:: Behold Frostillicus! ::

It's cold out today. Perhaps not as cold as a Kwik-e-Mart freezer (or Fort McMurray, for that matter, where I understand it recently snowed) but chilly nonetheless.

:: Shovel your own damn driveway ::

After a few days of Mother Nature attempting to snow (You'd see a few flakes and that was it, then a few hours later, a few more), it finally snowed for real today. Still is, as a matter of fact. It's nothing to get worked up about yet, and I'm sure when it stops there will be nothing more than 4-5 cm on the ground (knock on wood).

This new snowfall, however light, means that our strata unearths all the community snow shovels and the big bag of salt for the walkways and courtyards. In previous years, people have just grabbed the shovels when necessary, and I've only ever used them last year, when the snow in front of my garage door was too much to drive over. And once or twice I used them when I was feeling generous, and I shoveled a path through the snow so people could get to their front doors.

The common areas - walkways, court yards, etc - in each "pod" of townhouses have usually been cleared by one or two people. In my pod, it's the strata president usually. This is because a) many of the people who live in this pod are elderly, and b) because he's the fucking president.

Lately, this guy has been driving me crazy. He was first elected strata president because he's sort of the complex handyman anyway (He is a very "handy" guy, so it's a position he voluntarily takes, and seems to enjoy) and also because at the time of the strata elections, he was unemployed so, no matter his other faults, he was deemed the best choice because he'd have, presumably, all kinds of time to devote to the strata cause.

The last few weeks, I've seen him around the complex fixing things, and each and every time, he has to make a point about how "I'm just volunteering, you know" and "I don't get paid for this."

Listen Bucko, we know you don't get paid. You do the work because you're able to and it saves the strata money. We fucking get it. And while we certainly appreciate it, I don't need to be reminded that I should be appreciating it. If you didn't wanna do it, you shouldn't have signed on to the god damn president, and at this point, I'd just as soon pay somebody to come fix the roof, or shovel the snow, or whatever. At least that way I'd seen some tangible benefit to the $224 I pay in fees every month.

But if you want to do it, that's fine. But don't make the rest of us feel guilty. Because I don't tend to feel guilt about these things - I just get pissed off and annoyed.

Today, however, was the breaking point. We arrived home from grocery shopping and Mr. President was shoveling the area in front of his garage, and the three ajacent spaces (four people all share one common garage). My garage - and the garage that three or four fellow residents share with me - is not a part of this area.

Still, the guy feels the need to tell me that he's got the shovels and salt out, and they'll be by his front door again all winter.

"Thanks," I said. "I'll remember that."

Then I started to go inside, but he spoke up again.

"Yep, just by the front door.... I'm just sayin'."

Yeah, I get it. You're saying "Hey, you should shovel this area that you don't even use, because I'm always the one doing it." Or, more accurately, he's saying "Hey, you should volunteer to do help out."

And you know what? Maybe I should. Maybe I even will when I have the time or the inclination. But don't fucking guilt me into it. You aren't doing it out of the goodness of your heart. You are doing it because you only work 20 hours a week and oh, have I mentioned this before? You are the fucking president. (I know shoveling snow isn't actually written into the actual presidential duties, at least I assume it isn't, but the position does carry with it, by default, more responsibility than the average resident. That's all I'm saying.)

After this conversation, I immediately hopped in my truck to take it for a spin around the block (I'm having 4-wheel drive issues and wanted to see what was up with it), and unfortunately this meant driving right past Mr. President/Volunteer Shoveler again.

I notice that he has finished about half of what he was shovelling.

Of course, he waves me down. I roll the window down, and then he asks, "So... do you want me to just leave the shovel here for you?"

"Yeah, fine, whatever," is my response, and I drive away. He leaves the shovel leaning against a post and goes into his nice warm house.

And in the five minutes I was driving around, I just got angrier. For starters, I'm fucking driving away - how do you know when I'm coming back? Maybe I'm going to work and won't be back for 9 hours. Maybe I'm leaving forever. Or maybe I'll be back in five minutes.

The point is, he had no idea.

Secondly, he already guilt-tripped me once. But that's apparently not enough. So not only is he telling me "Yeah, do some of the work I volunteered for, and shovel the driveway" he's telling me also, "Oh yeah, also do it right now."

Fuck. You.

So I came home, parked the truck, went inside and got some gloves. And then I came back out and begrudgingly grabbed the shovel.

