04-02-2013, 09:49 PM
04-03-2013, 09:49 AM
in
04-03-2013, 10:50 AM
Yep
04-03-2013, 11:10 AM
Shane Kroeker Wrote:If you would individually number and autograph the first print run, that'd be cool!
This is something I've definitely considered and could very well do.
04-03-2013, 11:42 AM
For those asking or those who are curious, I thought I'd post an excerpt from the book. This is certainly one of the more light-hearted stories from the book, and does not cover any analysis of The Hip's career. It is however, a part of the book that I think many on the board here will identify with.
As mentioned, I'm looking for some numbers to get a better idea of a print run. If you're interested, please just reply with interest.
This book was written for fans of The Tragically Hip so I'm banking on members of the Hipbase, for better or worse. I'm not in this to make boatloads of cash.
Enjoy!
-
Being obsessed with something can be dangerous. Expressing love and admiration can be charming, to an extent, but reveal too much and you risk social alienation.
People are quick to throw out the word “obsessed” and the negative connotations that follow it. Defending your obsession is futile, and only alienates you more; the harder you fight to defend yourself, the more bonkers people believe you are. It’s a double-edged sword that you can’t even fight with.
This is why people rarely divulge the intensity of their obsession in public. Sometimes though, your desire to be seen as a functional member of society is overshadowed by strange and indefinable urges.
In the summer of 2004, I was working evenings at The Beer Store. It took a while for me to settle in, as usual. I was constantly distracted by a squirrely, unattainable girl two years my senior that would flirt, pull away, then always leave fifteen minutes early. I tried to keep a low profile and not reveal too much personal information, as love was on the line.
I was also working a mentally and physically draining job by day. Both jobs called for uniforms; I’d get one night a week where I could throw on one of my favourite t-shirts and sit on my roof with a beer and truly enjoy the summer I wanted to have as a twenty year old.
It was the first summer I’d lived away from home. I felt so disconnected from my youth by this point, especially from my old Hip shirts. I had quite the collection, from a faded grey “Music@Work” tour shirt, a beige “1997 Another Roadside Attraction” tee, to a navy blue “Day for Night” shirt that was my first-ever online purchase. I wore that shirt to death, until one camping trip, when it disappeared. I mourned the loss of that piece of clothing as some might have mourned the loss of a childhood pet (had I been preoccupied with dogs like a normal boy, instead of a band and their clothing accessories).
I was lonely that summer. I’d usually collapse from exhaustion at the end of each day. Contrary to how I believed I would spend my first summer away from home, there were no barbecues with Hip albums spinning at full blast. By June, I was only listening to The Hip on my headphones in the morning. Knowing that this would be the only Hip I’d get for the day was more depressing than enlightening.
It was a typical evening in The Beer Store, making inane small talk with customers I knew I’d see the next day. Bland familiarity had set in. I grabbed the six cans of cheap lager that another regular brought forward. It was all I could to lift my head.
“How’s it goin’ man? You look a little rough.”
Never had any customer at the store talked about anything but themselves. I looked up. There he was: a plump, goofy looking fellow with a mess of grey hair and a bucktoothed smile. And there it was: a navy blue “Day For Night” t-shirt.
A wave of spontaneity that I hadn’t felt in months came over me. The girl I pined over stood behind me, polishing her nails, unaware of what was transpiring. It was all I could do not to leap over the counter and start beating the old dude for all he was worth and steal the shirt in the process. It wasn’t just a shirt. It was a way of life that I had lost and that he wore on his sweaty back. I needed The Hip; I needed the comfort they’d brought me. No one around me knew how I felt. I was alone in my search for a good summer; I was alone in my love for the band. I stopped the transaction and a line began to form.
“How much for that shirt?” I asked him.
“What?” He chuckled. “This old shirt? Ha! I don’t know. A million dollars!”
Everyone in line shared a laugh. If I’d had a blank cheque, a million dollars was what I would have written on the line.
“I’ll give you twenty dollars for that shirt, right now.” Working two jobs is a mighty drag, but a thick wallet is one of the upsides.
“You’re crazy, man.”
I wasn’t going to sell him his beer until this battle was finished. This was a matter of life and death. “I’ll give you thirty dollars for that shirt.”
“Are you serious?”
