Positively charged.

The city is, as always, lush and vibrant, with flowers blooming on every curb, and the grass is soft and verdant, perfect for sitting down with a bowl of curry from the farmer's market. The trees are enormous, almost doubling the height of some hills, such that you can somehow look *through* these distant green mounds dwarfing the houses below, and see the skylight shining through them. The coffee is excellent, and it is impossible to feel self-conscious here for any reason - not even if you're wearing a pair of Norwegian Curling Pants through Oakland's Chinatown.

Yes, I know. I do tend to prattle on when Norwegian Curling Pants are involved. But bear with me for a moment.

I was strolling through the city's magnificent crosswalks, and decided to cut through a shopping plaza. A young woman was at the fountain, instructing one of her toddlers on the difference between boats and ducks, while her other, slightly older daughter was engaged in the universal sport of pigeon-harassing. In her admirable efforts to make the bird fly more than a metre, I kept to one side, so as not to add an extra level of challenge to the event.

As I passed by, the mother called out to me... "Are those Loudmouth Golf pants?"

I stopped, amazed. "Why, yes. Yes, they are."

"I thought so," she said. "That's my boyfriend's company."

Let me repeat that for you, since I know I didn't believe it the first time I heard it, either:

"That's my boyfriend's company."

Naturally, I braved pigeon, toddler, and fountain alike to run back, and shake her hand vigorously, after which we had a lovely conversation on the world of curling fashion, before parting ways as friends.

I do so love visiting the Bay Area.

I thought "vintage" clothing had wine spilled on it.

There was a wine and cheese party at the hostel last night. Everyone mingled and shared stories, and I... hung around in the corner. I did meet one fellow from France, though, who was disappointed to discover that this Canadian could hardly speak a word of French.

mojo status: 11/100

But, the corner can provide a valuable viewpoint. Last night, I saw:
-a girl with flowers in her hair.
-a girl with feathers in her hair.
-a man with wings in his sideburns.
-a patchwork suitjacket.
-a dude wearing sunglasses... and a bowtie.

I am gaining courage. I remember that once upon a time, I was known as... "the guy with the pants."

mojo status: 15/100

The Man Made The Clothes.

Not a day after my post about hunting for Hawaiian shirts in Value Village, I received an e-mail from a friend, informing me that Alfred Shaheen has passed away.

This was a man I never knew by name, but have known for ages in spirit, for he invented the Hawaiian shirt. A bold man of passion, vision, vibrancy, and above all else, excellent fashion sense. In an attempt to learn more about him, I went to www.alfredshaheen.com , where I saw a few pictures, a few models... and a sidebar labelled, "vintage".

Realistically speaking, I shouldn't spend so much in these recessive times. But who could blame me for wanting to give a little something back?



Voila: the Jade Tapa Medley, a Shaheen original, dating from the late 1950s. Made in Honolulu, shipped from Honolulu. I don't know what I'm going to do to keep busy until it arrives in the mail. Besides double-check all the labels in my closet (and the nearby Value Villages), that is.

It looks like Mr. Denton has a brand new hobby. Thanks again, Mr. Shaheen.

Ego-logically friendly.

I think I've got it figured out. Nick Cave is the musical equivalent of a martial arts movie. You see, you watch them for three things:

1) The charisma of the lead.
2) Seeing the lead do awesome things.
3) Talking about those awesome things with your friends afterward.

It's the exact same vibe with the album "Dig! Lazarus! Dig!". Nick Cave howls out a sentence, and you're left stunned by its delivery. Then, you don't tell your friends what the song sounded like... instead, you say, "And then Nick Cave said this!"

You don't believe me? *ahem*:

I can see my buddy Doug tapping on the window
Hey, Doug, how ya been?
He hands me a book of holocaust poetry
complete with pictures
and he tells me to get ready for the rain...

So awesome.

Speaking of awesome, here's my latest project:

1. Save up about $250 that I can afford to lose on this.
2. Get a design done for a T-shirt. The slogan: "Denton Froese Brings The Snacktime."
3. Transfer this design to 30 T-shirts of various sizes.
4. Donate all shirts to Value Village and the Salvation Army.
5. Wait.

And then, one day, I'll be at a friend's friend's birthday party, and I'll introduce myself to someone. That person will do a double take, and then look at me with disbelief. Finally, they'll slowly ask: "So... did you bring any snacks?"

And I shall reply, "No, no. I don't bring the snacks -- I bring the snacktime. So, now that I'm here, let's all go for Slurpees."

I should have thought of this years ago.

How I became a better person by leaving my pants at home.