And then I cleared my own God damn driveway, and - because I'm so thoughtful and nice - the driveway of the old war veteran who parks next me. That was it.

Mr. President's side is still only half finished. He can fucking shovel it himself.

Trevor Linden, Part I

:: The importance of being there ::

I spent nine hours yesterday at a three-hour hockey game.

Take a minute and figure that one out.

Well, no, I wasn't necessarily at the game itself for that long, but it was all in the getting there and coming back. Yesterday, the Vancouver Canucks retired Trevor Linden's No. 16. Raised it to the rafters, never to be worn again.

Since it was announced, Dec. 17 vs. the Edmonton Oilers has been the hottest ticket in town, almost impossible to find. Being the possessor of a certain all-access pass, however, I was going. Obviously.

But then, on the morning of the big day, it started to snow. A lot – and for a very long time. And though snow and its accompanying problems are rarely long-lasting here in Vancouver, when they do happen, there's chaos for a day or so as road crews do their best to plow and salt the roads, and fellow drivers struggle in vain to remove their tuque-covered heads from their snow-covered asses.

All morning and early afternoon, I kept checking the weather and road statuses (statusii?) and never did they improve. I complained and complained, and tried to justify to myself the prospect of just going back home and watching from the comfort of my living room.

Yes, all the work required of me for my job could be done from home. No, it was not necessary for me to spend nearly 20 minutes in a blizzard unearthing my car from under five inches of powder. And nobody forced me to wear improper footwear, which left me with soggy shoes and soaking wet socks from late afternoon until I got home just before 1 a.m.

No, I didn't really have to go.

But, yes, I really did.

It was Trevor Linden.

My will-I, won't-I waffling, which culminated in my Facebook status complaining of how I didn't want to travel downtown to the game, was brought to my attention by my brother – and brought forth in stark relief, I may add, as Chris is rarely one to mince words. He would've killed to have been able to be at that game. So would've a lot of people. And we both knew it.

"Wow," he text-messaged me.

"Could your Facebook status make you sound like any more of a jerk? First of all, everyone loves snow, so get over it. Second of all, it must really suck having to get to GM Place tonight so you can sit in your free seat and watch the best game of the damn season. You ungrateful bastard."

Well said.

So I got out the ice scraper and began along my merry way.

For one hour and 20 minutes I turtled along the ice covered road, determined to stop at the first SkyTrain station I could find, and hop on.

The first station, I soon found, was a mess. Cars splayed randomly in the lot, parked like loose change tossed into a jar. So I continued on to the next stop – which I actually couldn't find, as side streets and snowbanks hampered my navigational attempts. So I went one more – my usual stop – and parked the car. Finally.

The train trip there was fine, without incident. The trip home? Not so much.

The game, scheduled to start a half hour later than usual due to TL's pregame ceremony (which was awesome, by the way, and will be subject to Part II later this week), but, as could be expected, even that cushion wasn't generous enough.

Eventually, after the ovations subsided, the chairs and carpets were folded up, and the various dignitaries and ex-players tucked snug in their VIP suite (editor's note: I had a nice, albeit quick, moment in the press box with ceremony emcee and legendary broadcaster Jim Robson, and bumped into – quite literally – longtime Canucks colour man Tom Larscheid as we both came around the same corner sharply, but in opposite directions), the game began at 7:45 – 45 minutes past the usual time.

With the delays right off the hop, I knew it would be tough to meet my 10 p.m. deadline, which I managed to get pushed back a bit. The game, and the deadline-meeting, was uneventful and successful, but I still got out of the game about an hour later than I usually do.

And when I trudged out into the cold and the slush to grab the train home, there was still, for some reason, an abundance of fans milling about. Usually by the time I leave, the trains are quite empty and peaceful.

Not tonight.

I got stuck in a train car with about 8 coke-fueled meatheads, two of whom were actual coke dealers (I know this because I heard them talking, and each had about $2,000 in cash on them at the time. I know this because one guy took out the stash and paid a kid $20 for his seat, and another dropped his wad of bills on the floor, because he was tackled by his similarly coked-out buddy.)

After about 15 minutes of getting jostled about by the aforementioned d-bags, I'd had enough. I hopped off the train at the Joyce station, planning on hopping on a following train soon after. Good idea, in theory. But, of course, the trains stopped coming.

