:: Louis CK stole my bit ::

I have a memo pad file on my BlackBerry called "jokes." It's where I write down, well, jokes (it's not just a clever name). More accurately, it's where I write down bits I'd use if I was ever to actually to do stand-up comedy.

Now, I may never do it... in fact, it is very unlikely because a) I'm still pretty shy and hate speaking in public, and b) I don't think I'm funny enough. I mean, I think I'm pretty funny, but as Jer once told me - "You're funny, but you aren't standup/joke funny. You're just funny because you have a blog where you write down all the funny shit we do."

Fair 'nuff.

However, I have a file on my phone - and on my computer - nonetheless. And you know what? There's a lot there, and I think it's pretty good. And the other day, likely because Jer and Katie just had a baby (Hank the Tank!) I was thinking about babies. And I got to thinking... why is it that the first time anybody mentions a newborn baby, one of the first questions a person asks is - aside from whether it's a boy or girl, and what its name is - is the baby's weight.

Well, it's because they're fucking babies... they don't have a lot else going on. What is a mother or father going to say about their new son or daughter, if not their weight, sex, and maybe how much they sleep, shit or puke... Anyways, I wrote a pretty good bit about it. It was pretty funny.

And then, last night, while idly flipping channels, I found Louis CK's HBO special, Shameless.... and he had nearly the exact same fucking joke.

And now I can never fucking use it on my eventual road to comedy stardom, all because of a balding, 40-year-old ginger who is quasi to moderately famous, and guest stars on shows like Parks and Recreation when he isn't busy talking about handjobs said it first.

You know, if I had my HBO special first, this never would've happened.

:: I'm not an idiot ::

When you and your friends have known each other as long as my friends and I have, there ends up being a million different things you end up ragging each other about, constantly. You know, that Bucholtz is dumb (even though he's really not) or that Sean is the real-life version of Pigpen (likely only partly true) or that Chris is an asshole (mostly true).

It's all in good fun. I mean, if you can't bust the balls of the person you've known for 15+ years, whose balls can you bust?

And then there's me. I have accumulated plenty of these so-called stereotypes (for lack of a better term) too. You know, that I can't/shouldn't be allowed to do anything mechanical because I work behind a desk and not in a tradesperson or tradesperson-esque capacity.

Or that for most of my life, I didn't exactly get a lot of chicks.

Or that any story I start won't finish for at least 20 minutes.

You know, the usual kind of stuff that friends give you shit about because a) it's usually always funny and b) nobody is going to get offended by it.

It's all in good fun, and it's all fair game. I rarely get bothered by it, but lately it's been happening to me with increasing regularity, and it's getting annoying. Case in point: Friday at Ian's.

I tried to tell some story which was (probably) hilarious, and it was not a long story. But of course, knowing my penchant for long stories, everyone had to mock it by piping in with a million questions, interrupting me every two seconds.

"What time was this?"

"What were you doing before that?

"What colour was the car the person was driving?"

"Sorry, this was at what time again?"

In the end, I just said "Fuck you guys" and didn't finish the story. And then, later on, the jabs continued, especially when the subject of real estate was brought up. I can't remember all the details - we were drinking a lot - but basically, the general consensus was that the idea of buying a rowhouse without a strata was stupid, because what if the roof/walls/etc collapse?

Nothing I could say was enough to satisfy anybody and - again, likely because of the booze - I actually started to get pretty pissed off for a minute, until the subject was changed. And I'll save everyone the reasons behind why no strata is no big deal (See jerks? I can shorten a story!), except to say that it works in Eastern Canada and Europe, and last I checked, people are cool with it. (editor's note: I haven't actually checked. I didn't make any calls or anything).

The point I have to make then, is of a wider scope. Whether it comes to buying this house, or telling a story, hammering a nail or whatever it is, I take issue with the fact that the general consensus is that I'm somehow incapable of doing it, and doing it properly.

So just a reminder: I'm a smart person - graduated high school, college and everything (almost with honours!) - and I have a job and have managed to make a better-than-decent living, and I have not ended up destitute and wearing potato sacks for clothes (yet), so I've obviously done some things right. Maybe not a lot of things, but some things, sure.

