:: My dog, the jerk ::

Since getting our boxer-English bulldog cross, Gunnar, three weeks ago, I have mentioned to people, but not yet written about, his aversion for all things athletic. Yes, he's a boxer – typically a hyper breed, that requires much physical exercise. But he's also a bulldog.

A lazy, lazy bulldog.

And considering that I am, for the most part, a lazy, lazy person, we get along just great. (Minus the odd peeing on the carpet, of course.) But despite his dislike of walks – which in reality, might actually be of a love of the couch and lying down, more than anything – I still drag him outside every weekday morning at about 6 a.m., before I have to get ready for work.

Now, he doesn't usually do his business on these walks – he doesn't like to poop while on a leash, and by 6 a.m. Christene has usually put him out once already anyhow – and make no mistake about it, both of us would rather be sleeping, but I force the two of us to go outside because I think it's good to get some exercise, even 20 minutes worth.

And if ever I thought Gunnar's hatred of exercise was a mere coincidence, or a figment of my imagination, today sealed the deal.

Near the end of our walk, as we approached our house, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around to see a middle-aged man jogging towards us, out for his morning run. As a courtesy, I moved over to one side of the wide sidewalk, and pulled Gunnar over, too.

But then, as the runner came along side us, Guns – who's normally pretty laid back, and pays no mind to anybody, except if they're playing with him – leapt to the left, directly into the runner's path, nearly tripping him into a nearby planter as a result. Neither dog or man actually got hurt, and the jogger just kind of laughed and kept on truckin' along.

And Gunnar went back to his somewhat-calm walk as if nothing ever happened.

Then we both went in the house and sat happily on the couch – me drinking coffee, Gunnar eating a bunch of dog treats.

I had to give him something, after all. He earned it.

Happy Birthday to an Awesome Dude

Guest post by Mike

Tomorrow, April 10th is one of those special days that should be celebrated by all humanity, for a Great Man was born on this date.

A man well known for his friendly attitude, his dry, sarcastic wit, and his sense of humor, but also for his great capacity for caring, sensitivity, and patience.

Personally I feel like I've known him my entire life, and honestly even though he's a little older than me I am constantly impressed at how hard he pushes himself and his many accomplishments.

If you are reading this blog, you know this man and count him amongst your closest friends. So join me everyone in wishing him a wonderful, glorious, well-deserved special day!



Happy birthday Steven Seagal.

Happy birthday.

(oh and apparently it's also some other guy's birthday, so happy birthday to him too.)

:: Chips and a Coke ::

On Friday afternoon, needing a junk food/caffeine rush of some kind to get me through the last few loooong hours of work, I walked across the street and bought a Diet Coke and some Doritos. And as I walked back with these two items in my hand, I was for some reason reminded – out of the blue – of my Grade 8 gym teacher.

I am, as you are likely aware, not in the greatest shape. Sure, I'm not 288 pounds like I was in my Alberta heyday (I'm a svelte 227 now for those scoring at home), but I'm not about to go run a marathon either. Or wear anything slim-fitting, for that matter. 

But during the early days of high school – before what I'll call the Pizza Hut Era – I wasn't yet The Fat Kid. I was just a regular-sized guy. And my Grade 8 gym teacher was Mr. Bergen. He was a gruff no-nonsense guy, but he always got along well with the jocks – pretty standard for all gym teachers everywhere, I'd guess. He was likable enough, as far as most were concerned. But I never really liked him. To be honest, I thought he was a bit of a pompous dick.

So that's probably why I never paid much attention to anything he said, and it's also the likely reason I quit the Grade 8 basketball team halfway through the year. But more on that in a bit. 

One thing – possibly the only thing – I ever remember Mr. Bergen telling us in class came during a little speech he gave about the importance of being in shape and all that stuff. His point was that a healthy, active lifestyle was actually pretty easy to keep up. (His ulterior motive was to get us to sign up for the basketball team. He was the coach.)