Something about ice on the tracks a few stations ahead. Delays. Sorry for the inconvenience, a SkyTrain cop said. Thanks for your understanding, a recorded voice blared.

Fuck. You.

I stood on the train platform, shivering, for 20 minutes until the next train came. For those unaware, usually the wait is about 3-4 minutes, tops. I hopped on, and again it was busy. But at least not rowdy. Considering I'd been up since 6, at work since 7:30, and still soaking wet from the knees down, I couldn't do rowdy.

Now, the fun part.

Because of the threat of icy tracks, the train stopped at each station for 10+ minutes, while workers inspected the tracks for ice and any snow that had accumulated throughout the day. Considering I was in Burnaby and had to ride nearly to the end of the line in Surrey, this took some time.

With only 11 minutes to spare on my SkyTrain pass before it expired, my station was finally next. As the train approached the platform, it became clear that it was not going to stop. Ice on the tracks, I guess. The operators, without warning us via the loudspeaker, apparently decided the best course of action was to use the emergency stop procedure.

So the train literally screeched to a halt – imagine pulling the E-brake on your car while doing 90 km/h down the freeway – and, well, it got a little messy. People fell, bags got flung. It looked like an earthquake drill, there were so many people on the ground and in seats that did not belong to them.

I was standing at the time, and was tossed practically onto the lap of the guy in the seat next to me, my laptop bag being crushed all the while.

Then, as I suppose is customary with emergency procedures, the doors remained shut. Couldn't be opened for another five minutes – the longest five minutes in history, possibly - as the system reset itself.

Eventually, however, I hobbled out and down the stairs, and found my ice-covered car in the parking lot. By now it was well after midnight. Being so late on a Wednesday night, everything, of course, was closed – I usually grab a really late dinner at Subway on my way home – which meant I went without dinner, too.

By the time I eventually got home, at 12:45 a.m., I was too tired, too cold and too frustrated to make anything to eat. I had to be up in 6 hours for work, anyway, so I took a hot shower and crawled under the covers.

At work today, I relayed my adventure to some co-workers. And though the story ignited a fair amount of "I hate public transit" responses, some people were less understanding.

"You should've just went home. I told ya...." was a common response.

I tried to explain the game's importance. That it was an event I'd remember the rest of my sports-watching days. Twenty years from now, there will be a hundred thousand people who will purport to have been in the building the night Trevor Linden's number was lifted into the sky, desperate to feel included, desperate to say they witnessed something great.

But I was actually there. And 20 years from now, the last thing I want is to be that guy who tells people that he could've gone, but passed up the chance because he was afraid of a little snow.
I've never seen a Stanley Cup game in person, never been to the World Series or the Master's. Never seen a lot of things I wish I had.

But to add Trevor Linden Night to that ever-growing list, well, I couldn't live with that.

My co-workers still didn't understand.

Then one woman, from another department, wandered over to join in the conversation.

"You sports guys and you're 'I had to be there to see it,' nonsense," she said, shaking her head.

"I'll never understand..."

:: Public Service Announcement ::

In my 27 years on this planet, I have met quite a few people, and a significant number of these people I consider to be my friends. Now, for the most part, these friends are good people, smart people. I don't, after all, associate with too many complete fucking idiots.

Sure, some of my friends have their moments of stupidity - who doesn't? - but by and large, they are sensible people who are ruled by rational thought.

But sometimes they do things that just boggle my mind. I don't think they're stupid, I just can't quite grasp their reasons for doing things sometimes. And with that in mind, I just want to remind all of you of one thing for your own good:

Fort McMurray is really fucking far away. And really fucking North.

In recent months, some of you have forgotten that, so I just wanted to remind you all, so we don't have any more of these mistakes.

If this warning saves at least one person, it will have been worth it. And for those of you it is too late to save, well... see you in six months. Try not to get frostbite. (Or the herp, for that matter. Those oil sands guys are pretty sketchy).

Thank you for your time.

Damn you, groundhog! Damn you!

:: The Cruelest Season::

When you're a kid, snow is the greatest fucking thing on the planet. Better than jellybeans. Better than cuddly puppies. Better than cuddly puppies with jellybeans taped to their backs.

No weather pattern was better because it meant, at least in some places, there was the slight chance you'd get a day home from school. Every morning from late November until February at least one kid on every street in the country rushes to the window and peers out, hoping, praying, wishing that there's any hint of snow on the ground.

