:: This is really happening ::

I know it's been quite some time since I posted here – I'd apologize for that, but I'm not sorry – and a lot has gone on in the interim. For one, I did in fact turn 30 years old, while in Vegas with my friends; Macho Man Randy Savage died; my dog spent the better part of two days throwing up, thus costing me a $515 vet bill; and most importantly – and these two things are likely related – the Canucks advanced to the Stanley Cup finals and the world, despite claims to the contrary, did not end last Saturday.

To be honest, the lack of Rapture came as a surprise to me, if only because, as I mentioned, the Vancouver Canucks are in the fucking Stanley Cup finals. If ever there was a reason to think all humanity was about to cave in upon itself, this may have been it.

At least that's how most fans here saw it, as we've grown oh-so-accustomed to failure, to bad things happening at the last minute; to shots ringing off goal posts and riots breaking out in the streets.

Yes Vancouver, it seems failure is what we do, what we've always done.

And while I'm loath to go all deep on y'all and suggest this somehow mirrors my life as I enter my 30s and leave my 20s behind – after all, I had a pretty good 10 year run there – there are a few similarities. Without getting into specifics, I had a few speed bumps in my early/mid 20s, a few spectacular failures – shit, I ended up in Northern Alberta for Christ's sake, pulling in a whopping $26,000 a year.

I look back eight or so years, and shake my head. Sure, we had a helluva time – a helluva time – but some of the things that went on, my god... well, nevermind. Said I wouldn't get into specifics, and I meant it. Doesn't matter though – most of you were there. You know.

But here's the thing – it got better. It is better. It's fucking fantastic, as a matter of fact.

I'm not the same stupid idiot I was when I was 22, nobody is. (Even Kyle said to me the other day, "Everybody changes. Look at me – if I didn't change, I'd probably have AIDS right now and be dead." I did not dispute his claim.)

So yes, things get better. And – now we'll just seamlessly move back into the sports realm here, if you don't mind – things seem to be getting better here, too. Vancouver pulled off one hell of an Olympic party last year; many said it was the greatest Olympics in the event's long history, and they're probably right.

The party went off without a major hitch, perhaps signaling for once and for all that we can have something good without blowing it. Everyone seemed to get along. Everyone was (mostly) positive. There were no riots.

And now, here we are, 15 months removed from that success, and 17 years after the last "success" of our beloved Canucks, though success of course is a relative term – the team did lose, after all.

But this time, maybe it really is different. Maybe, just maybe, it really is better. After all, the team itself is remarkably better than either the scrappy '82 squad or the team that, led by Trevor Linden, came one goal away from winning it all in 1994.

This year's team is expected to win.

And the difference between this team and other Canucks teams with similar expectations – those rosters of the early 2000s, for example – is that this time they're actually doing it. They're actually winning. Not the whole thing yet, of course, but still... those great teams of the 2000s were golfing by now.

I get the feeling that a lot of people don't know how to deal with such a phenomenon. I know I don't. I mean, we simply aren't used to this. There must have been some kind of mistake, right? Some kind of clerical error? We're in the what finals?

Since the Canucks punched their ticket to the big dance earlier this week, I've swapped many a text message with my brother, and most end – or start – like this.

"This is really happening."

Sometimes we'll talk about what we'll do if they actually win – what we'll say, where we'll be, or how much we'll drink.

But regardless of those finer details, Chris predicted there will be "mayhem." I agreed with him. There will be – not a replay of the Stanley Cup riots mind you, but a better kind. A happier kind.

Because this isn't 1994 anymore.

It's better.

:: Three Oh ::

Growing up a Vancouver Canucks fan, I cheered for no one player harder than I cheered for Trevor Linden. It's why it meant so much to me, as a fan, to have had the opportunity to be in the arena the day the team raised his #16 to the rafters. (Part II here)

And while I'm not alone in my Trevor Linden fandom – in Vancouver, in fact, saying Linden is your favourite player has become more or less cliche, met by onlookers with sort of a resigned sigh. Of course he's your favourite, they say. Of course he is.

But though the memory of my own childhood is far from crystal clear, I think I first began to cheer for Trevor Linden because one day I noticed that his birthday, April 11, was just one day after mine. I probably read it on the back of a hockey card.

And for an eight-year-old kid looking for a hero to cheer for, well, that was more than enough.
So for the next 20 years I cheered for Trevor Linden.

It's funny, too, the way those small, otherwise insignificant details – like a hockey player's birthday – stick with you through the years, because even today, my frame of reference for time – for age - is Trevor Linden. It's just always been this way for me.

I'm turning 15? Well, that means tomorrow Trevor's turning 26.  My 22nd birthday? I'm sure at some point, it occurred to me that Trevor Linden was 33 the following morning. In fact, I know it did.