"It's easy to stay fit, but it's all about choices," he told us. "When you go home from school today, for example, you can do two things. One, you can grab a basketball and go get some exercise in the driveway or at the school. Or two, you can go sit in front of the TV and watch cartoons with chips and a Coke."

Obviously, I eventually chose to align myself with the chips and Coke option. But it may surprise you to know that this wasn't my first choice. 

My first choice was to actually get some exercise. So I signed up to play basketball. Which wasn't really a stretch for me – I knew how to play, had a modicum of athletic ability, and I loved sports, so why not?

But aside from the 7 a.m. practices before school, the other thing that dissuaded me from the game – and made the chips and cartoon option look pretty sweet – was what I quickly noticed about the rest of my new 13-year-old teammates.

They were all douchebags.

Of course, at the time, I probably didn't think of them as "douchebags" but I know that I didn't like their attitudes one bit. They were mostly from James Kennedy Elementary – which was the elementary school hoops powerhouse, if there was such a thing – and I just thought they were, much like the coach, pompous dicks.

(Turns out my suspicions were correct – by Grade 12 they had all turned into your typical douchey jocks. You know, the kind of guys who all shave their heads to look the same, and say "Bro" a lot. So in retrospect, I'm glad I recognized it early and got out when I did.)

I was a mediocre player on the team. I played a few minutes off the bench, don't remember scoring much if at all (the latter fact also describes my early 20s) but I do recall being a pretty good rebounder, which was shocking for a kid who was barely five-feet tall. But basketball interfered with my weekend hockey schedule, and because hockey was more important and less douche-infested, I quit the basketball team after about a month. 

And that was really the beginning of the end for me, fitness-wise. I suffered through two years of miserable gym classes, where the pompous teachers spent most of class-time trying to act cool around the jocks while not really giving a shit about the regular kids, while the token one-year-older-because-he's-a-retard-and-failed-gym bully spent his time making life hell for the younger kids.

By Grade 10, my knees and head (concussion) were pretty sore from hockey, so I got a doctor's note to exclude me from my last year of mandatory high school gym. Sure, I probably milked it, I could've toughed it out, but by then I'd just had enough of all that high school gym class entailed – the asshole teachers, bullies, dumb jocks, etc...

And thus began my long, loving relationship with the Coca-Cola company.

Now, I'm not blaming douchey high-school basketball kids for putting me off the road to fitness and down Dorito Boulevard. I've become what I've become because of my own choices, and to be honest, I don't necessarily regret it. I'd rather be fat than an asshole. 

Just makes me wonder what might've been, is all, had I stuck with the whole basketball thing.

Maybe I could've played pro. Or at least been a gym teacher.

:: The elevator of guilt ::

My office is on the second floor of our building, and to get to that floor there are – obviously – two options: the stairs, or the world's slowest elevator.

Because climbing two flights of stair is not exactly the biggest endurance test on the planet – even for me – this is the option I take almost every single day. Most of us here do, as a matter of fact, except for one entire department, whose members seem to think that having to carry a soft-side briefcase with six papers in it is too much of a strain, thus making the elevator the only option.

But I digress...

The stairs are by far the best option. For starters, this elevator is painfully slow, like I mentioned, even though there are only two floors in the building – therefore, the elevator "car"* is never very far away. But still, you have time to make an entire fucking sandwich, eat it and digest it in the time between pushing the 'up' button and actually setting foot inside.

(*That's what it's called. I Googled it.)

Also, as far as getting some exercise goes, the stairs win out. So that's usually the option I choose. But you know what? There are times when I just don't want to walk up two flights.

Maybe I'm carrying a bunch of stuff; maybe my legs hurt from some other non-related incident; or maybe the elevator door just happens to open as I walk past it. Or maybe I'm just lazy, not in a hurry, and can afford to waste time waiting for it.