And while I'm not going to get into a boozy, in-depth argument over the merits of the strata system, or whether or not a 30-year warranty on the roof covers only the shingles or the workmanship too, nor am I going to explain how - if years from now, my neighbours don't want to join forces, sans-strata to replace a needs-replacing roof - I can just replace my section because all the houses are actually separate when you get down to it, I am going to ask this: Considering my common sense, don't you think I'd check into all these so-called red flags to make sure that they're actually, you know, not red flags, before I wrote a deposit cheque for $20,000?

The benefit of the doubt is all I'm asking for here.

(As for those who say I can't tell a short story, I'm willing to concede that point. This blog post, after all, is 722 words, and I could've summed it all up in five: Get off my back, please.)

:: The desert calls ::

I worked a 14-hour day today, in three different cities. It started at 8 a.m. at my office, doing my usual job. Now, this wasn't too bad to begin with - minus the fact that we had to skip our usual walk to get coffee because it was too fucking cold out - but it got worse.

I won't bore you with the details, but just say this: budget cuts have made a certain part of my job a living hell. I spent three-quarters of my day today talking to colleagues on the phone about said problem, trying to find a solution, dealing with complainers, then complaining myself when no solution could be found. Good times.

In between these phone calls, I did a minimal amount of real work, and also traded phone calls back-and-forth with my bank, as I am in the process of trying to secure a car loan. This was the worst part of my day, but again I won't bore you with details. I'll just break it down quick:

- I own my own place. It is assessed at $244,000. I could sell it for 260.

- My credit is perfect. So perfect, in fact, that last Saturday a car dealership approved me for financing - for an amount far greater than I needed, as a matter of fact - in less than fifteen minutes.

- I make a good annual salary, and have a second job which in theory would cover the entire cost of a monthly car payment, were I to get one.

- I have no other real debts, except for my mortgage (which many people driving nice new cars despite modest salaries have and can easily afford) and a few hundred bucks on one credit card.

- I asked for $32,000 (Whether I need this much or not is debatable, but considering all the above points, I thought it was more than a reasonable request).

- The bank said I could only have $25,000.

- Then the following things happened: I got really mad, and yelled at the bank folks, calling their offer "insulting." Then said I was taking all my money out and going to a different bank. Then I hung up. Then they called me back four times, all of which I sent straight to voicemail. In the messages they left, they said they'd "try to work something out." Their second "offer" was pretty much the exact same thing. I called back and yelled some more.

- I still have no new truck.

I don't know what else to say about this really, except that it really, really pisses me off. When I was 20-years-old and jobless, I got a $21,000 loan from the same bank with no questions asked. Why they've now decided that a stable person with a good job and a house is not to be trusted with anything more than a $400/month loan is beyond me. But whatever.

Sorry, I know I said I wasn't going to bore you with details and then went ahead and did exactly that, but I do that sometimes... stories just get away from me.

So where was I? Oh right, my stupid long day. After bitching at the bank for another little while, eventually I had to drive downtown to cover a basketball game, which just happened to overlap with two other things I normally would have covered. I watched the game, took pictures - even got hit in the side of the face by a ball on its way out of bounds. I was sitting courtside on the floor, camera to my eye.

With four minutes left in the game, I had to race back to Langley, grab some dinner en route, and then watch the Canucks game, so I could write about it and file a story by 10:15 p.m. In between stoppages in play, and in the intermission, I worked on my basketball story, and did interviews over the phone from the dining room.

Then the game went into overtime, which meant I had even less time to file a story. I made it on time though, like I always manage to do, and now I'm sitting here, way past when I should've gone to sleep, especially because I have two more nights like this between now and Saturday.

The only thing currently bringing a smile to my face is the Bud Light Lime that is sitting in front of me, ice cold and half-full. It is the last of the Lime beers I brought back from Vegas when I was there in the fall. Somehow I made 24 of them last five months.

This particular beer is making me happy because it reminds me of sitting at the Stratosphere Las Vegas, playing Super Jackpot Party for about three hours straight, getting fucking bombed off this particular beer. Then, at about 3 a.m., I stopped by the hotel gift shop/store and bought three more for the elevator ride to my room.

I woke up hungover with one unopened beer in my bed next to me, and an empty bottle still in my hand.