Sure, it's a little strange, but like I said, some times these things stay with you. (Just like, when I was a teenager, I'd see a street sign and compulsively count, in my head, how many colours were on that sign. Why did I do that? Once, when I was on an elementary school field trip, some kids on the bus made a game of it – who could get the colours right, the quickest. It stuck with me for years, and I couldn't shake it even though it drove me crazy.)

Funny thing about about age, about growing up, is that it gets everybody. Nobody's immune, and there's no stopping time, although people do their best – botox, plastic surgery, midlife crises – to slow it down.
"Nobody gets out alive," Jim Morrison once sang, and he's right. Time waits for no one, and is sometimes slows only slightly.

And the thing about growing up, is that the older you get, the more you are who you are. Esquire writer and blogger Chris Jones – one of the most talented writers on the planet (seriously, If you haven’t read The Things That Carried Him, you oughta do it quick. It didn’t win a National Magazine Award for nothing) – recently wrote about this exact thing. His point – and mine – is simply this: Doors close as you get older. Sure, great stuff happens too – lots of it. But when you are 13 years old, there’s so much open to you: You can dream and legitimately say, “I’m going to play pro hockey” or “I’m going to write a book” or “I’m going to be an astronaut” or that you’re going to move to Australia, or breed bulldogs, or whatever. Sure, you might not do any of those things. But the opportunity is still there.

But am I, at this stage in my life, ever going to play professional hockey? No. Could I move to Australia? Well, sure I could, but that astronaut thing is probably out of the question (And one bulldog is enough for me, thanks).

I never really bothered thinking of these things until recently, which I suppose isn’t that out of the ordinary. I mean, who really thinks about aging if you don’t have a birthday approaching, or perhaps one just disappearing in your rear-view? Really, though, it should have been clear to me for some time, considering my barometer for such things – Trevor Linden – has been too old to play professional hockey for three years.

We both started out so young, him 18, me 7. And as April 10th turned to the 11th, year in, year out, my hockey hero changed like I changed. I went from being a shy seven year old who ate only peanut-butter sandwiches, was afraid of girls and refused to wear anything but sweatpants, to a shy teenager who was slightly less passive, still afraid of girls, but was now OK with wearing jeans, to an adult who was less shy, still awkward and probably could’ve saved himself some mental anguish had he just stayed afraid of girls entirely.

Meanwhile, Trevor Linden went through his own changes, right in front of us all: from a baby-faced, relatively high-scoring hockey star, to the face of a franchise, to a pariah blamed for the team’s woes, to an Olympian, to an Islander, and back, eventually to a city icon. He probably wasn’t afraid of girls, either.

Then suddenly, the hero got old. Suddenly, he was a fourth-line part-timer with graying temples and a face that suggested he’d seen a few things.

Then he was gone.

Well, not gone gone, of course. He's still very much alive, and still very much in the public eye, with his new fitness business, his real estate projects and his many public appearances. But while he'll always be an icon in this city, he was no longer the larger-than-life superstar he had previously been. That part of him was lost, his skills having left him just like they leave every athlete as they age, no matter how they try to stop it, or for how long they deny that it's happening.

But watching him retire was definitely strange for me. There I was, a 27-year-old who had always charted birthdays by a hockey player I’d never personally known, who was born 10 years and 364 days before I was. Suddenly, this image of my childhood was 38 years old and retiring.

That was three years ago.

Today, I turn 30 years old. Trevor Linden turns 41 tomorrow.

Forty-one.

And while I'm not afraid of turning 30 – If I really am what I am at this point, I’m more than OK with that - I guess it just makes me a little sad to think that if Trevor Linden is getting old, then I must be getting old, too.

:: On our way ::

Tonight after work, we're heading to Bellingham for the night, and tomorrow morning, we head to Las Vegas. On Sunday, while likely nursing a hangover, I will turn 30 years old.

Should be awesome. And a friendly reminder to any of my friends who are coming with us – counting cards is not illegal. It's only frowned upon. Like masturbating on an airplane.

See you guys next week.

:: Guns and Waffles ::

In recent weeks, ever since the countdown to Vegas has got into the 60/50-days to go range (I think we're at 40-something now, for those scoring at home) people have asked me what I want to do for my birthday itself - which is the first full day we're there.

Now, even though it's my birthday and this whole Vegas-for-my-birthday thing was my idea, I don't want to be the kind of person who says "Oh, well we all have to do this and then this and oh, then we're all going to do this, too!"

I mean, there's eight of us there for four days, and I'm sure we're gonna see more than enough of each other - mostly while shitfaced. And then I'm sure there will be other times when people wander off to do whatever they want.

