A few days ago, Lanette posted on her blog something called "100 things about me" which, of course, encouraged Kelsey to post a similar thing on her blog, but instead called "102 things..." because Kelsey can't count very well.
So now, because I'm nothing if not a follower, I have a similar post, with one unique twist:
:100 things about me, plus 1 thing about someone else ::
1. I am 27 years old, but cannot grow a beard.
2. I am a very good liar, which I learned at Grade 7 camp, when I played a prank on someone and, with a straight face, convinced the prank victim that I had nothing to do with it, and instead implicated someone else. Instead of getting upset with me, the camp counsellor who witnessed our conversation complimented me on my skills of deception.
3. My favourite song of all-time is the Tragically Hip's Ahead by a Century.
4. My middle name is Kelly.
5. Kelsey's middle name is Dawn.
6. I enjoy a good game of extreme bocce.
7. I'm a charter member of the Grammar Police.
8. I spend most of my time at work e-mailing Wayne's World references to my co-worker, and text messaging Simpsons' quotes to Bucholtz, yet I am always praised for my incredible work ethic, and ability to get shit done.
9. I have a press pass for the Vancouver Canucks.
10. I'm hungover right now.
11. When it comes to success with the oppposite sex, I was in a slump for a very, very long time.
12. I'm doing better now.
13. In Grade 6, I won a fight against the toughest kid in school, Clay, because I hit him in the stomach with a hockey stick.
14. On one particular New Year's Eve, about 3 a.m., I got in such a loud argument with someone on the street in front on my parent's house that it woke my dad up, even though his bedroom is at the very back of the house.
15. I'm sometimes a very confrontational, obnoxious drunk.
16. I've lived in South Surrey, Langley, Kamloops and Peace River.
17. In Kamloops, I once helped throw an old Christmas tree off a 2nd floor balcony, over a fence and onto a muddy embankment.
18. The next morning, when I heard the landlord come to the door and tell one of the (non-involed) housemates that they had to go get the tree, I got up from sleeping on the couch, grabbed my stuff, and went home before anyone else woke up, so I didn't have to help. (Sorry Mike, Meghan, Melissa and Lorne...sort of)
19. I regret going right from high school to college, and then getting that done in four years and then getting a job. I wish I had taken a year to travel.
20. If I didn't live in B.C., I think I'd like to live in northern California.
21. I work in what most experts consider a dying industry.
22. Two of the playlists on my iTunes player are called, "Of course I'm drunk, asshole" and "Keep running, Fatty" (for the gym).
23. My brother is my best friend, and about 10 years ago I successfully stole all his best friends for myself because I decided they were a lot better people than the d-bags I'd been hanging out with in high school and my first year of university. I was right.
24. I successfully swindled my second dog, Digby, away from another friend, because I told everyone Diggers was better off with us. He was, for sure, but mostly I just didn't want to give the little guy back.
25. I've always been "the responsible one" "the funny one" or the "nice one" None of these "ones" help you get laid.
26. The first movie I ever saw in a theatre was Lady and the Tramp, in Vernon with my brother, mom and grandma at Christmastime. I remember it because, at the same time on Silver Star, my dad was skiing with my uncle and broke his leg.
27. I don't look it, but I have a pretty good ability to play almost any sport at a passable level, but I wish I was really good at at least one of them.
28. When I was 13, I cried when the Vancouver Canucks lost Game 7 of the 1994 Stanley Cup finals. If they ever win it, I'll probably cry then, too. I'm not ashamed of that, either.
29. I'm a pretty independent person. Growing up, I could always entertain myself. I've also never had a roommate, and if I ever had a girlfriend for more than 15 minutes, nobody can seem to remember.
30. I fall into the infamous "friend zone" with girls waaaaaay too easily, and it's impossible to escape from later. It's like fucking quicksand.
31. I have a parallel life with my friend and co-worker Kristyl. We went to the same high school (Walnut Grove), same college (Kwantlen), same university (TRU) and now we work together. Oddly enough, she also lives across the street, but we never even knew each other until last year when she started working with us.
32. I am not a morning person and value sleep more than almost everything. Today, for example, I woke up at my parent's house at 9 a.m., got a ride home, slept for another hour, got woken up by my drinking partners to go for breakfast, then came home and slept for another 3 hours. I woke up for good at 2:37 p.m.
33. I've only been to Las Vegas once, but I just absolutely love it. Not sure why, as I'm not a huge gambler, but I just love it. I'm going tomorrow.
34. I talk a good game, but am rarely motivated to do what I say I'm going to. In the past 12 months, I think I've said the following things: I'm going to buy a new place; I'm going to get a tattoo; I'm going to buy a Cadillac; I'm going to get laser eye surgery; I'm going to buy a dog. None of these things have happened.
35. I'm not ashamed to be lazy.
36. My favourite TV shows always get cancelled after just a season or two (Sports Night, Studio 60, The Job, Undeclared).
37. When I moved home from Alberta four-and-a-half years ago, I lost about 45-50 pounds, but haven't been able to lose anymore since, and it frustrates me more than anything else in my life.
38. My two favourite beers are Bud Light and Sleemans Original Draught.
39. One day I'll probably try and write a book or a screenplay, but everytime I start doing it, I give up about 5 pages in, at most. I don't know how the real writers do it.
40. If my parents weren't around, I'd probably be very lost, especially when it comes to how to cook stuff (mom) or how to fix things (dad).
41. I can bust out pop culture references like nobody's business.
42. One of my biggest pet peeves is e-mailing somebody and not getting a reply or acknowledgement back.
43. I'm still pretty shy, but not as painfully so as I used to be back in the day.
44. I'm very competitive, and hold the honour of being the first Cannons' slo-pitch player to be booted from a game.
45. I love Mexican food.
46. I'm a chronic list-maker. (I like to be organized.)
47. Last year was my finest year of work. I won a first-place Suburban Newspapers of America award (Canada & United States) for sports writing, and a third-place for column writing, the latter of which I'd been doing for less than a year.
48. Last year I won $1,600 in a hockey pool.
49. In my school and work life, the two biggest criticisms of me have been the following: I'm too much of a smart-ass for my own good (school), and I'm not intense enough (work).
50. Both times I was told those things, I literally laughed out loud to the superior who told them to me.
51. I showed up shitfaced to my year-end university banquet, even though the banquet started at noon on a Wednesday.
52. Mike and I once purchased matching ugly orange ties from Value Village for us and six of our friends. To my knowledge, I am the only one who still has his, although Mike might, too.
53. I just learned how to tie a tie a few months ago.
54. I was once part of a consortium of troublemakers who attempted to dismantle and steal a Sifton Ave. street sign in Kamloops. Our impending failure resulted in Mike almost getting arrested, me running for blocks and blocks, and Shaun losing a shoe.
55. A little while after the above escapade, Mike and I commemorated the event by making T-shirts that said "Sifton Avenue Mischief" on them.
56. I survived a northern Alberta winter without snow tires on my Honda Civic.
57. I make fun of myself a lot, especially in my column writing.
58. In the last two years, I've become very addicted to golfing, even though I'm not very good.
59. I eat sushi at least twice a week, but not the raw stuff. I could live very comfortably off beef teriyaki rolls and prawn tempura.
60. Like Kelsey, I panic when I don't have my BlackBerry on me.
61. Me, Doug and Chris once made so many prank calls, especially to one person, that the cops came to my mom and dad's house. The cops also came once when someone in the car I was driving threw a Burger King cup out the window. Old people behind us called 9-1-1 and told the cops it was a beer bottle, and that we intentionally tossed it off the overpass.
62. Most of the time, I think people should just mind their own fucking business.
63. I hate awkward, forced conversations, which is why I've successfully weaseled out of nearly every banquet or other schmoozefest that my company has ever tried to send me to.
64. Two of the (hundreds of) girls I've slept with in my life had boyfriends at the time, or so they said. 64B. I feel absolutely no guilt for this. Like none. Whatever I can get, I takes.
65. My grandpa is one of my biggest role models in my life, for many reasons. I respect him more than almost anybody.
66. 80% of the time I'm awake, I'm either chewing gum or drinking Diet Coke.
67. I started this blog five years ago because Mike had one and I wanted one, too, but since then about 10 of my friends have started blogs, most of which are now dormant or erased from the 'net, Mike's included. The lesson here? I'm a trendsetter and I have staying power.
68. I hate returning gifts.
69. Hahaha, 69. (I'm pretty immature at times)
70. I'm addicted to double-doubles from Tim Hortons.
71. I failed my driver's test twice, and back when it was run on the old demerit system, I passed my third test with the maximum allowable demerits. One more missed shoulder check, and I'd have failed.
72. I once went to work at my old auto parts-delivery job after having been drinking all night with my cousins, and subsequently fell asleep at a stop light later that day, while delivering to some place at the airport. It was only for a few seconds, probably, but only a honk from the car behind me woke me up.
73. After being accepted into school at Kamloops, I changed my mind at the last minute, and applied to the Human Kinetics/sports management program at UBC, which I somehow got into. Then, two weeks later, I changed my mind again and switched back to the 'loops, which is where I stayed.
74. The real reason I applied to UBC was because I didn't want to move away.
75. Three junior hockey coaches in two different leagues have been suspended and/or fined because of things they said to me after a game, and which I then published in the paper.
76. Things I've been called by angry readers during my tenure in the news business: an asshole, a stupid young fuck, the devil, an idiot, arrogant, inconsiderate, Rick.
77. I think I was born to be a GM of a baseball or hockey team. When I was a kid I used to invent entire fake teams with fake players, write down all the lineups and stats, and face the teams off against each other in an imaginary league. Players would retire, get traded, everything - somewhere still there is probably an entire notebook full of phony rosters, box scores and transaction reports.
78. I am the undisputed Scattergories champion of the world.
79. The first girl I ever kissed, way back in elementary school, died about three years ago as a result of some kind of eating disorder. I just happened to see her obituary in the paper one day, and remembered her name.
80. At heart, I'm a pretty frugal person, but you wouldn't know it by the amount of money I blow.
81. After I gained back a few of the pounds I lost upon my return from Alberta, I decided I would no longer weight myself. I've been trying to lose weight again lately, but have absolutely no idea how much I weigh anymore. I'm scared to look. I judge my fitness ups and downs by whether or not I can fit into my biege and brown Brody button-up, and an old white Hurley t-shirt that I love, but haven't been able to wear for a couple years.
82. Right now, the Brody shirt doesn't really fit, but the Hurley one does, so I'm still very confused.
83. I despise mushrooms, and when I was a kid I hated mayonaise so much that I refused to even touch the jar. Now I don't mind it.
84. I have 1,325 songs on my iPod - everything from the Barenaked Ladies to Nirvana, to Frank Sinatra and Jay-Z.
85. I dislike the mall very much. If not for Orange Julius and those big slices of pizza in the food court, I'd probably buy everything online.