My legs grew stiff with resolve. If I were to salvage this summer, it would be with that shirt on my back. “I will give you forty bucks for that shirt.”
By now, the entire store was quiet. My squirrely love stopped refining her nails and watched as her normally quiet and reserved co-worker was shedding his skin and letting his love of a band shine through.
The dude’s mouth hung open, wondering whether to grab a quick forty bucks and walk home topless, or walk away and spread rumours of how bonkers that new guy at The Beer Store was. “Come on man, give me my beer. It’s just a shirt,” he said timidly.
“I will give you fifty dollars for that shirt.”
The whole store was intrigued as they realized how serious I was. Everyone traded excited glances. The battle now had a crowd. Who would blink first? The girl approached the standoff. I paid her no attention. I repeated myself. “I will give you FIFTY DOLLARS for that shirt.”
Maybe he realized that he wouldn’t get his lousy six-pack if he didn’t give me the shirt. Or maybe he realized that my sanity was at a breaking point. For the last time, I made the offer. “I, will give YOU, FIFTY DOLLARS for that shirt.”
“You’re crazy, man!”
I didn’t blink. I could feel him caving. I could feel my lonely self growing warmer with anticipation.
“Fuck man, you’re crazy. You’re nuts.”
Yes, I told myself, I am nuts. But I was winning.
He stepped back, and quickly lifted the shirt over his head before he could convince himself that, in the short term, walking home without a shirt was probably a little crazier.
He tossed it at me. I handed him the cash. He laughed again and kept repeating, “that guy is crazy,” as he left the store. The thing is, I had never felt more sane.
The entire store exhaled. No one in line asked about the shirt. Instead, they all fixed their caps tight to their heads and got the hell out of there quick as they could. And I put the girl far out of my mind.
I left fifteen minutes early that shift and biked home like a man possessed. The shirt was two sizes too large. I would end up seeing two Hip gigs that summer and two more that September. I grew into that t-shirt and vowed never to lose the shirt or that feeling ever again.
As mentioned, I'm looking for some numbers to get a better idea of a print run. If you're interested, please just reply with interest.
This book was written for fans of The Tragically Hip so I'm banking on members of the Hipbase, for better or worse. I'm not in this to make boatloads of cash.
Enjoy!
-
Being obsessed with something can be dangerous. Expressing love and admiration can be charming, to an extent, but reveal too much and you risk social alienation.
People are quick to throw out the word “obsessed” and the negative connotations that follow it. Defending your obsession is futile, and only alienates you more; the harder you fight to defend yourself, the more bonkers people believe you are. It’s a double-edged sword that you can’t even fight with.
This is why people rarely divulge the intensity of their obsession in public. Sometimes though, your desire to be seen as a functional member of society is overshadowed by strange and indefinable urges.
In the summer of 2004, I was working evenings at The Beer Store. It took a while for me to settle in, as usual. I was constantly distracted by a squirrely, unattainable girl two years my senior that would flirt, pull away, then always leave fifteen minutes early. I tried to keep a low profile and not reveal too much personal information, as love was on the line.
I was also working a mentally and physically draining job by day. Both jobs called for uniforms; I’d get one night a week where I could throw on one of my favourite t-shirts and sit on my roof with a beer and truly enjoy the summer I wanted to have as a twenty year old.
It was the first summer I’d lived away from home. I felt so disconnected from my youth by this point, especially from my old Hip shirts. I had quite the collection, from a faded grey “Music@Work” tour shirt, a beige “1997 Another Roadside Attraction” tee, to a navy blue “Day for Night” shirt that was my first-ever online purchase. I wore that shirt to death, until one camping trip, when it disappeared. I mourned the loss of that piece of clothing as some might have mourned the loss of a childhood pet (had I been preoccupied with dogs like a normal boy, instead of a band and their clothing accessories).
I was lonely that summer. I’d usually collapse from exhaustion at the end of each day. Contrary to how I believed I would spend my first summer away from home, there were no barbecues with Hip albums spinning at full blast. By June, I was only listening to The Hip on my headphones in the morning. Knowing that this would be the only Hip I’d get for the day was more depressing than enlightening.
It was a typical evening in The Beer Store, making inane small talk with customers I knew I’d see the next day. Bland familiarity had set in. I grabbed the six cans of cheap lager that another regular brought forward. It was all I could to lift my head.
