The 2004 Eddies

by Crom

Some people are familiar with the annual contest and celebration held by Big Rock Breweries, a night long bacchanalia honoring the submissions for TV spots and new this year: print ads; all featuring the deeply Albertan, Big Rock beer. Held in Calgary’s Jubilee Auditorium, the night features a look at the top 18 video submissions shown in the theater, as well as the top 10 print ads on display in the main lobby, where attendee’s can place their votes for the top 3 prints. I had obtained my V.I.P. ticket through the auspicious circumstances of being a subject in one of the ads. My friend’s mother having submitted an entry into the print category, and had managed to snag a place in the top ten. An event of this nature is always confusing for me, I have no fashion sense, and was told that the standard dress would be “Hollywood funky”. Suffice to say that was ambiguous enough to leave me with no clue as to what to be wearing, I and my friend went with the hip/hop cum new age look.

We arrived far too early, but fortunately our V.I.P. tickets allowed us to enter sooner then most, and begin enjoying the refreshments and tasty snacks. I had given up drinking in late October last year, but figured that since I was here, in V.I.P. glory, with plenty of drink tickets at my disposal, that I would partake of the tasty beverages. Suffice it to say, between the time that the pre-party started, and the actual show, all hands were on deck, and the sheets were being raised. The party was being catered by Whiskey Jack’s Catering, which had a cowboy clad eunuch on-duty to identify the various comestibles in the myopic darkness that lay over the party area, leaving most with the impression we were sequestered in a dodgy night club with tuna rolls. My partner in crime was sampling the various different Big Rock products, but I stayed true to form with Traditional Ale, banking on consistency over variety. My plan worked out for the better, since the taster choice olympics were abruptly quashed when my chum got a hold of the Jack Rabbit beer, new to the Big Rock lineup. Jack Rabbit is self-styled as the 2 carb beer with all the taste, BR’s attempt to cash in on the recent carbohydrate fear. The description of how it tastes was colorful, profane and loud, I felt the eyes of various undercover Big Rock gestapo looking over at us, prompting me to drain my Trad, crush the can on my skull and loudly announce “More Beer! I need a rising sound!” before emptying the contents of my pockets onto the counter of the bar, in order to suss out my drink tickets. I had failed to bring cash, an amateurish mistake. It hindered us later, when the various volunteer Pinkertons tried to fob raffle tickets off to myself and my wingman; while I was all for their cause, the support of One Yellow Rabbit and the Calgary Women’s Emergency Shelter, I had no ducats and was getting pretty tired of being asked about it (on the 6th attempt to sell us tickets, I burst into laughter and quite vigorously proclaimed “WE HAVE ANOTHER CONTESTANT!” before shuffling off in the other direction).

The muffled announcement to “take your seats” became increasingly insistent, but it wasn’t until I was in the men’s jakes that I was able to clearly discern the nature of the message, and rush madly to the first balcony when it became clear that the number on the ticket was, in fact, irrelevant and that seating was of the general variety (ie: bum rush); my size and general look of discontentment acquired us fairly decent seats near the aisle, and with good vantage of the stage and screen. I must at this point say, that while my spirited consumption has muddied my memory of his name, the gentleman that hosted the show, was the funniest host I’ve seen in some time (and I include such hollywood bilge as the emmy’s in this assessment). His rakish manner and constant references to the Flames made him popular with all members of the crowd. He also unleashed his wit on the honorable David Bronconnier and our esteemed villainous scapegoat His Majesty Ralph Klein (funny note: Ralphy was checking out the displays around the same time we were, I almost walked right into him, but he wasn’t nearly as sauced as me, and managed to dodge my witless staggering). The judges for the show were predictably Calgarian figureheads, Nirmala Naidoo-Hill from channel 7 news, Jerry Forbes of CJAY 92, Dave B – El Mayor, the editor-in-chief of the Calgary Herald whose name I cannot recall, and a few other notable names from earlier Eddies award shows. The video submissions were impressive as they were sad, it is ironic that the best work is always presented in the most unimpressive way. I personally thought the best ideas had the worst production value, while the winner looked to be filmed professionally, with the weakest idea. The winners submissions are available off the Big Rock site. The number one winner, Audrey Singer’s “Urinal” submission, had a strong humour value at first, but the cachet of urination in popular comedy was used up via the tender machinations of Mike Myers and his character Austin Powers. I suggest giving it a look to be up to speed with current “giant dick” developments.

As far as the print ads, they weren’t actually shown in the awards process, but each seat in the theater was decorated with a copy of this months “FastForward” which has all ten submissions in it. Sadly, my wingman’s sleek physique used vis-?-vis my own turgescence in a juxtaposition of fit versus beer gut was apparently too witty for the standard troglodytes of this fare to understand and subsequently vote in favor of, but there’s always next year. The crowd filtered recklessly out the doors in order to catch the last few minutes of the hockey game, while my wingman and I retired to the V.I.P. lounge to smoke hand-rolled havana’s and drink port, while sampling the musical stylings of DJ Faust, the vinyl slinging mix king of current note in town. Sadly they were down to nothing but Honduran stogies and can’s of Big Rock, which we consoled ourselves by consuming. I must note that this “DJ”, if he even merits the title, should have followed his namesake and sold his eternal soul to the Morning Star for some talent; his musical selection warrants merit in a junior high only. His “talents” drove most of the people upstairs to the Jim Stiff’s Mixed Cocktail booth, of which many of the party goers were blasting out their own renditions of popular songs with the aid of a karaoke machine. We avoided that portion of the event with vigor, choosing instead to listen to the raucous playing of a band named “Something…Magic Eight Ball” forgive my lack of proper name, but damn they were loud. At this point I opened my “H” belt buckle up and signaled our helicopter pilot to whisk us from the event, back to the Rebel Base, in order to ease our throbbing brows with chilled clothes, and afford me the opportunity to madly scribble the nights events onto the back of a Chicago Deep Dish pizza menu on the counter. As usual, I had achieved… TOTAL coverage.

Crom