Public Service Announcement

"He was one of God's own prototypes: a high-powered mutant never even
considered for mass-production. Too weird to live, too rare to die” -
H. S. Thompson

It is worse then that cliché nightmare where you arrive at school
with no pants on. It was more horrendous then the special effects in
any 1950's B-movie. It was more bone chilling then that sorrowful
prepubescent day when your parents lightly knocked on your door,
telling you that birds and bees were no longer spring-time critters
that frequented the garden. It was Crazy P, the BC Lions vigilante,
and he was stand two feet away from me.

On a good day mascots perturb me. Something about not knowing who is
assuming the shape and responsibility of my team's representative is
unnerving. Also the thought of being enclosed in a heavily sweat in
suit, staring out onto a sea of alcohol heightened jeering fans is far
from appealing. But now that I've witness the other option, Viva La
Mascot!

It was the night of the big rivalry between UBC and SFU; the
Thunderbirds vs. The Clan. Brought by the bus loads, intoxicated Clan
fans briefly co-mingled with UBC students before each were segregated
into their seating sections by a series of flimsy paper arrows. Myself
and three friends, decked in blue crew shirts, dared to venture to the
bottom rows, hoping for the clearest view of the field. Slightly
unsettled I missed the kickoff as Storm the Thunderbird slow danced in
front of me. My attention was only caught when the announcer raised
his voice, redirecting everyones wandering gazes to the front of the
field, where we were to welcome a special guest, Crazy P, who was
riding in the bed of a truck.

His presence was bordering animalistic. Wearing an orange Lions
jersey, black shorts, sunglasses and baseball cap with drum in hand,
he took a power stance, as if it were his destiny to get everyone
excited about the game. Without speaking he told stories, that every
morning before “work” he ripped through phone books, and others of how
he was conceived at Super Bowl tailgate party so many years ago. The
worst part was his face. When he wasn't screaming support and
encouragement, and when he took a break from relentlessly banging the
drum, he looked like a gapped tooth business man, down on his luck.
The kind that if he came to your door trying to sell you shower
curtain rings, despite having a sliding shower door, you would buy
some anyways because you knew his car was going to be repossessed and
his wife was about to take the kids and leave. He was also the kind of
person that you wondered if they had an off switch or if they were
always stuck in their high powered intrusive state or if he could
function in normal social settings.

Tensions ran high when he bounded out the the truck and ran up the
stadium steps, landing two feet away from me. It was like staring
death in the face. Every time the drumstick hit the drum I felt as if
history's greatest villains were being resurrected. Hitler. Stalin.
Gargamel. All of their spirits started to mass behind Crazy P as he
was readying them to attack. And then he started pointing into the
crowd, singling out the innocent, trying to bring them down with him.
It was terrifying. I felt like I was experiencing the rapture. Luckily
the announcer cut through the horror a calling out half time, my
chance to save my soul and escape back to rez and safety.