“How’s it goin’ man? You look a little rough.”
Never had any customer at the store talked about anything but themselves. I looked up. There he was: a plump, goofy looking fellow with a mess of grey hair and a bucktoothed smile. And there it was: a navy blue “Day For Night” t-shirt.
A wave of spontaneity that I hadn’t felt in months came over me. The girl I pined over stood behind me, polishing her nails, unaware of what was transpiring. It was all I could do not to leap over the counter and start beating the old dude for all he was worth and steal the shirt in the process. It wasn’t just a shirt. It was a way of life that I had lost and that he wore on his sweaty back. I needed The Hip; I needed the comfort they’d brought me. No one around me knew how I felt. I was alone in my search for a good summer; I was alone in my love for the band. I stopped the transaction and a line began to form.
“How much for that shirt?” I asked him.
“What?” He chuckled. “This old shirt? Ha! I don’t know. A million dollars!”
Everyone in line shared a laugh. If I’d had a blank cheque, a million dollars was what I would have written on the line.
“I’ll give you twenty dollars for that shirt, right now.” Working two jobs is a mighty drag, but a thick wallet is one of the upsides.
“You’re crazy, man.”
I wasn’t going to sell him his beer until this battle was finished. This was a matter of life and death. “I’ll give you thirty dollars for that shirt.”
“Are you serious?”
My legs grew stiff with resolve. If I were to salvage this summer, it would be with that shirt on my back. “I will give you forty bucks for that shirt.”
By now, the entire store was quiet. My squirrely love stopped refining her nails and watched as her normally quiet and reserved co-worker was shedding his skin and letting his love of a band shine through.
The dude’s mouth hung open, wondering whether to grab a quick forty bucks and walk home topless, or walk away and spread rumours of how bonkers that new guy at The Beer Store was. “Come on man, give me my beer. It’s just a shirt,” he said timidly.
“I will give you fifty dollars for that shirt.”
The whole store was intrigued as they realized how serious I was. Everyone traded excited glances. The battle now had a crowd. Who would blink first? The girl approached the standoff. I paid her no attention. I repeated myself. “I will give you FIFTY DOLLARS for that shirt.”
Maybe he realized that he wouldn’t get his lousy six-pack if he didn’t give me the shirt. Or maybe he realized that my sanity was at a breaking point. For the last time, I made the offer. “I, will give YOU, FIFTY DOLLARS for that shirt.”
“You’re crazy, man!”
I didn’t blink. I could feel him caving. I could feel my lonely self growing warmer with anticipation.
“Fuck man, you’re crazy. You’re nuts.”
Yes, I told myself, I am nuts. But I was winning.
He stepped back, and quickly lifted the shirt over his head before he could convince himself that, in the short term, walking home without a shirt was probably a little crazier.
He tossed it at me. I handed him the cash. He laughed again and kept repeating, “that guy is crazy,” as he left the store. The thing is, I had never felt more sane.
The entire store exhaled. No one in line asked about the shirt. Instead, they all fixed their caps tight to their heads and got the hell out of there quick as they could. And I put the girl far out of my mind.
I left fifteen minutes early that shift and biked home like a man possessed. The shirt was two sizes too large. I would end up seeing two Hip gigs that summer and two more that September. I grew into that t-shirt and vowed never to lose the shirt or that feeling ever again.
04-03-2013, 11:59 AM
The Heron Outside Wrote:“f**k man, you’re crazy. You’re nuts.”Aren't we all?
But put me down for an autographed copy.
04-03-2013, 12:15 PM
I'm in!
04-03-2013, 05:57 PM
You sold me, sign me up!
04-03-2013, 06:06 PM
congrats! very cool project...I would buy one for sure :thumb:
04-03-2013, 08:28 PM
Count me in :thumb:
04-03-2013, 09:01 PM
After that excerpt - I'm in!
04-04-2013, 05:12 AM
Nicely done, I'm in.
04-04-2013, 01:30 PM
Well done. I am definitely on-board to both purchase a copy and to help you promote it...
04-05-2013, 06:45 AM
I'd be interested
04-05-2013, 10:12 PM
Absolutely, I'm in. Still remember your blog posts from Turkey. Real talent.