Category Archives: Yellowknife

GPOY 2.0

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Hipster Cleavage

Hipster Cleavage

Well, it’s not like us around the ol’ raincoaster blog to do things the usual way. The usual way to take a GPOY or Gratuitous Photo Of Yourself, is, if you are female, to get some authentic-looking fake tats and a retro bra and too much eyeliner and pose in front of a rather dirty mirror before your mom gets home from work, but that’s just not the way we do things around these parts.

We don’t even own black eyeliner!

So the first time we posted a GPOY, we posted pictures of our spirit animals, along with a poll: the Oxford Comma is now officially my Spirit Animal, having trounced Steampunk Cthulhu, Greek Riot Dog, Sexually Oblivious Rhino, Courage Wolf, and the Raven quite thoroughly. I mean, look at that:<—— Oxford Comma, right there.

And now, we’re posting these photos which, if you know how to read them, will tell you things a-plenty about us (all of our personalities, right from raincoaster to icecoaster). So, enjoy?

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Arctic Fox

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Arctic Fox is bouncy, bouncy

Arctic Fox is bouncy, bouncy

When I put the word out I was moving to Yellowknife, Bob Garlick made a concerted effort to talk me out of using “icecoaster” and into “Arctic Fox” but I told him some toothless barfly with a sideline in keeping miners warm had probably registered that name back in the fifties.

Alas, seems not.

In any case, last week our A/R/finance/accountancy/money-handler-type-person came into work somewhat wide-eyed. She’s almost as new to the North as I am, and so had been rather startled to have her morning run interrupted by a, yes, fox, trotting coolly across the road for all the world as if she was gonna stop and give way to this lean and lithe critter that stood, if it had stood still, no higher than her knees, and lo that fox must have been gifted with the Second Sight for she did exactly that. And when it was out of sight, she turned around and ran back home, perhaps somewhat faster.

And the other day my roomie and I were sitting in the living room, sharing some Sauv Blanc and gossip, when she fell silent and pointed out the window, and there, trotting down the gravel driveway as if it owned it, was a tall, red fox. So now I have an answer for all my friends from the South who keep pestering me about my first wildlife sighting.

Now, these things, these arctic or sub-arctic foxes, they are not like the foxae that surrounded my town when I was growing up in Ontario: those Ontarian foxes tend to be stubbier canids altogether, resembling more the Jack Russell than the whippet.

Red Fox. Not Redd Foxx.

Red Fox. Not Redd Foxx. Comedy skills unknown.

The foxes around these parts tend to be leggier critters entirely, and much more coyotean to boot, thusly:

Alaskan Red Fox. I TOLD YOU they were taller up North

Alaskan Red Fox. I TOLD YOU they were taller up North

Neither of which is an Arctic Fox, technically speaking. Technically speaking, this is an Arctic Fox:

and he looks really pissed off about third billing

and he looks really pissed off about third billing

Which reminds me of the question that has often occurred to me since I arrived: what is the biggest predator in the Northwest Territories? I have come to the conclusion that, until I lose thirty pounds, it’s me.

and for Week Five, we present:

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Story of my life, really

Story of my life, really

Week Five’s plan, in case you’re wondering, is mastering that whole Getting Out of the House thang. Which really means I’ve gotta finish that Bastille Day post about Le Chef Pierre and Le Frolic, because I’ve been too guilt-wracked over not getting it done to actually show up there since. And apparently he is as big an Armagnac aficionado as I am, so this could get expensive.

By the way, The Frolic is also the title of a really seriously creepy story by John Ligotti, one of the most underappreciated authors in the English language. And now, apparently, also an independent film. Which has nothing to do with anything, but is a fact. Or series of facts. So.

Anyway, it’s a fact that I can’t stay here another weekend listening to the rad patio party the people up the hill have every Friday and Saturday without going fucking insane. I realized in Week Two that it was entirely possible to piss your life away going to work, coming home, and doing nothing else but eating, sleeping, and reading Google+. That, however, is not the life I left Vancouver to find.

A Woman, A Plan

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A Simple Plan

A Simple Plan

I haven’t been here long, and I’m finding it a HUGE adjustment (not big: HUGE, all caps, yo) so being as organized and productive as I am I decided to do One Thing Per Week, no more.

Week One: reserved for being sick. Alas, I was sick as a dog, and that being a dog that was really sick, and not to mention waking up in the middle of the night and having heart attack after heart attack seeing the light in the sky and thinking I’d slept in. I gather from work sleeping in is not such a big deal that they tell you to pack your knives and go back to the decadent, sleeping-inner, southlands from whence you came, but I’d rather not find out first-hand, if you know what I mean.

Week Two: reserved for freaking out and drinking. If you’ve ever freaked out, I don’t think I need to explain this to you. Drinking up here is different from drinking down in Vangroover; you’re much less likely to run into, say, Ryan Gosling, and much more likely to run into, say, an elder woman who tries to tell you in a language you’ve never heard before that you’re gonna get hit by a car if you don’t stop typing away on your iPod while walking down the street. And who could disagree? But it’s not exactly partying at Bar None on Raj’s tab. Speaking of which, if you’ve never done it, this is what it looks like:

Week Three: reserved for exercising and getting out of the apartment. With mixed success; in part, this was inspired by the fact that the door to work was locked on Monday and I had no other options than to toddle to the art department next door, do as much as I could on my iPhone, and then go for a stroll. Actually started the Sun Run training plan, so Go Me and all that uplifty shit. I managed to pick the least interesting road on which to run, and ended up in some Trailer Park Boys netherland that caused even DTES me to turn around and leave, lest someone try to hook me up with their Uncle Daddy.

Week Four: is reserved for regularizing the blogging schedule, which is ironic as the Manolo, my blogging boss, has suggested I take August entirely off. Oh well.

settling in

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Notice to All Employees

Notice to All Employees

So yeah, things are a little different in Yellowknife. In Vancouver, they made you get a tattoo of whoever was on the cover of Billboard’s latest issue, and DEAR GOD I wanted to wear a burqa when it was the Jonas Brothers’ turn. Eventually I ran out of space, so they just gave me new arms to start fresh, and that was when I made my escape.

I’ve been learning a little about the town thanks to these instructional tourist guide videos that a commenter sent to me.

Part the First

Part the Second

Seems pretty much right-on so far. I must say it IS amusing when people try to frighten me with stories of the Range. I just laugh and tell them about the time I went for coffee with Willy Pickton and that usually gives them some more perspective on the DTES relative to the Range.