These occasional elevator trips were fine for months, until the new physio/sports therapy massage place opened up across the hall from our office. The main entryway of this office, you see, is directly across from the elevator doors on the second floor. So every time I take the elevator, I end up walking out onto my floor and directly into the line of sight of all the sports therapy people.

And though these people seem nice enough from the few times I've seen them around the building, they are all in ridiculously good shape. They are all trainers and masseuses, and Ironman competitors and sports-type people.

You know, the kind of people who drink Red Bull because they need the extra energy boost to go climb a mountain.

And I, of course, just want to mix it with vodka.

And though I have no clue if they are judgy-types, I tend to assume the worst in people. So now, every time I step off the elevator, I just imagine in my head what the girl behind the reception desk is thinking when she sees me.

"Hey fatchops, the stairs wouldn't kill ya."

"Sean, you are 20 years ahead of the future." - Scotty, discussing a man who is apparently far, far ahead of his time.

"It's bad when you can't figure out whether it came from somebody's ass or their mouth." - Unknown, the day of the gift opening. (editor's note: that's what she said)

"Jesus's brother was an astronaut." - Bobby

:: The track, a wedding and the open road ::

Well, first thing's first - I probably shouldn't mention anything until I talk about a certain event which shook down last Saturday... Jer and Katie's wedding.

I've known Jer a real long time - he's like a brother to me, practically - so I'm obviously happy for him and Katie, who I haven't obviously known as long, but is still pretty awesome in my books. Far better than a jerk like Jer probably deserves, but hey - life's funny that way :) (Just kidding, Jer).

And while I could probably write a sappy post about love and marriage and all that stuff, I'm not going too. Mostly because it wouldn't be very good. (For the record though, I could fake it well enough that you'd probably not notice the difference). However, I'm going to do something I'm better at - whine.

The wedding, like most, was Saturday afternoon. 3 p.m. No problem.

I had plans with some folks from work to go out the night before, and those nights always turn messy. However, with the wedding the next day, I figured I'd take 'er easy Friday, call it a night early, and then save my liver and my energy reserves for the toonie bar at the wedding reception.

And while a good idea in theory, it was not executed with much precision. None at all, actually.

By 9:00 Friday night I'm fairly certain I was loaded, and was - along with a few other co-workers - making annoying, loud phone calls to our other co-workers who chose not to attend. I ended up spending $100, getting home at 1:30 in the morning, and not dragging myself out of bed until12:15, with one helluva headache that took 4 advils, and about 4 hours to eradicate.

However, I did it - and managed to get to the wedding with other an hour to spare so I could help set up. I'd have been there earlier, but my booze-addled brain forgot black socks and a belt when I drove to my parent's house to pick up my pants which had been hemmed. Preparation was a bit of a trainwreck, what can I say?

Thankfully I started feeling better as the reception progressed, and I still got loaded on $2 beers and free wine, but I still came perilously close to fucking up the evening's festivities for myself.

So what's the lesson here, you may ask? Don't be a fucking idiot - that's what.

In other non-wedding news, I recently wrapped up my glorious 2 weeks of vacation, which actually turns into about 17 days off when you factor in weekends and Labour Day. I spent the first week in the Okanagan - first going from Langley to Kamloops to Wells Gray Park, then followed that by going back through Kamloops, then to Enderby/Sicamous, then home.

All in all, it was awesome, but a lot of driving. I felt like I spent far too much time on the road. I figured this out the day after I returned home. It was a Monday afternoon, and I decided I should go run some laps at the track and work off all the beer and food I'd recently consumed. As I approached the tennis courts at the park, a guy in a slick looking black sedan zipped past. I didn't get a look at what kind of car it was, but thought it was an Audi. Hoping to catch a glimpse of a decal on the trunk to confirm my suspicions, I turned my head to the left to check my rearview mirror.

There was no mirror though.

I was walking.