86. My favourite position in baseball is the outfield. Nothing beats making a diving catch. Nothing.
87. The best baseball advice I ever got was, oddly enough, from a hockey coach. In Peace River, the junior B coach told me that the most important thing in baseball was to learn how crush home runs. Why? "Chicks dig the long ball."
88. I went to school with a guy who was, at one point last year, one of B.C.'s top 10 most wanted car thieves. Another guy I went to school with had to move halfway across the world to escape his going-nowhere life, and another was murdered about a year and half ago in a gang-related execution. Oh, and those infamous Bacon Brothers of Abbotsford? They used to live across the street.
89. I hate being cold.
90. My two favourite movies are Wayne's World and The Goonies.
91. Last summer, I fulfilled my life-long goal of being so drunk that, the next morning, I puked in a children's playground.
92. I have an official MLB baseball that Richie Sexson hit into the left-field bleachers at Safeco Field during pre-game batting practice.
93. For years, I kept the puck that was my first-ever minor hockey goal, which I scored when I was eight. I don't know where it is, but I bet I could still ID it - it had a large chunk missing from it. It was a garbage goal too, I was standing in the crease and fired a rebound into a wide open net.
94. I'm very superstitious when it comes to sports. When I was about 13, I once won about 10-12 games in a row, so I refused to re-tape my goalie stick until we lost. When we finally did, I rolled the old tape up a ball, and kept it in my hockey bag for years, as a good luck charm. I still have it.
95. At no level of baseball or slo-pitch have I ever hit a ball over the fence, and it remains my biggest sporting goal. If I could just do it once, I could retire happy.
96. I go to my parents' house for dinner pretty much every Sunday. (And also whenever I run out of food, but Sundays for sure)
97. I miss my two dogs all the time.
98. As a teenager and even in my early 20s, I always seemed to have money when nobody else did, and I have no idea why, because I only ever had crappy part-time jobs. I'd always end up lending people money, and only stopped when I realized I wasn't getting it all back in a timely fashion. For awhile, a buddy of mine nicknamed me "Transaction Man"
99. And on the subject of money, I'm pretty sure that, for one reason or another, Kelsey still owes me $20. I couldn't tell you from what, or if she actually does, but I just assume. We've had a fair number of prolonged transactions through the years.
100. The CP Style Guide basically runs my life.
101. My lucky number is 3.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
:: Get a life ::
I'm pretty sure that this guy right here has never seen a real boob. I mean, seriously - look at his "setup."
If you read through the story, you'll see that it costs this guy over $5,000 annually to play that stupid game.
Jeez, some people's kids....
I'm pretty sure that this guy right here has never seen a real boob. I mean, seriously - look at his "setup."
If you read through the story, you'll see that it costs this guy over $5,000 annually to play that stupid game.
Jeez, some people's kids....
Sunday, September 28, 2008
:: Financial responsibility ::
Pretty much my whole life, I've been very responsible with my money. Even when I worked only a day or two a week while in high school and college, I still managed to save enough cash to do all the stuff I wanted to do - which was mostly drink and buy video games. As a result of my ability to save, very rarely in my life have I not been able to do something I wanted to do because of money, or lack thereof (within reason, of course. It's not like I could ever afford to jet off to Australia for 6 months, just 'cuz).
And the last few years, responsibility has reared it's ugly head again - the first thing I did with my money was pay off student loans, my car and bought a townhouse. Cristal, hookers and blow it ain't, but that's just me.
Such financial thriftyness would seem to come in handy right about now, because I have an expensive fall coming up - which is usually "save time" after an always-expensive summer. But I'm going to kamloops in 3 weeks to hang out, followed immediately by Vegas a week later. And closer to home, I am in need of purchasing a new mattress/box spring, as well as a new washer/dryer, as mine could explode at a moment's notice.
However, my money concerns were slightly abated last week when I discovered, tucked into my passport, $300 in traveller's cheques from trip to Vegas last April, which I thought I'd redeposited at the bank upon my return, but apparently not. Score.
So, what did I do? Reinvest that cash into my upcoming Vegas trip? Perhaps look into buying some new appliances before my current ones explode in a hail of metal, fire and Bounce sheets? Or hell, maybe live dangerously and just put it back into my savings account?
All good options, for sure. All smart ideas.
So I bought some new golf clubs instead.
Pretty much my whole life, I've been very responsible with my money. Even when I worked only a day or two a week while in high school and college, I still managed to save enough cash to do all the stuff I wanted to do - which was mostly drink and buy video games. As a result of my ability to save, very rarely in my life have I not been able to do something I wanted to do because of money, or lack thereof (within reason, of course. It's not like I could ever afford to jet off to Australia for 6 months, just 'cuz).
And the last few years, responsibility has reared it's ugly head again - the first thing I did with my money was pay off student loans, my car and bought a townhouse. Cristal, hookers and blow it ain't, but that's just me.
Such financial thriftyness would seem to come in handy right about now, because I have an expensive fall coming up - which is usually "save time" after an always-expensive summer. But I'm going to kamloops in 3 weeks to hang out, followed immediately by Vegas a week later. And closer to home, I am in need of purchasing a new mattress/box spring, as well as a new washer/dryer, as mine could explode at a moment's notice.
However, my money concerns were slightly abated last week when I discovered, tucked into my passport, $300 in traveller's cheques from trip to Vegas last April, which I thought I'd redeposited at the bank upon my return, but apparently not. Score.
So, what did I do? Reinvest that cash into my upcoming Vegas trip? Perhaps look into buying some new appliances before my current ones explode in a hail of metal, fire and Bounce sheets? Or hell, maybe live dangerously and just put it back into my savings account?
All good options, for sure. All smart ideas.
So I bought some new golf clubs instead.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
"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...
"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...
Friday, August 15, 2008
:: How much I love technology, Part II ::
As Jeremy's all-day stag party is tomorrow, beginning at 9 a.m., I - like many fellow invitees - am taking it easy tonight in order to preserve precious energy. With nothing to do, I figured it would be a good night to chill out and watch some episodes of Entourage. I've seen my DVDs plenty already, so I figured I'd download some I haven't seen.
So I loaded up Limewire, typed in Entourage Season 4, and clicked OK. The number one option, right at the top of the list?
"Chick teaches another girl how to fist herself."
Oh well, at least I've got something to watch besides re-runs.
As Jeremy's all-day stag party is tomorrow, beginning at 9 a.m., I - like many fellow invitees - am taking it easy tonight in order to preserve precious energy. With nothing to do, I figured it would be a good night to chill out and watch some episodes of Entourage. I've seen my DVDs plenty already, so I figured I'd download some I haven't seen.
So I loaded up Limewire, typed in Entourage Season 4, and clicked OK. The number one option, right at the top of the list?
"Chick teaches another girl how to fist herself."
Oh well, at least I've got something to watch besides re-runs.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
:: 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.
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.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
:: How much I love technology ::
In my department at work, we have nine computers. Each of these computers is also equipped with an e-mail address, and in some cases, two e-mail addresses. One of these addresses gets many, many e-mails a day, submitted through our company website.
Due to the high volume of mail to this address, we don't have anyone who monitors this account on a constant basis, nor do they send replies back. It basically exists so people can send us information, so they don't necessarily expect a reply, and it would take an extra full-time staff member to do it, anyhow.
However, recently we had two people call to make sure we received their message, as they hadn't heard anything back from us, and we expecting at least a confirmation. These calls are annoying, so we finally came up with a solution: set up an autoreply. (It's amazing it took us 8 months to come up with it).
This autoreply - which many business people use when they go away on vacation and won't, therefore, be answering mail - basically just says "Thank you for your submission. Blah blah blah..."
Good idea, no?
Well this week...not so much.
Turns out that, in a rare instance, someone did actually use this e-mail account to send an outgoing message. No trouble usually, except the would-be recipient of said e-mail was, well, away on vacation, and had set up an autoreply of his own.
So for approximately 19 hours straight, these two e-mail addresses played tag back and forth.
"Thank you for your submission."
"Sorry, I'm away on vacation."
"Thank you for your submission."
"Sorry, I'm away on vacation."
"Thank you for your submission."
"Sorry, I'm away on vacation."
"Thank you for your submission."
And so on and so forth. Overnight.
Needless to say, our tech guys - who just happened to be in the office upgrading most of our computers - were impressed.
And, while we're discussing technology, I'd like to talk about my BlackBerry, if I may. I don't know the name of the default text messaging/typing system on BlackBerrys, but it's the one where you type a few letters and the phone tries to guess what word you are trying to type, and lists a few suggestions. You pick one, and continue. In the beginning, it was incredibly frustrating because you'd constantly try to spell words your phone didn't know, and it was often quite a task to get it to say what you want. You get used to it though, and the phone gets used to you through it's "Custom dictionary."
Basically, every new word you introduce - be it a person's name, website, slang, typo - gets added to the custom dictionary, so the next time you try to spell it, it's available in the list. The trouble is, all kinds of typos, abbreviations and other gibberish get saved in there too, so now and then it's good to go into your dictionary settings, browse your list of custom words, and delete the ones that make no sense. After a few months, there's tons.
I did that tonight, and after clearing out most of the garbage, I was impressed by some of the things I have taught my BlackBerry to spell. Among my phone's new words are:
bobblehead
bullshit
confuddled
c*nt
douchebag
douchebaggery
fabulicious
fuck
fucked
fucker
fuckers
fuckin
fucking
fuckstick
fuckingfucks
gongshow
hungover
jager-bomb
jerkass
moochy
pastrami
ratbag
ridalin
samesies
shitfaced
sloot
Steppenwolf
Trebek
The fun part is trying to remember how and why I would've used most of those words in a sentence or conversation. The best part is that I taught a piece of high-tech machinery eight different ways to recognize the word 'fuck.'
'Tis a proud day. I imagine it's not unlike the feeling a beaming father gets upon hearing his young son speak his first words. (Assuming, of course, the son's first word isn't douchebag or fuckstick.)
In my department at work, we have nine computers. Each of these computers is also equipped with an e-mail address, and in some cases, two e-mail addresses. One of these addresses gets many, many e-mails a day, submitted through our company website.
Due to the high volume of mail to this address, we don't have anyone who monitors this account on a constant basis, nor do they send replies back. It basically exists so people can send us information, so they don't necessarily expect a reply, and it would take an extra full-time staff member to do it, anyhow.
However, recently we had two people call to make sure we received their message, as they hadn't heard anything back from us, and we expecting at least a confirmation. These calls are annoying, so we finally came up with a solution: set up an autoreply. (It's amazing it took us 8 months to come up with it).
This autoreply - which many business people use when they go away on vacation and won't, therefore, be answering mail - basically just says "Thank you for your submission. Blah blah blah..."
Good idea, no?
Well this week...not so much.