And in a little over a week, I'll get the chance to do that very same thing again, only this time with the addition of four days watching spring training baseball in Arizona.

Can't come quick enough.

:: What kind of day it's been ::

For the third time in a matter of weeks, my office computer has completely crapped out.

It's nearly March and – after a week of pretty gorgeous weather - it's fucking snowing (hard) outside, again.

And today it was announced that Steven Page has left the Barenaked Ladies, one of my favourite bands since I was a kid. Sadly, though it affects my life the least of the three, it's the music news that bums me out the most.

Today sucks.

:: The storm clouds are gathering* ::

Since Oct. 9, the first game of the Vancouver Canucks' season, I have made roughly $950 writing about them for one of my company's publications.

And though it's been just a month and a bit, and I've only been to 4 games live, it has been quite an experience. Press passes, press boxes, free popcorn, locker room access (Sorry Lanette, still no Bieksa picture) all kinds of behind-the-scenes stuff the regular person never gets to see. A few weeks ago, for example, Wayne Gretzky walked right past me in a hallway, and the game before that, I ended up getting my mug splashed on Sportsnet, after I walked behind an interview, and into the camera's frame.

So it's cool. But I don't feel like I technically "cover" the team, as other reporters do. It's just not in my job description. It's not my fulltime gig, however much I wish it was, so I don't foster relationships with anyone there, and all I ever have to write is 200 words on each game.

And that's what troubles me lately - the word count. I understand I can't write much longer than that - with the design of the publication, there isn't enough space on the page for more. But I'm a word guy - in my regular day job, I have the freedom to write basically as much as I want. I get beyond the score of a game, and can get into details, tell amusing stories, add in some good quotes, etc... But with this other thing, I can't.

Instead of telling you that Steve Bernier broke out of his slump and scored his fifth goal of the year after he chopped a knuckleball past the goalie, who wasn't paying attention; or instead of talking about what it meant for Pavol Demitra to come back strong against his old team with a goal and an assist, instead I tell you this:

"In the second period Steve Bernier scored his fifth of the season, while Demitra added one of his own."

That's it, that's all. No analysis, no insight. Just the facts.

Granted, I'm not actually complaining - the extra money's nice, getting to watch games live and for free is even better, and there's no way I'd ever voluntarily give up this gig, but sometimes I just wish I could write.

Thinking about my situation tonight, moments after I filed my 218-word opus on Vancouver's win over the Wild, I was reminded of 2 scenes from an episode of Sports Night, my all-time favourite show.

(The YouTube clips are longer than they need to be...in Clip 1, fast forward to 5:18, and in the second one, watch from 1:23 until 2:19. And the files aren't embedded in the blog because YouTube has that option disabled on these clips... sorry)

You gotta make it shorter (5:18-)

The storm clouds are gathering (1:23-2:19)


*Without watching the clips, only Mike will get this reference

:: All over but the cryin' ::

Nearly five years ago, I wrote the shortest post ever to appear on this blog. It summed up, quite succinctly, the Vancouver Canucks' premature end to the season, losing in seven games to the Minnesota Wild despite leading 3-games-to-1 at one point.

It was, is, and always will be one thing: A choke job.

Today, the season is over prematurely again, although I'm hard pressed to call Game 81 a choke job. Yes, they needed to win to stay alive. Yes, they were playing the already-out Edmonton Oilers, and yes, they hadn't lost to the Oil at home, in regulation, in 16 months (16 months!!).

But it's not a choke job in the typical sense, because really, what did you expect? They haven't played like a professional hockey team for most of the past 4 weeks. If you want to label anything as a choke, label the entire month of March.

Because let's be real here, tonight's game wasn't any different than any other night. Plenty of opportunity. No finish.

No heart.

But disappointing as the last month has been, it all came to a head tonight. All the struggles could've been erased with a simple win (and then another Saturday, but we're living in the present here for the moment), but they just didn't have the heart.

And the most disappointing thing?

It wasn't the fact that they couldn't put the puck past a washed-up, 38-year-old goalkeeper who lost his starting gig this season to a guy (Mathieu Garon) who was once not good enough for the Los Angeles Kings.