On this bright and sunny Victoria Day weekend, I felt it was a good day for a walk. Load up a few tunes, and sample the scents that sweet spring air. With the sun beating down, though, it didn't take long before I fled to a convenience store, seeking slushified relief.

Now, I was wearing my kilt yesterday, and although the whole trick of wearing a kilt (actually, the trick of wearing anything is to look like it doesn't matter to you, I couldn't help but be just a bit self-aware. The convenience store was owned by a middle-eastern couple, and the woman always dressed in a hijab headscarf. When I approached the counter with my drink, though, she was all smiles.

"Excuse me, but what do you call that -- that clothing?"

"Oh, it's a kilt." (Also known as a Men's Unbifurcated Garment, but only jerks point that out (Oh, wait. Forget get I said that.).)

"Ah. And how do you spell it?" She wrote it out on a piece of paper. "And where is it from?"

Now, here the story usually goes into me rambling how I'm Low German/Ukrainian by descent, and this particular manufacturer doesn't put any tartans on their kilts to avoid the "Celtic bloodline requirement" that usually accompanies these things, although there's a tartan for each of the Canadian provinces, et cetera... but that's not the sort of conversation one should foist upon strangers. Instead, I just smiled and said, "It's from Scotland. Quite a few men still wear them there, although it's mostly just a matter of tradition. Still, family is family, right?"

And at this, she smiled even more warmly. "Exactly."

Hm. You know, I never thought about it that way.

Playoff season would be murder.

It's a period of mourning here in Medicine Hat... my moustache has died. Almost subconsciously, the muttonchops have bloomed in memoriam.

It was a fine 'stache, no doubt about that. But vanity proved my undoing, and as I trimmed it one morning, I thought I'd add a little divot to the top. Alas (and I should have seen this coming), the hairs I trimmed on top provided all the body below it. What was left was so ghastly, I had no option other than to reach for the lather.

Apparently, a central truth to the grooming of facial hair is: "As Above, So Below."

Which got me to thinking.

I've talked about the need for a new new age before, but this one I like: divination by beard reading.

Advantage #1: Time. If someone comes to me for a reading, they're looking at a two, three month process minimum, with weekly record-keeping appointments, that's a lot of billable hours. Er, I mean... actually, no. That is what I mean. Moreover, that's a lot of time to retroactively prove my theories between sessions, and a lot of time to research likely statistical progressions of the future to pass off as predictions. The longer the beard-reader can keep things going, the better.

Advantage #2: Motivation. People aren't going to grow a beard for three months just to find out why they had that dream about a windmill last night. Beard-reading lends itself to the important questions, the ones that are worth working on for three months. This simplifies the beard-reader's job considerably. Better yet, it can be helpful: three months of placebo is a strong prescription, especially when they're carrying the relevant good luck charm right on their face.

Advantage #3: Fashion. Being able to tell people exactly how to trim their beards? That almost makes this whole idea worthwhile by itself.

Hm. That last one is quite an advantage, indeed. You know, for an extra fee, I could even grow the beard myself...

#3: It's scratchy.

Denton's #1 observation about growing a moustache:

Yes. I've got some dirt on my face. That's very humorous, and I never thought about it that way before. Even if the comparison had occurred to me, it certainly had never been put forth by 40% of the entire greenhouse before you.

That's not what prompted me to shave it off, though. No, the blame for that lies on observation #2: Accessorizing.

Moustache + glasses: intelligent.
Moustache + pipe: dignified.
Moustache + T-shirt: hard-workin' man.
Moustache + kilt: dancing-on-the-ceiling crazy person.
Moustache + Hawaiian shirt: Magnum, P.I.

Believe me, that last one carried some weight. However...

Moustache + bunnyhug: creepy old man.

I try and I try, but I just can't find any way around it. Ah, well. At least now, I know for sure.

This is not a hoodie.

Those of you from Saskatchewan should have no trouble appreciating my new outfit:


What do you think? Personally, I think it's the greatest sweater I've ever owned... but in case you can't make it out, here's a better picture of the design (with thanks to the extra-talented Sheana Molloy):


Do you want one for your very own? Drop me an e-mail and we'll talk.

International Talk Like A Poet Day.

It's hard not to love Robbie Burns Day. People carouse with fake Scottish accents, and haggis and bagpipes are not only present, they're lauded. People might veer away from such things for most of year, but on January 25, they'll allow themselves the indulgence of something different. I could also argue that people like the indulgence of a little tradition: it's nice to know that there's a day set aside purely for low-tech, old-fashioned merry-making.

Wouldn't it be great if there was a day like that for Canada's most famous poet, as well?

There's a problem with that, though -- for most good-hearted people, the idea of discussing Canadian poetry is far more unappealing than bagpipes and haggis. Chances are, they won't stick around long enough to ask, "Which poet?"