When the 46 of us (it was 46, right?) went to Vegas last April, we did plenty together - gambled, played craps and then all hung out at ESPNZone for Colleen's birthday. And Christene and I actually went about a day and a half without seeing a single other person in our party (mostly because I was uber-hungover... 'twas not good). It was, in retrospect, a pretty damn good mix of organization and randomness.

That said, people have still been asking me what I want to do on my birthday. After careful consideration, I have only two requests for the day I officially leave my 20s behind:

1. I want to eat breakfast/brunch/lunch (whenever we wake up) at the Hash House A Go Go which is located at the Imperial Palace on the strip. I want to go there because I've heard people rave about it, and also I saw it on an episode of Man vs. Food. To put it simply, the food looks ridiculous. Like, enough to feed you for 4 days kind of ridiculous.

For example, take a gander of the following three photos from the Hash House. In order, they are photos of their pork tenderloin sandwich (yes, that's technically a sandwich... see the bun top?) fried chicken benedict; and chicken and waffles.




So yes, I would like to spend the first day of my 30s eating a disgusting amount of delicious yet terrible food. Because if your 30s are supposed to be about responsibility and kids and home-ownership and RRSPs, well I can think of no better way of saying "Fuck that" than by eating any of the three meals you see above this paragraph.

Oh, and there's one more thing, if you'll indulge me. I'd like to shoot some fucking guns.

You see, never in my 29 years on this planet have I fired any weapon stronger than a paintball gun, and while I have no intention of going on Ted Nugent on you, I would like to remedy that situation. Just because, well... just because. I propose we do it here - at The Gun Store.

(Now, I also realize that since my birthday is our first full day in Vegas, we may actually want to do other Vegas-y things on Day 1, so I'm OK if gun-shooting gets delayed a day or so. And if we do in fact delay, I suggest we fill the void by playing Beer Pong at O'Shea's. 'Tis a worthy substitution.)

So there you have it, folks. Guns and waffles. I am a simple man, and I don't think this is too much to ask.

:: 30 for 30 ::

Last month, Lanette – who turns 30 this year – posted a list of 30 goals she wishes to accomplish before her birthday in October. I, like Lanette, am also turning 30 in 2011, and while I am not scared of the big 3-0 either, it's probably not a bad fencepost at which to take stock of things and come up with some goals.

However, keep in my two things: 1) Lanette seems to be a much more professionally drive, goal-oriented, motivated person than me (case in point: one of her goals involves something called a vision board, whatever the fuck that is. Unless that means "get an eye test" you won't find that on my list.)

and 2) Unlike Lanette, who has eight months until the big day, I turn 30 in mid April, so I don't have a lot of time here, people. My goals, therefore, have been adjusted accordingly, although a few for later in the year still made the list.

So, with that preamble out of the way, I present to you, my 30 for 30 list:

1. Get my basement finished, or damn-near close to finished.
2. Install some shelves and cupboards in my otherwise bare, unorganized garage.
3. Find a new job, or get more serious about looking for one (ie: at least polish up the old resume).
4. Catch up on all the movies I want to watch. (Because I don't spend enough time on the couch as is).
5. Play in a poker game in Vegas.
6. Go on a trip. (Vegas already booked for my birthday weekend, so I'm one down already!)
7. Buy some bookshelves and a desk, so the spare room/office can be more than a storage pit.
8. Try not to meet any more people. Enough is enough.
9. Lose 15 pounds. (More is needed of course, but we've only got 2 months here, remember.)
10. Become more patient with my jerk of a dog.
11. Fulfill my lifelong goal of having a TV in my bathroom (see #1 in the list).
12. Actually win some money – however little – in Las Vegas for once.
13. Buy some more books for my Kindle.
14. Get better at Angry Birds.
15. Tell somebody off with a better line than "Fuck you, go to hell!."
16. Become a better beer-shotgunner.
17. Break 100 a few more times while playing golf.
18. Eat an entire large pizza.
19. Expand my drinking horizons to beverages other than simply beer and vodka.
20. Spend an entire day not wearing pants.
21. Screw it - spend two entire days not wearing pants.
22. Don't slack off. Follow things through right until they are finishe...
23. Find a good torrent site to illegally download ebooks.
24. Speaking of books, finish the stack of regular books I have yet to read.
25. Try not to get annoyed at Christene for leaving her laundry everywhere.
26. Continue being awesome.
27. Find out who the asshole is who keeps throwing garbage and apple cores into my backyard (and front sidewalk/boulevard, too), and beat them with a sack of doorknobs.
28. Fix the front gate latch.
29. Make fewer goals.