And it wasn't the fact that they scored but one lone goal - near the end - despite a 2-man advantage, a 5-minute major power-play, and with nearly one-third of the game's total time (18 of 60 minutes) played with one player more than the other team.

It wasn't that Alex Burrows was the team's best forward, either; nor the fact that Trevor Linden won't play his final game as a Canuck in the playoffs - where he belongs - but rather in a mean-nothing Saturday night tilt that will have all the emotion of a crib tournament down at the senior's centre.

And believe it or not, it wasn't even that the immortal Linden happened to be in the penalty box when the winning goal was scored, even though we all know he deserved better.

And though it's a close call, the worst thing isn't even that I now have no meaningful hockey to watch until October, or that now all the bandwagon-jumping, fair-weather fans will be shooting there collective mouth off until then either, about all the things they knew that Dave Nonis didn't.

No, the saddest, more aggravating thing about suffering through all of this?

It was pay-per-view, and it cost us $12.95 to do it.

Like charging admission at a funeral.

Damn you, groundhog! Damn you!

:: The Ballad for the Single Guy ::

For far too long, I have been the single guy amongst groups of couples. Of course, there are a few other single stragglers as well, who appear from time to time, but by and large, it's me surrounded by pairs. And over the years it's only gotten worse.

Now, except if I'm clearly joking around about it, this strange phenomenon has never really bothered me. Sure, there are times when you feel like the 3rd (or 7th) wheel, but most of the guys in these couples I've known for a hundred years, so it really never feels weird. Mostly, it's just me hanging out with the boys, and the girls are around, they're around. It's cool.

But tonight, well, tonight pissed me off.

Some/all/many of us are going to Whistler for New Year's. Derrick and Chris spearheaded a get-organized movement, and Derrick found a place to rent in Creekside. Wonderful. There are, however, limited beds, and two people will have to sleep on the floor. Sleeping on the floor isn't really a big deal, and I'm sure we'll work it out when the time comes. In the end, we'll likely be too drunk to give a shit anyway.

However, what I take issue with is the selection process. Derrick said him and Whitney get a bed because he organized it and booked. Absolutely fair. No problems there. Chris said him and Jenna get one because, well, because that's how he wants it. As for the remaining beds, I said I want one. The response?

"Well, I'm pretty sure the couples aren't gonna wanna sleep on the floor, so you might be screwed."

Oooooh, the poor couples don't wanna sleep on the floor? Who fucking cares.

Single guys don't wanna sleep there either, and just because there's one of me and two of them doesn't mean I should get jewed out of a hide-a-bed, especially when I was the very first person to say "Yes, I'm in" other than Chris and Derrick themselves.

Now, I realize that Derrick was half-kidding when he said it, and it was somewhat tongue in cheek (He also said I could have a bed if I paid him more), but there was a seriousness to it too.

What the couples want, the couples get. It's discrimination against single people, and for the first time it really aggravated me.

In the past, nobody's really seemed to single me out negatively (or any other single person) when it comes to any events, unless they're kidding. I remember Kyle pissing off Amanda once because he told me to meet him at the movies, so I did. Little did I know that I was ruining Date Night. Yes, it was funny, but ultimately nobody really cared because A-Scrams wasn't really mad; she's a good sport. And just the other day, Kels called to see if I wanted to be including in the Hemlock condo rental that ultimately fell apart. Yes, she called me because the condo had room for 5 people and two couples leaves only one extra space. However, at least she asked.

Whether it's pity, or friendship, I don't really care. I chose not to analyze it that closely. But if there's any more incidents like this Whistler business, or if I actually get screwed on this deal simply because I'm single, I'm so outta here.

"I wrote the book on Awesome." - Dave

Chris: Oh good, there's a beer store on this island. I was worried that I crushed too many beers on the ferry over, and that I'd run out before the weekend was over.
Nick: Run out? How many beers did you bring?
Chris: 42.

Hi, I'm Troy McClure.

You may remember me from such failed fitness regimes as "Drink Yourself Thin" and "That doughnut won't get you laid, fatty."

I'm here today to talk to you about getting in shape. In case you're wondering, yes, you have heard this before.