Turns out that, in a rare instance, someone did actually use this e-mail account to send an outgoing message. No trouble usually, except the would-be recipient of said e-mail was, well, away on vacation, and had set up an autoreply of his own.
So for approximately 19 hours straight, these two e-mail addresses played tag back and forth.
"Thank you for your submission."
"Sorry, I'm away on vacation."
"Thank you for your submission."
"Sorry, I'm away on vacation."
"Thank you for your submission."
"Sorry, I'm away on vacation."
"Thank you for your submission."
And so on and so forth. Overnight.
Needless to say, our tech guys - who just happened to be in the office upgrading most of our computers - were impressed.
And, while we're discussing technology, I'd like to talk about my BlackBerry, if I may. I don't know the name of the default text messaging/typing system on BlackBerrys, but it's the one where you type a few letters and the phone tries to guess what word you are trying to type, and lists a few suggestions. You pick one, and continue. In the beginning, it was incredibly frustrating because you'd constantly try to spell words your phone didn't know, and it was often quite a task to get it to say what you want. You get used to it though, and the phone gets used to you through it's "Custom dictionary."
Basically, every new word you introduce - be it a person's name, website, slang, typo - gets added to the custom dictionary, so the next time you try to spell it, it's available in the list. The trouble is, all kinds of typos, abbreviations and other gibberish get saved in there too, so now and then it's good to go into your dictionary settings, browse your list of custom words, and delete the ones that make no sense. After a few months, there's tons.
I did that tonight, and after clearing out most of the garbage, I was impressed by some of the things I have taught my BlackBerry to spell. Among my phone's new words are:
bobblehead
bullshit
confuddled
c*nt
douchebag
douchebaggery
fabulicious
fuck
fucked
fucker
fuckers
fuckin
fucking
fuckstick
fuckingfucks
gongshow
hungover
jager-bomb
jerkass
moochy
pastrami
ratbag
ridalin
samesies
shitfaced
sloot
Steppenwolf
Trebek
The fun part is trying to remember how and why I would've used most of those words in a sentence or conversation. The best part is that I taught a piece of high-tech machinery eight different ways to recognize the word 'fuck.'
'Tis a proud day. I imagine it's not unlike the feeling a beaming father gets upon hearing his young son speak his first words. (Assuming, of course, the son's first word isn't douchebag or fuckstick.)
Monday, July 28, 2008
:: How to survive a social function with co-workers ::
So say someone you work with - one of your friends - has organized some kind of weekend pub crawl, and invited other co-workers, yourself included. And say you've decided to go - it'll be fun, you figure, as long as you don't embarrass yourself.
Because it's one thing to make an ass of yourself in front of your regular friends - they've seen you at your worst, and have forgiven you already - but it's another matter entirely when you are with work people. For starters, as close as you may be as friends, most of them still haven't seen you in certain situations. And secondly, if you act like a dick to your friends, at least you only see them 2-3 times a week, tops. Co-workers are there five days in a row. 40 hours a fucking week.
So I hereby present to you, a post work-function survival guide. Think of it as a morning-after pill of sorts. Sure you went out with well-intentioned plans to just have a few and behave yourself, but instead you did four jager bombs, made some decisions and got fucked. Keep in mind these are hypothetical situations, mostly, and while I have gotten myself into a few of these situations, I have never commented on a co-workers cleavage (see example below) because that would just be.... weird.
For starters, upon waking up the following morning, immediately locate your cell phone. Check text messages and call logs. Don't check necessarily for how many times you called your best friend, or your ex, between the hours of 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. - as we've already mentioned, those people understand you, and expect such behaviour.
What you want to check for are phone calls and text messages to the following people: your boss, your fellow co-workers at the bar, and your co-workers' significant others (forgetting for the moment, that you probably shouldn't have your office-mate Bill's wife in your Fave Five anyhow). If you have no messages from that evening's festivities, you are in the clear. However, there is an above-average chance you have messages that resemble the following:
"Heeeeey douchebag, I'm so glad I work with yous guys. You're GREAT!"
And they probably get more creepy and weird from there:
"Hey, remember that shirt you wore on Wednesday? The one that showed your cleavage? You should wear that one more often"
"When was the last time you actually got laid? You should go hit on my friend Teresa. Yeah, she's engaged, so what? Do it!"
If you have text messages - or, God forbid, voice mail - that resembles this in any way, delete immediately. Best to pretend it never happened, and hope to God that the other person is doing the very same thing.
Next, log onto Facebook. If it's 11:00 a.m. or later - and let's face it, it is - there is a high probability that photos from the evening in question are already posted. If they are, you have only one course of action: untag, untag, untag!
I cannot stress this enough. Chances are, if you act quick enough, the non-tagged photos will show up in very few people's newsfeeds, and though they'll still be online, fewer people will know they exist. (Sidenote: While you are sifting through incriminating pictures, be sure to click "save" on the one of you doing body shots off your secretary's rack...you know, for your personal collection. That one's a keeper).
Secondly, in an effort to stem the flow of news, perhaps change your facebook status to something false, yet less incriminating. Suggestions include "Joe enjoyed his night at the movies" or perhaps "Steve had a good time at his parents house last night for dinner"
Granted, these statuses work best if your name is Joe or Steve, but you get the idea. Also, while we're on the subject, resist the urge to go over the top with your new status. Bill is back from doing charity work at the orphanage, or Hector spent his Friday night bathing homeless people sounds impressive (and in the case of the latter, gross), but nobody's gonna buy it. Reasonable expectations, people - that's the key.
After you've done your best online work, the next step is to pick up your phone again, and send a text message (assuming you're not still drunk) to one of your co-workers who was at the party. Make it something lame, and generic, like "Great party last night, eh?" or perhaps, "How's your hangover?"
Hopefully, this effort will net you a reply from your colleague along the lines of, "Yep, great night. Wanna get some pancakes?" If this is the case, you are likely in the clear, as your friend is not horrified enough of your actions to avoid being seen in public with you. (Either that, or they really like pancakes).
Worst case scenario is the following responses:
"Fuck you, asshat."
"Oooh, man. You're alive?!"
"Where'd you end up last night? Last I saw, you left the club with that Mexican tranny."
These are all bad. But silence can also be just as damning - or not. On one hand, perhaps this person is so angry and/or repulsed by your actions that he or she wants nothing to do with you (til Monday, when they have no other choice). Or perhaps - and this works in your favour - they are more embarrassed of their own actions, and would prefer to hide out alone in their dark basements until they have to go back to work.
Either way, just make the call and hope for some delicious flapjacks.
And now, I present to you your last option. Your Saving Grace:
Just move away.
Yeah, I know you've got a brand new condo in a nice neighbourhood, and you just took out a lease on that new Kia Hybrid, but fuck it. Sell everything. Get out of town. No goodbyes. No two-weeks notice. Just fucking go.
Fast.
Because no matter how well you follow my many suggestions above, sometimes there's very little that you can do to save yourself after you've had your tongue down the throat of that married woman in accounts receivable, got in a fist fight with Paul from the mail room, and puked in your boss's wife's purse.
Don't worry though. I hear Budapest is nice this time of year.
So say someone you work with - one of your friends - has organized some kind of weekend pub crawl, and invited other co-workers, yourself included. And say you've decided to go - it'll be fun, you figure, as long as you don't embarrass yourself.
Because it's one thing to make an ass of yourself in front of your regular friends - they've seen you at your worst, and have forgiven you already - but it's another matter entirely when you are with work people. For starters, as close as you may be as friends, most of them still haven't seen you in certain situations. And secondly, if you act like a dick to your friends, at least you only see them 2-3 times a week, tops. Co-workers are there five days in a row. 40 hours a fucking week.
So I hereby present to you, a post work-function survival guide. Think of it as a morning-after pill of sorts. Sure you went out with well-intentioned plans to just have a few and behave yourself, but instead you did four jager bombs, made some decisions and got fucked. Keep in mind these are hypothetical situations, mostly, and while I have gotten myself into a few of these situations, I have never commented on a co-workers cleavage (see example below) because that would just be.... weird.
For starters, upon waking up the following morning, immediately locate your cell phone. Check text messages and call logs. Don't check necessarily for how many times you called your best friend, or your ex, between the hours of 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. - as we've already mentioned, those people understand you, and expect such behaviour.
What you want to check for are phone calls and text messages to the following people: your boss, your fellow co-workers at the bar, and your co-workers' significant others (forgetting for the moment, that you probably shouldn't have your office-mate Bill's wife in your Fave Five anyhow). If you have no messages from that evening's festivities, you are in the clear. However, there is an above-average chance you have messages that resemble the following:
"Heeeeey douchebag, I'm so glad I work with yous guys. You're GREAT!"
And they probably get more creepy and weird from there:
"Hey, remember that shirt you wore on Wednesday? The one that showed your cleavage? You should wear that one more often"
"When was the last time you actually got laid? You should go hit on my friend Teresa. Yeah, she's engaged, so what? Do it!"
If you have text messages - or, God forbid, voice mail - that resembles this in any way, delete immediately. Best to pretend it never happened, and hope to God that the other person is doing the very same thing.
Next, log onto Facebook. If it's 11:00 a.m. or later - and let's face it, it is - there is a high probability that photos from the evening in question are already posted. If they are, you have only one course of action: untag, untag, untag!
I cannot stress this enough. Chances are, if you act quick enough, the non-tagged photos will show up in very few people's newsfeeds, and though they'll still be online, fewer people will know they exist. (Sidenote: While you are sifting through incriminating pictures, be sure to click "save" on the one of you doing body shots off your secretary's rack...you know, for your personal collection. That one's a keeper).
Secondly, in an effort to stem the flow of news, perhaps change your facebook status to something false, yet less incriminating. Suggestions include "Joe enjoyed his night at the movies" or perhaps "Steve had a good time at his parents house last night for dinner"
Granted, these statuses work best if your name is Joe or Steve, but you get the idea. Also, while we're on the subject, resist the urge to go over the top with your new status. Bill is back from doing charity work at the orphanage, or Hector spent his Friday night bathing homeless people sounds impressive (and in the case of the latter, gross), but nobody's gonna buy it. Reasonable expectations, people - that's the key.
After you've done your best online work, the next step is to pick up your phone again, and send a text message (assuming you're not still drunk) to one of your co-workers who was at the party. Make it something lame, and generic, like "Great party last night, eh?" or perhaps, "How's your hangover?"
Hopefully, this effort will net you a reply from your colleague along the lines of, "Yep, great night. Wanna get some pancakes?" If this is the case, you are likely in the clear, as your friend is not horrified enough of your actions to avoid being seen in public with you. (Either that, or they really like pancakes).
Worst case scenario is the following responses:
"Fuck you, asshat."
"Oooh, man. You're alive?!"
"Where'd you end up last night? Last I saw, you left the club with that Mexican tranny."
