, it is.

I mean this:

by Wayne Barnes, Tofino Photography for the Raincoast Education Society

I don't remember reading this part in the Cthulhu Mythos

That is a BC Black Bear totally pwning a servant of Great Cthulhu. These bears are normally peaceful creatures, doglike, even timid:

They enjoy nothing better than playing on the trampoline, relaxing in a hammock, or enjoying a pic-a-nik basket with pals.

bear fall down go boom

The workers couldn't wait for their turn at the Bouncy Castle!

but when they are protecting their territory, hunting for food, or taking care of those they consider family, they can be ruthless. The so-called Red Devil Squid in the top picture must surely have gotten too close to one of the cubs, or possibly attempted to make off with the bear’s particular crop of salmon.

Now, from deepest, darkest Christina Lake, British Columbia comes word of a new kind of bear.

Not that kind.

This kind.

Damn straight they do, especially when the people steal their stash

They'll pry the machete from my cold dead paws

It seems a local farmer had developed a close relationship with some 13 neighborhood black bears, to the extent of feeding them, handling them, taming them, and really, everything that can still be mentioned on the evening news short of folding, spindling, and mutilating them. The bears, in turn, acted as guardians for the farm, which was a farm which required guardianship, what with it growing 2300 plants of the finest BC Bud, a crop worth enough loonies and toonies to keep the bears in dog food and the farmer in Gucci for many a year.

Amusingly, unless I’m misremembering the name, this farmer would be the selfsame Justin who used to be the assistant manager at one of the billions of Starbucks at which I worked; in this case, the one at Main and 14th. I heard him on the phone once in the back room, saying to person or persons (or ursines) unknown, “No, it’s perfect. Jimmy’s father is overseas for a few years and has to rent out his land. It’s surrounded on four sides by corn farms, and corn is, like, TALL. The neighbors aren’t nosy at all, and the only access is a private dirt road. It’s PERFECT, I’m TELLING YOU!” and then he looked at me funny, as if I was eavesdropping or something, and said, “I’ll call you back.” He quit shortly after that…to become a farmer.

He was a very, very smart boy.

Anyway, not only did this farm eventually get busted, guard bears or no guard bears (they were probably on a pizza and dorito run, if I know stoners) but while the arresting officers were figuring out what to do with the semi-tame bears, BC bear fanciers (more than you’d think, unless you’d been to the Pumpjack on a Friday night) got themselves together to petition for the freedom of the bears, who face the death penalty for … being bears that eat whatever’s put in front of them.

Pot Bear is a new subspecies

Doesn't he look terrified?

They don’t appear to constitute a terrible threat to the public safety, what with chasing thrown sticks and all:

“They were tame, they just sat around watching. At one point one of the bears climbed onto the hood of a police car, sat there for a bit and then jumped off,” said Royal Canadian Mounted Police sergeant Fred Mansveld.

That said, you apparently don’t come between a bear and his favorite crop.

The strange tale of some B.C. black bears that were caught guarding a marijuana grow-op has gotten stranger, after someone stole the confiscated pot from the RCMP and tried to protect it with a stash of stolen dynamite…

On Thursday, RCMP obtained a search warrant for a nearby property in Greenwood, where they found a stash of about 10 kilograms of marijuana stolen from the lockup, including a small amount from the Christina Lake bust.

The officers also found a grenade, a loaded 12-gauge shotgun, and two loaded rifles.

Of even greater concern to police was the stash of about 19 sticks of dynamite they found rigged with homemade fuses, according to Cpl. Dan Moskaluk.

Well, that IS a matter of great concern. Everybody knows bears are slackers when it comes to safely handling explosives.

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