I have exactly 38 days until I board a plane bound for Cancun, Mexico, where the sun is warm, water is clear, and the beer is included. And also where I'd like to be able to walk around without a shirt on without sending the locals running for the hills (Are there hills in Cancun? I don't know. If there isn't, I guess the locals will run somewhere else...likely the U.S. border).

Also, aside from the no-shirt thing, I'd like to be able to eat about 300 lbs of authentic spicy burrito meat and wash it down with about 120 pints of beer and a few margaritas without having to worry about my heart stoppping.

Anyways, the point is, I have approxiametly 45 lbs to lose until I can get to that point. The problem? Outside of a hunger strike or a coke binge of Lindsay Lohanesque proportions, it is impossible to lose that much weight in such a short amount of time. So, because I don't want to snort a bunch of cocaine, and because right now I'm actually sorta hungry, so a hunger strike is out of the question, I guess I'll go to Plan C with the hope that maybe I can drop 20 or so.

Plan C, of course, being eating vegetables and going to the gym a lot. Also, in sort of a desperate move, I'm not drinking. At all. A year and a half ago, I gave up drinking beer for three months. During that time, I went on a wine-drinking jag, and for a time experimented with gin - with disasterous, disasterous results.

And I didn't really lose a single pound.

But now I'm saying goodbye to everything for 38 days. (Well, to be fair, when I say I'm giving up drinking, I mean I'm not gonna go get blitzed on the weekend, and will curtail my weekday beers. I'll still have one or two here or there)

I expect the process to be painful, but ultimately worth it. What makes this task even tougher is that, after a summer of buying more beer for camping trips than I could actually drink, I currently have a mini-fridge full of over 40 beers. Just sitting there, chilled. Mocking me.

But ice cold barley pops can in no way compete with vegetables, nectarines, and rice. Right?

Damn you Coors. Damn you to hell.

There's no doubt that the tool-of-the-Devil that is Facebook is a wonderful web creation, and pretty god-damn addicting to boot. Since signing on a few weeks back, I've re-connected - if through nothing more than a quick message - with all kinds of people I knew in high school, elementary school, minor hockey, etc..It's been pretty fun, if not a little weird in that some of these people I never even really liked in high school in the first place. It's amazing what time can do.

But tonight, as I sifted through all kinds of groups in search of a long-forgotten familar names (and believe me, there was a lot of 'em I'd forgot...high school ended for me eight years ago, after all), I got a slight tinge of, if not sadness, then, well let's call it a combination of malaise and/or envy. This is why:

Among former schoolmates of mine:

One went to medical/grad school at John Hopkins University and is now a doctor. Lives in France.

One guy - a dude you would've called a geek in high school - is married to an incredibly hot woman, has a kid, and works for a professional sports team.

One guy got a degree, some money, but then just said 'Fuck it,' and appears to spend his days living on the beach in California, Australia, and other places. All he does is surf.

There were more, but those are the ones I can remember best. Now, I'm not lamenting my place in life at all - I've done pretty alright for myself in some departments. But still, here I sit in the same town I grew up in, eight years later. Single, and often eating peanut butter straight out of the jar (I wish I was kidding, but I'm not. Don't judge me - it's delicious).

My point in all this? I dunno really, except that in high school I was one of the smart kids. I wasn't one of those popular smoke-pit types, and I was led to believe that karma would eventually repay me by giving me some of the stuff I didn't get much of in high school.

Maybe if I'd have had the balls or the inclination to move away after high school I'd be the one with the hot wife or the doctorate degree.

Or maybe I'd just say fuck it, get a bunch of tattoos, bleach my hair blonde and surf all fucking day. Yeah, that'd be pretty rad.

And while yes, I know there's a vast majority of people from high school who still live close by, doing average jobs for average pay, I just always thought I'd be the guy who, when people mentioned my name, they'd say "Oh, you won't believe what he's doing now."

Instead I fear I've become a Townie. A townie with a house and a degree and a decent job, but a Townie nonetheless.

I wonder if there's other Facebookers from my high school online right now, clicking on my name and thinking, "Wow, he's doing really well for himself. I'm kinda jealous. Good for him."

I hope so.

(But while I hope that, I'll settle for someone clicking on my name and thinking to themselves, "Wow, he's not as fat as I remember." or "Holy crap, he looks way cooler than that geek I used to know.")