These are all bad. But silence can also be just as damning - or not. On one hand, perhaps this person is so angry and/or repulsed by your actions that he or she wants nothing to do with you (til Monday, when they have no other choice). Or perhaps - and this works in your favour - they are more embarrassed of their own actions, and would prefer to hide out alone in their dark basements until they have to go back to work.
Either way, just make the call and hope for some delicious flapjacks.
And now, I present to you your last option. Your Saving Grace:
Just move away.
Yeah, I know you've got a brand new condo in a nice neighbourhood, and you just took out a lease on that new Kia Hybrid, but fuck it. Sell everything. Get out of town. No goodbyes. No two-weeks notice. Just fucking go.
Fast.
Because no matter how well you follow my many suggestions above, sometimes there's very little that you can do to save yourself after you've had your tongue down the throat of that married woman in accounts receivable, got in a fist fight with Paul from the mail room, and puked in your boss's wife's purse.
Don't worry though. I hear Budapest is nice this time of year.
Friday, July 18, 2008
:: Park the attitude, bitch ::
My current office backs onto a large, fenced-in gravel parking lot - a lot we share with employees of a large strip mall and a few other businesses. The lot, along with the mall, is called The Courtyard* and is owned by a company of the same name.
Up until about two years ago, the lot was plenty big enough for all of us, with room to spare. However, with recent construction of two high-rise towers right next door, The Courtyard leased two-thirds of the lot to the high-rise development company, so it's employees would have a place to smoke weed during their lunch break.
Since then, our portion of the lot has been a mess, with cars jammed in at any angle in which they can fit. Along a concrete retaining wall there is room for about 12 cars, and there are two large garbage bins at the end. Apparently, the garbage men - who only come on Wednesdays - have had trouble maneuvering their rigs around our many cars in order to pick up the large bins. As such, someone spray-painted "No Parking" on the retaining wall, on either side of the bins, which effectively loses us 3 parking spaces.
No big deal. Garbage has to be emptied, after all.
However, this week, the arrows on the "No Parking" sign have progressively been extended for no apparent reason, thus losing us about 8-10 of the original 12 parking spots. So today I parked my car just beyond where the spray-painted arrow stopped, thinking that the No-park zone had ended exactly at that point. Makes sense, no? Besides, how much fucking room does a garbage truck need, anyhow?
Apparently, however, I was still in the wrong, and to properly convey my befuddlement/annoyance, I will direct you to this recent post by Mike at In It But Not of It.
I was made aware of my apparent mal-parkage when I left the office today at 4:30. As I walked towards my car, I noticed a woman sticking a slip of paper under my wiper blades. No big deal, I thought, as I approached my car. We get them all the time from The Courtyard security people - mostly in the case that our vehicle doesn't have a parking sticker in the window, or maybe we have a new car and the licence plates don't match up with their records.
Sometimes, they'll even give us friendly little notes about car security, reminding us that we left something valuable on the passenger seat, or left our sunroof open. Stuff like that.
So when I grabbed the paper - with the woman leaving but still no more than 25 feet away - I was somewhat shocked to read, scribbled hastily in ALL CAPS across the paper:
CAN'T YOU READ?! NO PARKING!
I looked up, and though I was still just beyond that professionally-spray painted No Parking arrow, this woman had tacked another NO PARKING sign on the wall, directly in front of my car. (Apparently the garbage trucks need 12 car-widths to pull in and out of a parking lot. 12!)
"Excuse me - did you just put this on my car?" I questioned loud enough so that the woman turned back in my direction.
I walked towards her - my work notebook and pen still in hand - and she began a holier-than-thou diatribe about how I can't park there and obviously have no regard for rules, and if I want the privilege of parking there I better start following directions. Now keep in mind that I have no clue who this woman is - she could've owned the property or simply been the cashier at the fucking drug store in The Courtyard.
As she ranted, I took my pen and scribbled across the top of her note which questioned my literacy.
When she was finally done, I spoke.
"Can you read?" I asked, walking up close to her.
"Of course I can!" she said, in a huff.
"Then what's this say?" I asked, opening the paper to show her my own block letters.
"It says 'Lose the attitude.'"
"Exactly."
And then I crumpled the paper, tossed it in the gravel between our feet, got in my car and drove home.
*Not the real name
My current office backs onto a large, fenced-in gravel parking lot - a lot we share with employees of a large strip mall and a few other businesses. The lot, along with the mall, is called The Courtyard* and is owned by a company of the same name.
Up until about two years ago, the lot was plenty big enough for all of us, with room to spare. However, with recent construction of two high-rise towers right next door, The Courtyard leased two-thirds of the lot to the high-rise development company, so it's employees would have a place to smoke weed during their lunch break.
Since then, our portion of the lot has been a mess, with cars jammed in at any angle in which they can fit. Along a concrete retaining wall there is room for about 12 cars, and there are two large garbage bins at the end. Apparently, the garbage men - who only come on Wednesdays - have had trouble maneuvering their rigs around our many cars in order to pick up the large bins. As such, someone spray-painted "No Parking" on the retaining wall, on either side of the bins, which effectively loses us 3 parking spaces.
No big deal. Garbage has to be emptied, after all.
However, this week, the arrows on the "No Parking" sign have progressively been extended for no apparent reason, thus losing us about 8-10 of the original 12 parking spots. So today I parked my car just beyond where the spray-painted arrow stopped, thinking that the No-park zone had ended exactly at that point. Makes sense, no? Besides, how much fucking room does a garbage truck need, anyhow?
Apparently, however, I was still in the wrong, and to properly convey my befuddlement/annoyance, I will direct you to this recent post by Mike at In It But Not of It.
I was made aware of my apparent mal-parkage when I left the office today at 4:30. As I walked towards my car, I noticed a woman sticking a slip of paper under my wiper blades. No big deal, I thought, as I approached my car. We get them all the time from The Courtyard security people - mostly in the case that our vehicle doesn't have a parking sticker in the window, or maybe we have a new car and the licence plates don't match up with their records.
Sometimes, they'll even give us friendly little notes about car security, reminding us that we left something valuable on the passenger seat, or left our sunroof open. Stuff like that.
So when I grabbed the paper - with the woman leaving but still no more than 25 feet away - I was somewhat shocked to read, scribbled hastily in ALL CAPS across the paper:
CAN'T YOU READ?! NO PARKING!
I looked up, and though I was still just beyond that professionally-spray painted No Parking arrow, this woman had tacked another NO PARKING sign on the wall, directly in front of my car. (Apparently the garbage trucks need 12 car-widths to pull in and out of a parking lot. 12!)
"Excuse me - did you just put this on my car?" I questioned loud enough so that the woman turned back in my direction.
I walked towards her - my work notebook and pen still in hand - and she began a holier-than-thou diatribe about how I can't park there and obviously have no regard for rules, and if I want the privilege of parking there I better start following directions. Now keep in mind that I have no clue who this woman is - she could've owned the property or simply been the cashier at the fucking drug store in The Courtyard.
As she ranted, I took my pen and scribbled across the top of her note which questioned my literacy.
When she was finally done, I spoke.
"Can you read?" I asked, walking up close to her.
"Of course I can!" she said, in a huff.
"Then what's this say?" I asked, opening the paper to show her my own block letters.
"It says 'Lose the attitude.'"
"Exactly."
And then I crumpled the paper, tossed it in the gravel between our feet, got in my car and drove home.
*Not the real name
Thursday, July 03, 2008
:: Some advice ::
When arriving home from any sort of outing - be it a vacation or camping trip, or a business excursion, I will provide for you this important tip: Upon returning home, be sure to "clean up" everything as quickly as possible.
Be sure to put any excess food either in the fridge or the garbage, and make sure all your laundry is done too, so as not to discover a rogue sock four months down the road.
Those two things - food and laundry - are the obvious ones, of course, but there are others, too, which you should know about.
For example, the next time you go away for a few days - camping with rowdy friends, perhaps - be absolutely sure that you've cleared out your wallet of all extraneous material upon your triumphant return.
That way, when you head back to work the next week and go out for lunch with colleagues, you won't open your wallet to reach for your credit card only to find instead two beer can tabs, a condom from a tournament gift bag, and what appears to be some kind of dead insect.
I'm just saying...
When arriving home from any sort of outing - be it a vacation or camping trip, or a business excursion, I will provide for you this important tip: Upon returning home, be sure to "clean up" everything as quickly as possible.
Be sure to put any excess food either in the fridge or the garbage, and make sure all your laundry is done too, so as not to discover a rogue sock four months down the road.
Those two things - food and laundry - are the obvious ones, of course, but there are others, too, which you should know about.
For example, the next time you go away for a few days - camping with rowdy friends, perhaps - be absolutely sure that you've cleared out your wallet of all extraneous material upon your triumphant return.
That way, when you head back to work the next week and go out for lunch with colleagues, you won't open your wallet to reach for your credit card only to find instead two beer can tabs, a condom from a tournament gift bag, and what appears to be some kind of dead insect.
I'm just saying...
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
:: The inevitable end of Captain Canuck ::
You knew it was coming.
You knew it was coming the first time he sat in the press box for more than two games in a row. You knew it was a foregone conclusion each time a reporter asked him how he felt about his limited role, and he refused to complain, instead saying something classier - some variation of "That's just hockey," or "He's the coach, he makes the decisions," or "I'm just here to help out anyway I can."
You knew it every time a newspaper reporter wrote a mid-season obituary opining on what he'll do after he leaves the ice for the last time. Or every time a television or radio broadcaster said that whatever it was he'd just done was "maybe the last time he'll score a goal/get an assist/get a penalty/get a standing ovation/yell at a referee" in his long, storied career.
And you knew it for sure when his parents showed up to see his last game. Or when the entire Calgary Flames team returned to the ice after the final whistle to shake his hand, which is still one of the most touching, classiest things I've ever witnessed in all my years watching sports.
And then, after it all, there was his victory lap around the rink - the one accompanied by a standing ovation that seemed to last longer than the game itself, the cheers echoing down every hallway of the rink he helped fill.
You just knew.
But sometimes it's hard to let go, so deep down - far past the little, common-sense voice in your head that says, "It's over," you tried to convince youself that maybe it wasn't over after all. Maybe, just maybe, he'd come back.
Alas, it isn't to be.
Tomorrow, Wednesday, June 11, at 11 a.m., 18 years and 1,382 games after he arrived, Trevor Linden is retiring.
Not unexpected, of course, and deep down, you know it's the right time to say goodbye.
Doesn't make it any easier though, now that's it's for real.
You knew it was coming.
You knew it was coming the first time he sat in the press box for more than two games in a row. You knew it was a foregone conclusion each time a reporter asked him how he felt about his limited role, and he refused to complain, instead saying something classier - some variation of "That's just hockey," or "He's the coach, he makes the decisions," or "I'm just here to help out anyway I can."
