No Shaft, No Doubt; All In, Balls Out
Just a couple of months ago — back in September — I got to check another item off my bucket list. Tora and I escaped to Vancouver Island for three glorious nights. The weather was perfection the entire time which, honestly, didn’t surprise me at all. You’re welcome, Victoria, I bring sunshine and questionable humor everywhere I go.
Our trip was short but sweet. The first two nights were spent at my good buddy Jaxson’s place, and the final night we booked a hotel in Lake Cowichan to be closer to the concert grounds. And by “concert grounds,” I mean the LakeTown Amphitheatre at Lake Town Ranch — home to the largest paid concert Vancouver Island has ever seen. Yes, Nickelback drew 15,000 fans, and yes, I was proudly, unapologetically one of them.
We only attended the one day featuring Nickelback, Sam Roberts Band, and The Glorious Sons. I’ve wanted to see Nickelback forever. I’ve never understood the hate — like what you like, folks. Pop culture doesn’t get to choose your playlist.
Right before Nickelback took the stage, the instrumental version of Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey blasted through the speakers. Suddenly 15,000 people were singing in perfect harmony. It hit me right in the heart — especially with the one-year anniversary of Journey’s passing coming up. A full-body, goosebump moment.
And once Nickelback started? I belted out every song with Chad as if we were co-frontmen sharing a spiritual experience. It was absolutely amazing. I had an absolute blast.
Free Moustache rides Ladies ;)
But speaking of absolute dreamboats like Chad, let’s rewind to the first two days — when I got to catch up with my longtime friend Jaxson.
Our bromance started decades ago at Canuck Place, where we were two young lads bonding over dark humor and medical chaos. Being reunited for a couple of days felt like slipping back into a familiar pair of jeans — except these jeans are sarcastic, mildly unhinged, and make you laugh until you wheeze. I was genuinely pleased (and maybe a little horrified) to see that the dark, twisted sense of humor I helped nurture in him has grown into a full-blown monster. He’s even funnier and definitely wittier than I am now. My protégé has surpassed the master.
One of the first things he showed me was the “pussy palace,” which turned out to be a glittery homemade sign hanging above his cat’s litter box. Iconic. Truly decorative excellence.
Look at this fucking cat, every time I do it makes me laugh
On our second day we went for a long waterfront walk along Dallas Road where I was introduced to “Rapey Alley,” which is somehow both a terrible and hilarious name. Jaxson’s care aide, Alex, also tipped me off about the best local record store, so of course Tora and I went — and yes, I snagged five new records. A respectable haul and a proud moment for my ever-growing vinyl addiction.
At one point during our visit, Jaxson told me he wanted to give me “The Shaft” before I left Victoria. I had no idea what he meant — and was only slightly worried about my safety. We joked about it all weekend, and while walking through ‘Rapey Alley” I half-jokingly asked, “Is this where I’m getting The Shaft?”
It felt much safer for me to be behind Jaxson in Rapey Alley
Turns out, The Shaft in Victoria isn’t a location… it’s a cocktail. A strong, caffeinated concoction of vodka, coffee liqueur, Irish cream, and cold brew that Victorians chug proudly through a straw. It’s a whole cultural phenomenon. A sacred beverage. A rite of passage.
And after all the build-up, all the hype, all the mental preparation?
I never even got my Shaft.
Which, honestly, is the perfect excuse to go back soon. Jaxson still owes me one — and you better believe I’m collecting.