That's too bad for them, because the answer is Leonard Cohen.

Some brave souls reached that conclusion a few years ago, and ever since then, Leonard Cohen Night has been gaining popularity. In Edmonton, there's going to be an art exhibit, an open mike for any and all poets, and finally, an evening concert where local artists sing his songs.

This is probably where some people would ask, "So, if it's like a Canadian Celebration, does that mean we can get plastered there?"

Sadly enough, they've got a point. Robbie Burns Day is a whooping, roaring party. Leonard Cohen Night is a dry grad in comparison. Will it ever be popular enough to really take off? Because I'm an eternal optimist, I wager it will, and here's why...

Behold, ladies and gentlemen, the only time I shall ever post a photo from the Emmys on this website. That dapper gentleman right there is none other than Steve Wozniak, Apple co-founder and geek extraordinaire. He looks powerful and confident. He's got his act together. And he's wearing a really nice suit.

I would argue that Woz there doesn't look this good in a T-shirt.








...Nope.

That's the magic thing about Leonard Cohen: He's an incredible poet, true. He's a national treasure, undoubtedly. But he's also able to put together style and class, truth and beauty, the public and the private... and he can hold all those things in that critical balance which gives him a grace unequalled. It's the crowning achievement of a poet, to be as noble as a lord yet as wise as a monk. He always bears himself like he's wearing that suit, and he can bring you to that same special level.

That grace is a rare thing in this world, and it's something that deserves celebrating.

So, even if there aren't any Leonard Cohen festivities in your town this Friday night, throw one of his recordings onto the CD player, open a bottle of wine with some friends, and raise a toast to the man who teaches us not to fear our own potential.

One might even say he sees our perfect bodies with his mind.

Time to buy some socks.

It's a point of pride that at work, I'm referred to as "that guy with the shirt and the pants." How could I possibly ever give up a title like that?

That's how.

Fashion tips and friendly reminders.

Just wanted to remind you all that Stardust hasn't become a worse movie since I talked about it on Monday.

Also, that is the last time I go shopping for "fashionable" pants. Maybe I'm being harsh, but if I put on some trousers and my butt feels like it's not in the right place, my butt is not the first thing I blame.

High Fashion.

Today, I booted up the ol' ATR/IR for the first time all year. The background scans were clean, and everything was well-aligned, but I still wanted to test it before we had to depend on its data. So, with a little bit of care, I was able to put a fold of my Hawaiian shirt into the the sampling area.

Now, the IR's library matching software doesn't tell you what the sample is, or what it's made of; it tells you how close it is to everything else it has in its library. Our library, naturally, has a wide variety of household chemicals, industrial chemicals, toxic chemicals, and "other" chemicals. Where would my shirt fit in?

Out of the Top 20 matches, it's (1) a 90% correlation for polyester.

And (2) a 52% match for cocaine.

Looks like that shirt isn't so much "psychedelic" as it is "stimulating".

No, it's not Zubaz.

I received a request to see the shirt I was wearing I was called a "zebra boy", and it got me thinking... but before I start philosophising, here's the shirt.

  No modelling, though; just the pattern. It's not that I'm not vain (I blog, don't I?), but I'm getting ready to drive to Edmonton tomorrow -- and at 1:00 in the morning, I just don't have the inclination to pretty up for the camera.

It's a nice shirt, by the way. Sturdy, dries quickly, irons well... a true winner in the Shirt-of-the-Day roster. I bought it for $15 from a street vendor on Whyte Avenue in Edmonton, and I wore it home. It wasn't until I took it off that evening that I realised it had dragons on it -- always a plus.

But dragons and zebras aren't the same thing. Sure, there are vertical stripes, but aren't zebras supposed to be a little less colourful?

Of course, there's an exception to every rule. Voilà! I never expected our Section Head to have a sweet tooth, but there you have it -- incontrovertible evidence. Oh, and according to the all-knowing Internet, the zebra's name is "Yipes". I'm not sure if that's better or worse than "Zebra Boy."

I find the whole incident fascinating, simply because I've always believed that names have power. True, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but the word is what connects our mind to the outside world. Perhaps a rose without a name would never be more than a generic wildflower.

And nowhere is that more felt than in names given to us. In Capoeira, you're given an apellido by your mestre. In Deaf culture, names are special signs only given out by people in the Deaf culture. And even though I've used the handle "Aquadeo" for eight years, it'll always have the caveat of being chosen by me, and that always irks me just a little. It's why I'm content to risk my public identity on the Internet, and sign this blog as "Denton" instead.

Then again, maybe people who were named "Denton" by their parents fixate on these things more than others.