You knew it every time a newspaper reporter wrote a mid-season obituary opining on what he'll do after he leaves the ice for the last time. Or every time a television or radio broadcaster said that whatever it was he'd just done was "maybe the last time he'll score a goal/get an assist/get a penalty/get a standing ovation/yell at a referee" in his long, storied career.
And you knew it for sure when his parents showed up to see his last game. Or when the entire Calgary Flames team returned to the ice after the final whistle to shake his hand, which is still one of the most touching, classiest things I've ever witnessed in all my years watching sports.
And then, after it all, there was his victory lap around the rink - the one accompanied by a standing ovation that seemed to last longer than the game itself, the cheers echoing down every hallway of the rink he helped fill.
You just knew.
But sometimes it's hard to let go, so deep down - far past the little, common-sense voice in your head that says, "It's over," you tried to convince youself that maybe it wasn't over after all. Maybe, just maybe, he'd come back.
Alas, it isn't to be.
Tomorrow, Wednesday, June 11, at 11 a.m., 18 years and 1,382 games after he arrived, Trevor Linden is retiring.
Not unexpected, of course, and deep down, you know it's the right time to say goodbye.
Doesn't make it any easier though, now that's it's for real.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Thursday, May 08, 2008
I've been fairly sleep deprived for the past week or so. And, for the most part, it's mostly my own fault: One night I stayed up too late downloading music, only to remember at nearly midnight that the following morning I had to be at work an hour and a half earlier than usual. And on more than a few nights I just haven't been able to get my body and mind to decompress until after 11.
And then of course there was one night where I shut off my computer, flicked off the lights, and got ready to call it an early night...only to discover that Karate Kid was on channel 53, which obviously required me to stay up until 12:30 a.m. to watch it.
But it's not all my fault.
A few mornings ago, while I was comfortably asleep in my nice warm bed, enjoying my last hour and a half of much-needed sleep, I heard a loud crash, and a thrashing around coming from somewhere in the vincinity of my living room.
I bolted up in bed, thinking that maybe somebody was in my house. I went to investigate (pantsless, I might add) and soon realized the loud racket was coming from my second floor balcony. Could somebody have actually, somehow made it onto my patio?
And if so, what the fuck were they doing there? Stealing deck chairs and pop tins full of cigarette butts?
So, still blurry-eyed considering the early hour, I whipped open the blinds to see....this:
And then of course there was one night where I shut off my computer, flicked off the lights, and got ready to call it an early night...only to discover that Karate Kid was on channel 53, which obviously required me to stay up until 12:30 a.m. to watch it.
But it's not all my fault.
A few mornings ago, while I was comfortably asleep in my nice warm bed, enjoying my last hour and a half of much-needed sleep, I heard a loud crash, and a thrashing around coming from somewhere in the vincinity of my living room.
I bolted up in bed, thinking that maybe somebody was in my house. I went to investigate (pantsless, I might add) and soon realized the loud racket was coming from my second floor balcony. Could somebody have actually, somehow made it onto my patio?
And if so, what the fuck were they doing there? Stealing deck chairs and pop tins full of cigarette butts?
So, still blurry-eyed considering the early hour, I whipped open the blinds to see....this:
Fucking geese.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
:: 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.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
:: Vegas, baby ::
Booked my trip for Vegas today, so in 18 days I'll be in the desert, losing all my money, staying up real, real late, and drinking for free.
And, most importantly, it's a few days away from work. Score.
Sidenote: The weekend before I leave is my birthday, so we're goin' drinking. It'll be low-key; there will be no party buses necessary, but we're goin' drinking. Just so you know.
And, now, here's these, which I've been saving a few weeks:
"She's a judger. I call her Philip Banks." - Buchs, talking about A-Scrams
"You're a pretty girl, why do you screw it up by making that ugly face?" - Buchs again, likely about Amanda...again.
Amanda: Everything is sharing...sharing, sharing, sharing!
Sean: If Rachel ever said that to me I'd share a slap with her.
and after we bugged Buch about this excessive "sharing" with Amanda...
Amanda: You think that's bad? Tell him about our joint account.
Buchs: It's a change jar.
Me (when Scott didn't show up to eat sushi with us): Scott's noodles are gonna be cold.
Kels: Scott's noodle is gonna be cold for a long time if he doesn't smarten up.
"I can't believe we used to call you 'Hot Sean' - you're such a weiner." - Amanda
"It's minority central. Why don't they jut bring in a Chinaman, too?" - Buchs, with his take on the Democratic leadership race.
After it was discovered that Sean was at Ian's house sans Rachel, who was on the Island...
"It's weird, that's all. It's just like if Chris is somewhere, Jenna's probably there too. Or if there's Scott, you know Kelsey will be there, or if there's Nick, you know nobody will be there." - Buchs
Ouch.
Booked my trip for Vegas today, so in 18 days I'll be in the desert, losing all my money, staying up real, real late, and drinking for free.
And, most importantly, it's a few days away from work. Score.
Sidenote: The weekend before I leave is my birthday, so we're goin' drinking. It'll be low-key; there will be no party buses necessary, but we're goin' drinking. Just so you know.
And, now, here's these, which I've been saving a few weeks:
"She's a judger. I call her Philip Banks." - Buchs, talking about A-Scrams
"You're a pretty girl, why do you screw it up by making that ugly face?" - Buchs again, likely about Amanda...again.
Amanda: Everything is sharing...sharing, sharing, sharing!
Sean: If Rachel ever said that to me I'd share a slap with her.
and after we bugged Buch about this excessive "sharing" with Amanda...
Amanda: You think that's bad? Tell him about our joint account.
Buchs: It's a change jar.
Me (when Scott didn't show up to eat sushi with us): Scott's noodles are gonna be cold.
Kels: Scott's noodle is gonna be cold for a long time if he doesn't smarten up.
"I can't believe we used to call you 'Hot Sean' - you're such a weiner." - Amanda
"It's minority central. Why don't they jut bring in a Chinaman, too?" - Buchs, with his take on the Democratic leadership race.
After it was discovered that Sean was at Ian's house sans Rachel, who was on the Island...
"It's weird, that's all. It's just like if Chris is somewhere, Jenna's probably there too. Or if there's Scott, you know Kelsey will be there, or if there's Nick, you know nobody will be there." - Buchs
Ouch.
Monday, March 24, 2008
:: Tales from the Vault ::
Remember a few months back, when I wrote about my love of Sports Illustrated? And more specifically, I wrote about that long-lost SI article about the cross-country team tragedy, and how I'd searched high and low, near and far, but could not find a copy of it.
Well, SI has recently unveiled my absolute new favourite (non-pornographic) website: The SI Vault. And of course, the first thing I searched for was that damn article. Which I found right here.
Now, because it was so long since I'd read it, my memories of the story - which I'd written about in my original post - were a little bit off. It was a university running team, not a high school one. And there isn't one sole survivor, but, well...go read it. You'll see.
Sad/lame/nerdy as it is, finding this article has pretty much made my night (Aside from the amusing, early-evening encounter with some stupid woman who tried to sell my orthodics for my shoes while I was in the middle of a run. Seriously.)
But that's a story for another day.
For now, if you've got some time, go read that. I was 20 years old when that story was written, and it's Exhibit 1A of why do what I do, when - at the time - all I really wanted to do was quit school and come home.
Remember a few months back, when I wrote about my love of Sports Illustrated? And more specifically, I wrote about that long-lost SI article about the cross-country team tragedy, and how I'd searched high and low, near and far, but could not find a copy of it.
Well, SI has recently unveiled my absolute new favourite (non-pornographic) website: The SI Vault. And of course, the first thing I searched for was that damn article. Which I found right here.
Now, because it was so long since I'd read it, my memories of the story - which I'd written about in my original post - were a little bit off. It was a university running team, not a high school one. And there isn't one sole survivor, but, well...go read it. You'll see.
Sad/lame/nerdy as it is, finding this article has pretty much made my night (Aside from the amusing, early-evening encounter with some stupid woman who tried to sell my orthodics for my shoes while I was in the middle of a run. Seriously.)
But that's a story for another day.
For now, if you've got some time, go read that. I was 20 years old when that story was written, and it's Exhibit 1A of why do what I do, when - at the time - all I really wanted to do was quit school and come home.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
"I'm not cheap - I'm poor! There's a difference." - Kels
Me (pointing to Ian's big, ugly belt buckle): Ian, what the hell does it say on that buckle?
Ian: North American Construction Group.
Me: Uhh..why are you wearing it?
Ian: I'm representin'.
"Ahh, fuck, now we've gotta go to Jenna's house. Nick, hit me over the head with this bottle so we can go to the hospital instead." - Chris, who wanted to just go home after the Canucks game instead of over to visit one of Jenna's mom's friends.
Brian: Whoa! Chris, that was the most affection I've ever seen you show towards your girlfriend.
Chris: It was a headlock.
Me (pointing to Ian's big, ugly belt buckle): Ian, what the hell does it say on that buckle?
Ian: North American Construction Group.
Me: Uhh..why are you wearing it?
Ian: I'm representin'.
"Ahh, fuck, now we've gotta go to Jenna's house. Nick, hit me over the head with this bottle so we can go to the hospital instead." - Chris, who wanted to just go home after the Canucks game instead of over to visit one of Jenna's mom's friends.
Brian: Whoa! Chris, that was the most affection I've ever seen you show towards your girlfriend.
Chris: It was a headlock.
Friday, February 22, 2008
"If I made a drinking game out of how many times I logged onto Facebook during the day I'd be dead by noon." - Meghan
"Is it bad that I just looked at the dishes in my sink and, rather than thinking 'I should wash them' I thought 'Meh, at least four more days 'til I'm out of dishes?" - Meghan again, on a roll.
:: Impressive, repulsive or somewhere in between? ::
At work today a few of us were, as we often are, wasting time talking about mindless, non-important stuff, and somehow we got onto the subject of drinking. Then somebody posed a question that baffled me to the point where I don't even want to think about it anymore because it hurts my brain:
In your lifetime, how many beers do you think you've drank?
My instant response was "17!" but then, when I realized that he said "in your lifetime" and not "during lunch" I took my answer back. Now, it's easy just to say "A lot" but try really thinking about it.
People's answers will obviously vary wildy because some people occasionally drink other drinks - like me and delicious vodka or Jeremy and whiskey - while some of you, like Chris, Sean and Ian, are strictly beer drinkers. Also, we're all operating on varying levels of alcohol addiction here.
Still, it's a staggering number of beers. Thousands. It's especially staggering when you think back to your drinking "prime." I've been drinking at the professional level since I was 18 years old. My prime came when I was about 21 or 22. It was not uncommon for us to show up at my parent's house, or Jeremy's basement, and between three people polish of a couple of 2-4s, and then still have a need to go get more.