Hell, most of the time a heavy frost is enough to turn kids into the greatest salespeople this side of Ron Popeil.

"Let me tell you why I can't go to school today, mom. There's snow - SNOW! - and I could slip and fall on the sidewalk and crack my head open. Don't want to take that chance, right?"

" We won't learn anything anyways because nobody else will be in class. You don't want me to be the only kid there, do you?"

"I thought you'd agree with me - and because you did so in 15 minutes or less, not only will I stay home in my pyjamas all day playing video games, I'm also going to throw in a juicer and the Vego-matic slicer, all for just three easy payments of bacon, eggs, and juice. You can just bring it up to me in bed when it's ready. C'mon - it's a steal at twice the price!"

No two words outside of "Free candy" are as revered by children as "Snow Day." Sure, kids love the sun - it means water guns and shorts, and running through the sprinkler, and it means you might get to skip an hour of social studies in the afternoon in favour of going outside and playing kickball. But sunshine never sent no kids home from school, and a snowball made from the ice in the freezer just isn't the same as the real thing - even if it hurts just as much when you get pelted in the face with it.

But somewhere between elementary school and now, winter and snow got a lot less cool. Now I have to drive in it; people have to walk in it, work in it; freeze because of it.

And no amount of NFL snow games or hilarious side-of-the-road snowmen (I saw one with boobs this week...awesome) make up for it. But that said, I've always put up with it with little real complaint. Really, what am I supposed to do about it anyway? Fund global warming projects? Curse The Almighty? Punch Mark Madryga in the mouth? No, of course not.

So I'll sit down, shutup and take it when my car - moving as slow as ever - skids around a corner and smashes against the high sidewalk curb, sending me into a temporary tailspin.

And I'll not say a negative word when I slip on the steps outside a Whistler Boston Pizza, though the frosty concrete nearly sent me into a snowbank - and nearly caused me to pull every groin and groin-area muscle I have down there.

And I'll even bite my tongue when I'm forced to make a two-hour drive from one Northern Alberta outpost to a slightly-bigger, slightly-colder one, sans snow-tires, in the middle of a fucking blizzard. Then I'll zip it tight even when, once I get where I need to be, the cap on my engine's block heater cord is frozen so tight that it cannot be removed. Irony dually noted, winter.

However, after years of putting up with winter and all it's bullshit, I've had enough.

Earlier this week, both my parents were home mid-day. My mom is on night shift, and my dad happened to come home for lunch. After awhile in the kitchen, my dad was about to go back to work, and my mom - in need of a few hours preparation sleep before her first-ever 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. shift - was about ready to head upstairs for a nap.

Then, faintly in the background of the usual kitchen noise, my mom thought she heard something. A hurt animal, or something. Then silence. It must not be anything, my dad assured her. Then they both heard it again. Both then went to the window and gazed into the winter wonderland that had become the backyard. Off in the corner, by the old shed, my dad noticed a large, white puff, seemingly trapped between mounds of snow, barely moving, just standing still. Freezing.

Digby.

My dad didn't even remember letting him out in the backyard, but he must have. No big deal normally - Diggers rarely stays outside long in his old age (he prefers to pee on the hardwood floors instead). But one thing about this old dog - he really loves the snow. Loooves it. He'll race around in it - full speed ahead - for forever if we'd let him. But this time, he'd rolled around in it too much - or some had fallen on him from the shed or something - because his fur was caked in large icy, snowballs. So much snow that his poor little legs couldn't even move, so he'd just been standing out in the yard, whimpering and yelping, staring at the shed. Freezing to death.

My dad scooped him up quick-like, and brought him instead, where him and my mom spent the next half hour doing their best to warm him up with blankets and towels, all the while doing their best to brush all the snow off of him. I'm not veternarian (Hell, I can barely spell it), but from what my parents told me, he probably wouldn't have lasted much longer out there on his own.

It's just a damn good thing somebody heard him out there before going off to different parts of the house, where his quiet whimper would've fallen on deaf ears.

Yes, Digby is an old guy, and there's a good chance he won't be with us that much longer. I know that, much as I hate to admit it. But regardless of how much time somebody or something has left, freezing in the snow, cold and alone, is no way to go out.

And because of the coldest of seasons, Digby almost did.

So fuck you Winter, and the snow saucer you cruised in on.