:: The List ::

I've felt a little off lately, and I'm not sure as to why. It's not that I've been feeling particularly bad, nor particularily good.

Just off.

Alternately bored, anxious, kinda melancolic, and other times just plain fine. Why the sudden shifts in mood? Beats the fuck out of me. Maybe it's because I'm not exactly thrilled with my job anymore, nor the direction my work-related life is taking me. That may be due, in part, to my fascination with the new NBC show Studio 60, thus making me decide that maybe my future career should be writing witty television shows in Hollywood, rather than re-writing 11-year-old's swim results and asking "Can you spell your name for me again?" in White Rock.

Or maybe it's just this God-damn weather, making me feel like I'm somehow cooped up, hemmed in, because of the snow and ice. (Nevermind that the roads are actually pretty good and I've been fine in it thus far)

Could also be the fact that I don't have a girlfriend - and it ain't for lack of trying, especially lately - and everyone else seems to. Also, the fact that I haven't got laid since about 1976 ain't doing any favours for my current malaise.

But regardless, I feel odd. Usually, when something like that happens, the first consequence for me is insomnia. That's not been the case this time, however. Instead, I've just been waking up in the middle of the night a lot, and rather than go right back to bed, I usually get up. Sometimes I'll go get something to drink, or surf the 'net for a few minutes. Other times I'll just wander around my townhouse in the dark, staring out all the windows.

I know. Weird.

I have, however, found a solution to my funk, the idea spawned from a TV Special I watched (hosted by Ami James from Miami Ink) the other day called "30 things to do before you're 30."
Being that making to-do lists is partially what keeps me sane, especially at work where my desk is covered in yellow sticky-note lists, I figured I'd give it a shot. I don't know why, but I've always been a list kind-of guy.

So here goes, my Things To Do in Life list - but not neccesarily before I'm 30 because that only gives me five years (yikes! that's weird to say), but just in general. Also, the list is in no particular order, just written as they came to me. I suggest making your own list, either on your own blogs, or if you are of the blogless variety (losers!) then there's always the comment section here.

1. Get a tattoo. Hopefully this will happen soon, but we'll see.
2. Travel to South America. I know a guy organizing an Ecuador trip, so this could conceivably happen too.
3. Buy a dog
4. Break my "slump"
5. Be in the arena/stadium when a sports team wins a championship
6. Actually 'get up' on a wakeboard
7. Spend an alcohol and drug-induced weekend in Vegas. Lose money, but snort blow off a hot stripper's naked rack in a far too expensive hotel room. Call that breaking even.
8. Go to Europe.
9. Own a cabin on a lake somewhere.
10. Write a book. Even if it sucks and nobody actually publishes it. My mom will still like it.
11. Quit a job in a huff, storm out and never come back. Fuck two weeks notice.
12. Win a sports-reporting award of some kind. Fuck this second-place BS.
13. Invent an alcohol concoction of some type. Like the Flaming Moe but mine will be called the Steve Garvey. Buchs and Bobby know why.
14. Get a story in the newspaper about me when I die. This means more than just an obituary. An actual story, where some timid reporter has to call my family and friends and get quotes and stories about me. This will require me to be either a) noteworthy/well known in my community, or b) die in some strange/outrageous/awesome way. Should I have to go this route, I've narrowed it down to hail of gunfire, large grease fire in a Chinese restaurant, or choke on the world's largest Rice Krispie square.
15. Pick up a girl at a wedding.
16. Watch a Canucks game from the press box.
17. Drive to California, stopping just whenever I feel like it. Returning home when I feel like it as well.
18. Own a sports car. Porsche. Corvette. Mustang GT. I don't care, just gimme something fast.
19. Write a standup comedy routine. Actually getting on stage and performing it is another matter entirely.
20. Impress a girl enough so that she's the one chasing me. Not the other way around.
21. Further to #20, use girl strictly for sex. Why? I dunno, seems fun, far as I can tell.
22. Hit a home run in slo-pitch.
23. Make a movie.

Well, thats' all I got folks. 23 things. I'm seriously about them all, too, even if some of them seem smart-alecky.

Now, back to staring out the window. I feel better already.