I couldn't do that now, obviously. Most of us couldn't. I drink probably 1/8th of my former volume, which is likely for the best, but think about how many weekends such binges actually happened. Then add in all those booze-addled camping trips, birthday shakers. Boring Fridays. Sharks Club night. Hockey games. Tuesdays.
It all adds up. So, how many beers do you think you've drank?
That was our "if a tree falls in the woods does it make a sound" moment and work today. And now it's yours to ponder while you down pint after pint this fine Friday evening.
Enjoy.
"Is it bad that I just looked at the dishes in my sink and, rather than thinking 'I should wash them' I thought 'Meh, at least four more days 'til I'm out of dishes?" - Meghan again, on a roll.
:: Impressive, repulsive or somewhere in between? ::
At work today a few of us were, as we often are, wasting time talking about mindless, non-important stuff, and somehow we got onto the subject of drinking. Then somebody posed a question that baffled me to the point where I don't even want to think about it anymore because it hurts my brain:
In your lifetime, how many beers do you think you've drank?
My instant response was "17!" but then, when I realized that he said "in your lifetime" and not "during lunch" I took my answer back. Now, it's easy just to say "A lot" but try really thinking about it.
People's answers will obviously vary wildy because some people occasionally drink other drinks - like me and delicious vodka or Jeremy and whiskey - while some of you, like Chris, Sean and Ian, are strictly beer drinkers. Also, we're all operating on varying levels of alcohol addiction here.
Still, it's a staggering number of beers. Thousands. It's especially staggering when you think back to your drinking "prime." I've been drinking at the professional level since I was 18 years old. My prime came when I was about 21 or 22. It was not uncommon for us to show up at my parent's house, or Jeremy's basement, and between three people polish of a couple of 2-4s, and then still have a need to go get more.
I couldn't do that now, obviously. Most of us couldn't. I drink probably 1/8th of my former volume, which is likely for the best, but think about how many weekends such binges actually happened. Then add in all those booze-addled camping trips, birthday shakers. Boring Fridays. Sharks Club night. Hockey games. Tuesdays.
It all adds up. So, how many beers do you think you've drank?
That was our "if a tree falls in the woods does it make a sound" moment and work today. And now it's yours to ponder while you down pint after pint this fine Friday evening.
Enjoy.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
It's been awhile since I've written anything, but I promise something will come eventually - I've got a few things in the works, including one story that involves me getting trapped inside a garbage can (Well, not really, but close..).
In the meantime, here are some quotes I've been collecting, as well as a couple links you should check out but probably won't.
"I swear I've seen Bobby 10 times already." - Chris, hanging out near the bar at Sharks' Club on Saturday night.
"Penguins look sad when they're walking." - Buchs. (Editor's note: Of course they're sad - haven't you seen this movie?)
"It's actually a pretty acceptable movie, and not just for the gays - for the normals, too." - Bucholtz again, giving a review of the movie Juno, which isn't - too my surprise - a biopic on this guy right here.
"I just can't get behind religion." - Buchs, after a few midweek beers.
"I call Wednesday, 'Friday Jr.'" - Buchs explaing why, after said beers, it was OK to be a little tipsy on a weekday.
"I might've bought the bed for us, but it goes where I go." - Scott, explaining how he managed to keep his new king-sized bed at home, despite the fact that he gave it to Kelsey for Christmas before she moved back into her own place.
And now for something completely different: I don't follow NCAA basketball very closely (but still probably closer than most people) except to periodically check out how a few local players who I happen to know are doing. However, I found this today on Yahoo! and I immediately like this kid named Kevin Love a lot.
The shit he's taken from his own hometown and home state is sickening, but not altogether that surprising. God forbid we be proud of talented people.
And on a goofier note, go read this story about Jonathan Coulton, the former nerd/computer programmer who quit his job to become a nerd/rock star. He wrote a song a week for an entire year, and posted them on his website. His song and his story don't exactly conjure up images of Led Zeppelin, but anybody who writes songs about giant, lonely squid trying to "play" with ships (song: I Crush Everything), and insanely ridiculous homages to former baseball commish Kenesaw Mountain Landis, is okay in my books.
Additional tunes: Code Monkey, The Town Crotch, Re: Your brains - and a cover of Sir Mix A-Lot's Baby Got Back. Click on his name above and have a listen - it's all there online.
And that, folks, is all you're getting today. Oh - and how 'bout them Canucks?
In the meantime, here are some quotes I've been collecting, as well as a couple links you should check out but probably won't.
"I swear I've seen Bobby 10 times already." - Chris, hanging out near the bar at Sharks' Club on Saturday night.
"Penguins look sad when they're walking." - Buchs. (Editor's note: Of course they're sad - haven't you seen this movie?)
"It's actually a pretty acceptable movie, and not just for the gays - for the normals, too." - Bucholtz again, giving a review of the movie Juno, which isn't - too my surprise - a biopic on this guy right here.
"I just can't get behind religion." - Buchs, after a few midweek beers.
"I call Wednesday, 'Friday Jr.'" - Buchs explaing why, after said beers, it was OK to be a little tipsy on a weekday.
"I might've bought the bed for us, but it goes where I go." - Scott, explaining how he managed to keep his new king-sized bed at home, despite the fact that he gave it to Kelsey for Christmas before she moved back into her own place.
And now for something completely different: I don't follow NCAA basketball very closely (but still probably closer than most people) except to periodically check out how a few local players who I happen to know are doing. However, I found this today on Yahoo! and I immediately like this kid named Kevin Love a lot.
The shit he's taken from his own hometown and home state is sickening, but not altogether that surprising. God forbid we be proud of talented people.
And on a goofier note, go read this story about Jonathan Coulton, the former nerd/computer programmer who quit his job to become a nerd/rock star. He wrote a song a week for an entire year, and posted them on his website. His song and his story don't exactly conjure up images of Led Zeppelin, but anybody who writes songs about giant, lonely squid trying to "play" with ships (song: I Crush Everything), and insanely ridiculous homages to former baseball commish Kenesaw Mountain Landis, is okay in my books.
Additional tunes: Code Monkey, The Town Crotch, Re: Your brains - and a cover of Sir Mix A-Lot's Baby Got Back. Click on his name above and have a listen - it's all there online.
And that, folks, is all you're getting today. Oh - and how 'bout them Canucks?
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
:: 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.
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.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
And the Montgomery Burns Award for Oustanding Achievement in the Field of Excellence goes to....
....me.
Yes, me. You heard that right. I won something. Two somethings, actually.
I've written on this blog since 2003 - my final year of university - and in the beginning I paid little heed to names, details, etc. A quick Google search would've given you all manner of information - names, friend's names, school, etc. However, after hearing of people getting fired from their jobs for making certain remarks on their personal blogs, I decided to play it a bit safer, so in the last 8-10 months, I've went to great lengths to clean this place up.
My name at the bottom of this month is now but one letter. Nearly all mentions of my last name, current employer, and occupation are gone too (well, most of 'em). I just figure, with so much incriminating evidence of me already on Facebook, I didn't need to pad the ballot box, so to speak, in the event that any higher-ups from my work find me online. I have something of a (quickly-slipping) reputation to protect.
Why am I telling you this? I'm not sure - sorry, this post has sorta gotten away from me here. But back to my original point - I won a couple awards. If this was in the full disclosure period between 2003-07, I'd probably have all kinds of details on here - in large fonts, too - about what exactly I've done. But since we're not, all I will tell you here is this, and those of you who know me can fill in the blanks yourself.
In my profession, there are a number of levels of annual awards: Company awards (small, but come with cash), provincial/state (pretty big), nation-wide (large), and North American (covering both Canada and the US). So through your own powers of deduction, I'm sure you can figure out how tough the last awards are to win.
Personally, I've never won anything better than a 2nd place at company awards (and promptly spent my winnings at the blackjack table). Nobody in my office has won a provincial award in at least 3 years, and no one in my office has won a national or north american award in my four years with the company and beyond.
'Til now.
On Friday afternoon, only 20 minutes before I was about to leave for the weekend, I received an email that I'd won first place in one category of the North American awards. And then the kicker - I'd also won third place in another category, for something I've been doing less than a year.
I was, needless to say, pretty fucking blown away. It was even better than that time I was named Time Magazine's Person of the Year.
Also, after some online searching, we discovered that a co-worker - who's become somewhat disillusioned/disinterested with awards in the last five years or so - won first place for something, herself.
It was quite a score, and quite a coup for our little office, which takes its fair share of shit and abuse from the "head office" because we're not quite like our big brother office up the road.
Many times in the past four months I've comtemplated quitting my current job - either getting out of the business altogether, or just switching to another company. And I know when it comes to many things, I'm all talk, but this was one thing I was seriously considering. It's amazing though, how much a little recognition can do for your psyche. Now, because I guess I'm pretty good at this racket, I'll stick it out for awhile. At least 'til my plaques arrive in the mail.
So just to recap: In my chosen field, I am No. 1 at what I do, continent-wide* for 2007.
*Not entirely true, as there are all kinds of divisions and breakdowns, but still....
....me.
Yes, me. You heard that right. I won something. Two somethings, actually.
I've written on this blog since 2003 - my final year of university - and in the beginning I paid little heed to names, details, etc. A quick Google search would've given you all manner of information - names, friend's names, school, etc. However, after hearing of people getting fired from their jobs for making certain remarks on their personal blogs, I decided to play it a bit safer, so in the last 8-10 months, I've went to great lengths to clean this place up.
My name at the bottom of this month is now but one letter. Nearly all mentions of my last name, current employer, and occupation are gone too (well, most of 'em). I just figure, with so much incriminating evidence of me already on Facebook, I didn't need to pad the ballot box, so to speak, in the event that any higher-ups from my work find me online. I have something of a (quickly-slipping) reputation to protect.
Why am I telling you this? I'm not sure - sorry, this post has sorta gotten away from me here. But back to my original point - I won a couple awards. If this was in the full disclosure period between 2003-07, I'd probably have all kinds of details on here - in large fonts, too - about what exactly I've done. But since we're not, all I will tell you here is this, and those of you who know me can fill in the blanks yourself.
In my profession, there are a number of levels of annual awards: Company awards (small, but come with cash), provincial/state (pretty big), nation-wide (large), and North American (covering both Canada and the US). So through your own powers of deduction, I'm sure you can figure out how tough the last awards are to win.
Personally, I've never won anything better than a 2nd place at company awards (and promptly spent my winnings at the blackjack table). Nobody in my office has won a provincial award in at least 3 years, and no one in my office has won a national or north american award in my four years with the company and beyond.
'Til now.
On Friday afternoon, only 20 minutes before I was about to leave for the weekend, I received an email that I'd won first place in one category of the North American awards. And then the kicker - I'd also won third place in another category, for something I've been doing less than a year.
I was, needless to say, pretty fucking blown away. It was even better than that time I was named Time Magazine's Person of the Year.
Also, after some online searching, we discovered that a co-worker - who's become somewhat disillusioned/disinterested with awards in the last five years or so - won first place for something, herself.