Speaking of the track, I was there again tonight (for the record, this is about Day 525 of my on-again, off-again get in shape plan). Normally, I just walk there, do my thing, and walk home, but tonight I couldn't help but notice the amount of rule-breakers, weirdos, and just plain fucking idiots that were there, too. So with that in mind, I present to you my Rules for Going to the Track:

#1 - Run the same fucking direction as everyone else. Listen pops, this one shouldn't be too hard to follow. When you get to the park in your Tony Soprano full-body-matching track suit (complete with headband), take a quick look at the 20-25 other people who are already there. Notice something? Yeah, they're all running counter-clockwise, like normally fucking people. Hell, even race horses run that damn direction, likely without being told twice. Just do it - the rest of us don't want to worry we're going to have a head-on collision just because we glance down at our iPods. Besides that, you look like a fucking douchebag.

#2 - Do not bring your dog to the track. If you want to run with your dog, keep your exercise to neighbourhood streets and parks like everybody else. The reason people come to the track in the first place is so they don't have to dodge dogshit and traffic.

#3 - If you absolutely insist on letting your dog run on the track alongside you, make sure it's not a Bichon Frise. Look, I've got no problem with small dogs - I used to have two, but they aren't "running dogs." If you're running alongside a German sheppard or a lab, that's fine - they're built for it, presumably. But jogging next to your tiny, little pooch is not only cruel to the dog - how fast do you think his fucking legs move, Toots? - you also look like an idiot. And that little pink sweater you're making Princess wear isn't helping your cause either, sweetheart.

#4 - Once your girlfriend with the little dog is done her two draining "power laps" around the track, and gives Princess to you to watch while she "cools down," don't try to look tough. Yeah Muscles, I'm talking to you - the guy standing on the edge of the soccer turf with the Affliction shirt holding the leash. Uncross your arms, take the don't-fuck-with-me scowl off your face, and relax. Your dog has a pink jacket on - now is not the time to Man Up.

#5 - If, during the course of your jog, a soccer ball from the practice in the middle of the track happens to bounce off the field and come within five feet of you, kick it back. Look D-Bag, just do the guys on the field a favour and boot it back to 'em - it takes you a lot less effort to move your foot in a kicking motion once than it does for the goalie to run 40-50 feet behind the net and across the track surface to get the ball once it's rolled to the fence. Don't pretend you don't see it; don't start fiddling with your iPod headphones, and don't look the other way. Just stop the friggin ball. And even if it's more than five feet in front of you, if you can speed up a bit - hell, even sprint for a second - in order to save the shot, do it. Picking up the pace momentarily isn't gonna kill you, and you can probably afford to burn an extra calorie or two anyway, Lardo.

#6 - Only do wind sprints on the straightaway portion of the track if you actually should be doing them. Look, there are people at the track who are legitimate sprinters - college and high school athletes who are training for serious. It's pretty damn obvious who they are - for starters, they're the only ones there actually in shape. You can also tell just by watching their routines for 20 seconds that they know what they are doing. Leave it to them. Midway through your jog, do not wander over to the straightaway and start doing sprints. You aren't impressing anybody, douche, and you aren't fooling us either. If you were really a serious sprinter, you wouldn't have ran 8 laps at a leisurely pace before doing the 100m. Yeah, you gotta warm up - but I don't think Usain Bolt runs two miles before stepping into the blocks.

#7 - If you can only run half a set of stairs - barely - don't run stairs at all. Pretty simple. Sure, I'd like to run a marathon, but I'm not start doing it then quit after 500 metres. I applaud your effort, for sure - but you're embarassing yourself. Run down on the flat surface like the rest of us.

And finally, #8 - Don't bring your God damn kids. The last thing any of us wanna do is have to trip over three kids who've decided that "play time" should occur around the last corner. No, it's not cute when little Billy cheers your name every time you run past, nor is it adorable when your 6-year-old daughter runs part of the way with you every lap. They're in the fucking way, and if you don't move 'em, well...