It was quite a score, and quite a coup for our little office, which takes its fair share of shit and abuse from the "head office" because we're not quite like our big brother office up the road.
Many times in the past four months I've comtemplated quitting my current job - either getting out of the business altogether, or just switching to another company. And I know when it comes to many things, I'm all talk, but this was one thing I was seriously considering. It's amazing though, how much a little recognition can do for your psyche. Now, because I guess I'm pretty good at this racket, I'll stick it out for awhile. At least 'til my plaques arrive in the mail.
So just to recap: In my chosen field, I am No. 1 at what I do, continent-wide* for 2007.
*Not entirely true, as there are all kinds of divisions and breakdowns, but still....
Friday, January 18, 2008
:: Regarding a bet ::
Dear Kelsey's money,
Although you likely haven't been informed yet by your current owner – not surprising, as she clings to a faint hope of continuing her ownership of you – you will be packing up and moving soon, from Kelsey's pocket to mine.
You'll be leaving as early as Sunday night, in fact, so pack up your nickels and dimes ahead of time. You see, Mr. Twenty-Dollar Bill, you've been wagered in a foolish bet pitting the New England Patriots – whose coach is a cheater and star wide receiver is an alleged woman-beater – against the saintly San Diego Chargers, whose star running back went to a good Christian university, and whose placekicker looks like an innocent 12-year-old boy.
You'll like it better here, I promise.
No longer will you be alone in a wallet, with no other dollars and cents to keep you company – you'll now be surrounded by friends of all currency, even a few American visitors (I hear that Andrew Jackson fella is a real hoot!) And, even better, you will no longer have to put up with the kind of high-brow, snooty remarks which I'm assuming can only come from a Starbucks Visa card.
"Oh, look at me - I'm worth a triple grande hazelnut. misto, no-foam, extra hot latte," I can imagine it saying. "And look at you – you're just a dirty, used up piece of parchment."
What a bitch. That can be hard for any honest, hard-working $20-bill to put up with. I understand.
It's OK though – you're beer money now. Long may you prosper in the cash registers of seedy pubs, and in the apron pockets of overworked, sexy-in-a-beer-googles-kind-of-way waitresses.
It will be one helluva run, I promise you that. So come on over – you know you want to.
Dear Kelsey's money,
Although you likely haven't been informed yet by your current owner – not surprising, as she clings to a faint hope of continuing her ownership of you – you will be packing up and moving soon, from Kelsey's pocket to mine.
You'll be leaving as early as Sunday night, in fact, so pack up your nickels and dimes ahead of time. You see, Mr. Twenty-Dollar Bill, you've been wagered in a foolish bet pitting the New England Patriots – whose coach is a cheater and star wide receiver is an alleged woman-beater – against the saintly San Diego Chargers, whose star running back went to a good Christian university, and whose placekicker looks like an innocent 12-year-old boy.
You'll like it better here, I promise.
No longer will you be alone in a wallet, with no other dollars and cents to keep you company – you'll now be surrounded by friends of all currency, even a few American visitors (I hear that Andrew Jackson fella is a real hoot!) And, even better, you will no longer have to put up with the kind of high-brow, snooty remarks which I'm assuming can only come from a Starbucks Visa card.
"Oh, look at me - I'm worth a triple grande hazelnut. misto, no-foam, extra hot latte," I can imagine it saying. "And look at you – you're just a dirty, used up piece of parchment."
What a bitch. That can be hard for any honest, hard-working $20-bill to put up with. I understand.
It's OK though – you're beer money now. Long may you prosper in the cash registers of seedy pubs, and in the apron pockets of overworked, sexy-in-a-beer-googles-kind-of-way waitresses.
It will be one helluva run, I promise you that. So come on over – you know you want to.
Monday, January 07, 2008
2008: A Good Start, or something like it
Close your eyes.
Now, I want you to imagine 12 people shoehorned tightly into a two-room ski condo in Whistler. There are clothes, booze, and food strewn about. Some people have been up since 8 a.m. Others have been up since 8:03, when the people (person) who awoke at 8 started making a lot of uneccessary fucking noise.
Imagine still that at least a few of these people in the two-room house have volatile tempers, especially while drinking. Now, imagine these people beginning to drink at 4 p.m.
Imagine now that it's 11:58 p.m.
On the small TV in the corner of the room, Carson Daly is counting down the minutes to midnight, while thousands of New York City revellers yell and scream like idiots in the background. In the kitchen, visualize Sean and Ian yelling and screaming like idiots, because Ian grabbed Rachel's ass. Imagine Sean yelling some more.
Then picture drunken Ian making things worse: "If I'd known you were gonna get this mad about it, I'd have grabbed her cooch."
Keep your eyes closed. Now visualize Sean charging Ian, grabbing his collar, and throwing him up against the fridge. Queue shock and laughter from most in the rest of the room. Queue tears and yelling from the two girlfriends.
See Carson's countdown hit 11:59.
Now, in the final 60 seconds, I want you to picture the following things:
Ian and Sean screaming at each other in the hallway.
Brad falling down between the couch and the kitchen island for the second time that evening (conservative estimate).
Rachel trying to break up Sean and Ian's fight.
Bre trying her best to hold back the booze-induced tears, and then apologizing for crying in the first place.
Derrick's beard.
The veneer on Jenna's front tooth breaking off.
A half-finished game of Memory, sitting on the counter.
Kelsey's nose beginning to unexplainably bleed.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is how we rang in 2008 - with a little extra Kung Pao! than usual.
Happy Fucking New Year. (Surprisingly enough, however, it was a fantastic trip. Go figure.)
And now, for some quotes:
Derrick, shitfaced: I'm going nowhere but up!
Scotty: At best, sideways would be good.
Chris: Hey Sean, wanna play memory?
Sean: I honestly don't know how.
Chris: Are you serious?
Sean: You've got to remember, I had no friends as a kid. I had one friend - myself - and I played masturbation.
"The reason nobody is doing it right is because nobody is doing it right." - Scott
"What did one snowman say to the other snowman? Do you smell carrots." - Scott
Derrick: I'd take it in the ass for $50,000.
Sean: I'd do it for a million.
Rachel: Only a million?!
Sean: That's 2 million Euros, Rachel!!
Sean, lowering his price....
"I'd let David Bowie have a go at me for free."
"A penis is shaped like a cock." - Derrick
Chris: Molson Dry is fucking terrible.
Ian: Oh yeah? Well you should hear what it's been saying about you!
Then, a few new post-New Year's ones...
"Don't you hate when you sit on an old couch, and the old farts jump out of it and punch you right in the face?" - Bucholtz, asking one of life's eternal questions.
"A slow cooker is like having a wife - you come home from work, and dinner's already made!" - Kristyl, a girl I work with. (Yes, a girl said this. Not Bucholtz. Not Jeremy. A girl.)
Close your eyes.
Now, I want you to imagine 12 people shoehorned tightly into a two-room ski condo in Whistler. There are clothes, booze, and food strewn about. Some people have been up since 8 a.m. Others have been up since 8:03, when the people (person) who awoke at 8 started making a lot of uneccessary fucking noise.
Imagine still that at least a few of these people in the two-room house have volatile tempers, especially while drinking. Now, imagine these people beginning to drink at 4 p.m.
Imagine now that it's 11:58 p.m.
On the small TV in the corner of the room, Carson Daly is counting down the minutes to midnight, while thousands of New York City revellers yell and scream like idiots in the background. In the kitchen, visualize Sean and Ian yelling and screaming like idiots, because Ian grabbed Rachel's ass. Imagine Sean yelling some more.
Then picture drunken Ian making things worse: "If I'd known you were gonna get this mad about it, I'd have grabbed her cooch."
Keep your eyes closed. Now visualize Sean charging Ian, grabbing his collar, and throwing him up against the fridge. Queue shock and laughter from most in the rest of the room. Queue tears and yelling from the two girlfriends.
See Carson's countdown hit 11:59.
Now, in the final 60 seconds, I want you to picture the following things:
Ian and Sean screaming at each other in the hallway.
Brad falling down between the couch and the kitchen island for the second time that evening (conservative estimate).
Rachel trying to break up Sean and Ian's fight.
Bre trying her best to hold back the booze-induced tears, and then apologizing for crying in the first place.
Derrick's beard.
The veneer on Jenna's front tooth breaking off.
A half-finished game of Memory, sitting on the counter.
Kelsey's nose beginning to unexplainably bleed.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is how we rang in 2008 - with a little extra Kung Pao! than usual.
Happy Fucking New Year. (Surprisingly enough, however, it was a fantastic trip. Go figure.)
And now, for some quotes:
Derrick, shitfaced: I'm going nowhere but up!
Scotty: At best, sideways would be good.
Chris: Hey Sean, wanna play memory?
Sean: I honestly don't know how.
Chris: Are you serious?
Sean: You've got to remember, I had no friends as a kid. I had one friend - myself - and I played masturbation.
"The reason nobody is doing it right is because nobody is doing it right." - Scott
"What did one snowman say to the other snowman? Do you smell carrots." - Scott
Derrick: I'd take it in the ass for $50,000.
Sean: I'd do it for a million.
Rachel: Only a million?!
Sean: That's 2 million Euros, Rachel!!
Sean, lowering his price....
"I'd let David Bowie have a go at me for free."
"A penis is shaped like a cock." - Derrick
Chris: Molson Dry is fucking terrible.
Ian: Oh yeah? Well you should hear what it's been saying about you!
Then, a few new post-New Year's ones...
"Don't you hate when you sit on an old couch, and the old farts jump out of it and punch you right in the face?" - Bucholtz, asking one of life's eternal questions.
"A slow cooker is like having a wife - you come home from work, and dinner's already made!" - Kristyl, a girl I work with. (Yes, a girl said this. Not Bucholtz. Not Jeremy. A girl.)
Saturday, December 29, 2007
:: Holidays ::
Mom: When do Chris and Jenna get back from church?
Me: Well, it's only an hour and it started at 11:00, so I guess they'll be back just after midnight, unless church goes into overtime.
"I went out to go to the bathroom before the service started, but when I came back they'd already started singing Christmas songs. I didn't know if I was allowed to just go sit down, or wait for a stoppage in play." - Chris, on his Christmas Eve church experience.
"If you ever get the chance, I reccommend dating Amanda, just for the presents." - Bucholtz.
"How come if you pinch me, I can't just hit you right in the face? God Damn society - they've taken all the fun out of abuse." - Matt
"I bet you that TV makeup artists are a lot busier these days because of all the HD channels now," - Buchs, after seeing some less-than-attractive people on TV.
After a Bucholtz burp...
Amanda: Just say excuse me!
Buchs: Why? It's not going to unstink it.
Amanda: Well, it's just polite!
Buchs: OK, well when I'm having tea with the queen, I'll say excuse me.
Mom: When do Chris and Jenna get back from church?
Me: Well, it's only an hour and it started at 11:00, so I guess they'll be back just after midnight, unless church goes into overtime.
"I went out to go to the bathroom before the service started, but when I came back they'd already started singing Christmas songs. I didn't know if I was allowed to just go sit down, or wait for a stoppage in play." - Chris, on his Christmas Eve church experience.
"If you ever get the chance, I reccommend dating Amanda, just for the presents." - Bucholtz.
"How come if you pinch me, I can't just hit you right in the face? God Damn society - they've taken all the fun out of abuse." - Matt
"I bet you that TV makeup artists are a lot busier these days because of all the HD channels now," - Buchs, after seeing some less-than-attractive people on TV.
After a Bucholtz burp...
Amanda: Just say excuse me!
Buchs: Why? It's not going to unstink it.
Amanda: Well, it's just polite!
Buchs: OK, well when I'm having tea with the queen, I'll say excuse me.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
"Hello Nick! How was....whatever it was you were doing, before you came here?" - Sean
"If Brad is a testament to everthing that Christmas stands for, then fuck Christmas!" - Scott, after some shitfaced/weird waitress at The Duke, came over to us, literally crying her eyes out, and proceeded to tell us how great a person Brad was, because he'd "been through Hell" and was a "testament to blah blah blah."
The speech, and the whole situation, was probably the most awkward/ridiculous public speech/moment any of us had witnessed in quite some time. Apparently, this stupid old broad had got it in her head that Brad's car accident - which was what, 13 years ago? - was a result of drunk driving, so she a) gave a speech about the merits of not driving drunk and b) proceeded to turn B-Rad into the epitome of hard work, determination, and all-round good guy-ery. Basically, if you'd have listen to this woman, you'd be under the impression now that it's not Jesus whom we celebrate on Dec. 25, it's Brad Fucking Gorski. Same person, apparently.
Now don't get me wrong, Brad is a standup guy, but he's still a douchebag, and in no conceivable way was deserving of any kind of tribute. No more than anybody else we know, anyhow. And certainly not one that involved actual, real tears from a complete stranger.
So in conclusion, we all like Brad, but we don't like drunk-ass old waitresses. Also, Libya is a land of peace and contrast.
Oh, by the way - Merry Christmas. For those of you coming to the annual Christmas Night drinkathon, I'll see you in a couple days. As usual, we'll celebrate the birth of Jesus by drinking Budweiser and playing darts. I can think of no better tribute. (No wussing out either, people...not like last year).
For those of you not coming, well, I'll just leave you with this.
"If Brad is a testament to everthing that Christmas stands for, then fuck Christmas!" - Scott, after some shitfaced/weird waitress at The Duke, came over to us, literally crying her eyes out, and proceeded to tell us how great a person Brad was, because he'd "been through Hell" and was a "testament to blah blah blah."
The speech, and the whole situation, was probably the most awkward/ridiculous public speech/moment any of us had witnessed in quite some time. Apparently, this stupid old broad had got it in her head that Brad's car accident - which was what, 13 years ago? - was a result of drunk driving, so she a) gave a speech about the merits of not driving drunk and b) proceeded to turn B-Rad into the epitome of hard work, determination, and all-round good guy-ery. Basically, if you'd have listen to this woman, you'd be under the impression now that it's not Jesus whom we celebrate on Dec. 25, it's Brad Fucking Gorski. Same person, apparently.
Now don't get me wrong, Brad is a standup guy, but he's still a douchebag, and in no conceivable way was deserving of any kind of tribute. No more than anybody else we know, anyhow. And certainly not one that involved actual, real tears from a complete stranger.
So in conclusion, we all like Brad, but we don't like drunk-ass old waitresses. Also, Libya is a land of peace and contrast.
Oh, by the way - Merry Christmas. For those of you coming to the annual Christmas Night drinkathon, I'll see you in a couple days. As usual, we'll celebrate the birth of Jesus by drinking Budweiser and playing darts. I can think of no better tribute. (No wussing out either, people...not like last year).
For those of you not coming, well, I'll just leave you with this.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
"I'd fight Duke. I'd fight a shark." - Bucholtz, talking about the formidable size of Bobby's ever-growing dog.
"The vagina's connected to the baby holder....the baby's connected to the....other thing," Buchs again, singing a song.
And now, a couple frightening quotes from Lambo's buddy, Mangel. He could've been talking about the video game he was playing, but then again, he's also from NYC, so you decide...
"Murder, huh? Sweet - I'm all about the killing. Who's ready to die?!!!!"
"I'll just grab whatever and I'll murder you with it. That's how I roll, bitches."
:: Making friends ::
People become friends in different ways. Maybe you meet somebody at work, or you play on the same hockey or baseball team as kids. Or perhaps, as is probably most often the case with best friends, you meet people in elementary or high school and stay pals for a long, long time after that. That's how I met most, if not all, of my best friends.
Or, in this techno-age, people meet on the Internet, bonded by some common interest. And then sometimes, the way you meet people is just completely random - maybe you met in the cereal aisle at Safeway, or at the bar, or at a cockfight. Whatever works.
Or in the case I'm about to explain, maybe you should've met years before, but some avoided each other every step of the way, until recently:
A year ago, not long after I signed up on Facebook, I got a random message from a girl who's name I didn't immediately recognize. After a few quick messages back and forth, it turned out that we worked in the same company, but at different places. After that, we ran into each other at our company conference, and after talking for a bit, it turned out that we'd pretty much been following each other around since we were 15.
We both went to the same high school, and knew a lot of the same people, but she went to school elsewhere in Grade 11 before coming back for Grade 12 - which was the year I left for someplace else.
And the reason I didn't immediately recognize her name was because it was different now - she got married, and as soon as she told me her maiden name, I instantly recognized it.
Then after graduation, we both ended up going to Kwantlen College for a couple years, although our paths obviously never crossed. Not that strange, really, when you consider that it's a large four-campus school, and a good portion of local kids start out at KUC. However, it got a little stranger after that, because we both ended up majoring in the same thing at university, and both ended up in Kamloops in the same program. Again though, just missing each other. She arrived just as I was leaving.
Once again, many of her university friends are my friends, too.
Now working for the same big company, she was just transferred into our office last month. Now our desks are 15 feet from each other.
So, anyway, after realizing this odd set of circumstances - and also realizing that we're pretty close to the same person ("You're like the guy version of me!" she drunkenly told me, over and over again, last week at our staff party) we decided that since we probably would've ended up being friends years ago if only our paths had crossed, we'll just be friends now instead...We know very little about each other, don't have any sort of friend history to speak of, but we're instantly good friends anyways, just because we decided that we would be. Kind of like when two five-year-old kids decided instantly that they're best friends simply because they live next door to each other, or because their pre-school coat hooks are side-by-side.
We drove in together to the aforementioned staff Christmas party (Her husband didn't come because he had tix to the Canucks/Penguins game), and since we appeared throughout the night to be good buddies, one of the office folk asked us how we knew each other, since she'd just started working for us.
"Oh, we've known each other for years - we went to high school together," she said.
And just like that a new friend becomes an old one. Weird? Maybe. But it's still kinda cool.
"The vagina's connected to the baby holder....the baby's connected to the....other thing," Buchs again, singing a song.
And now, a couple frightening quotes from Lambo's buddy, Mangel. He could've been talking about the video game he was playing, but then again, he's also from NYC, so you decide...
"Murder, huh? Sweet - I'm all about the killing. Who's ready to die?!!!!"
"I'll just grab whatever and I'll murder you with it. That's how I roll, bitches."
:: Making friends ::
People become friends in different ways. Maybe you meet somebody at work, or you play on the same hockey or baseball team as kids. Or perhaps, as is probably most often the case with best friends, you meet people in elementary or high school and stay pals for a long, long time after that. That's how I met most, if not all, of my best friends.
Or, in this techno-age, people meet on the Internet, bonded by some common interest. And then sometimes, the way you meet people is just completely random - maybe you met in the cereal aisle at Safeway, or at the bar, or at a cockfight. Whatever works.
Or in the case I'm about to explain, maybe you should've met years before, but some avoided each other every step of the way, until recently:
A year ago, not long after I signed up on Facebook, I got a random message from a girl who's name I didn't immediately recognize. After a few quick messages back and forth, it turned out that we worked in the same company, but at different places. After that, we ran into each other at our company conference, and after talking for a bit, it turned out that we'd pretty much been following each other around since we were 15.
We both went to the same high school, and knew a lot of the same people, but she went to school elsewhere in Grade 11 before coming back for Grade 12 - which was the year I left for someplace else.
And the reason I didn't immediately recognize her name was because it was different now - she got married, and as soon as she told me her maiden name, I instantly recognized it.
Then after graduation, we both ended up going to Kwantlen College for a couple years, although our paths obviously never crossed. Not that strange, really, when you consider that it's a large four-campus school, and a good portion of local kids start out at KUC. However, it got a little stranger after that, because we both ended up majoring in the same thing at university, and both ended up in Kamloops in the same program. Again though, just missing each other. She arrived just as I was leaving.
Once again, many of her university friends are my friends, too.
Now working for the same big company, she was just transferred into our office last month. Now our desks are 15 feet from each other.
So, anyway, after realizing this odd set of circumstances - and also realizing that we're pretty close to the same person ("You're like the guy version of me!" she drunkenly told me, over and over again, last week at our staff party) we decided that since we probably would've ended up being friends years ago if only our paths had crossed, we'll just be friends now instead...We know very little about each other, don't have any sort of friend history to speak of, but we're instantly good friends anyways, just because we decided that we would be. Kind of like when two five-year-old kids decided instantly that they're best friends simply because they live next door to each other, or because their pre-school coat hooks are side-by-side.
We drove in together to the aforementioned staff Christmas party (Her husband didn't come because he had tix to the Canucks/Penguins game), and since we appeared throughout the night to be good buddies, one of the office folk asked us how we knew each other, since she'd just started working for us.
"Oh, we've known each other for years - we went to high school together," she said.
And just like that a new friend becomes an old one. Weird? Maybe. But it's still kinda cool.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
"Why can't they make dip as a meal?" - James, at Scotty's birthday party.
Sean: I'm going to urinate...or should I say, my-inate?
Me: What?
Sean: Well, it's not your urine that's coming out of me.
"I apologize for the blood guys, but yes, I did have something to do with it." - proud bouncer at Everett bar.
"I have a weakness for big hairy animals." - Amanda
"There's a clause in love that says if you puke from drinking tequila, I get to do whatever I want to you." - this guy Jordan, to his girlfriend, at Steamworks last weekend.
Kyle, on what me and him would do if we had expensive cars - me, the Cadillac I want to buy, and him, a Range Rover...
"We'd be ballin'. We could go pick up some hot chicks, have sex with them, and then ditch 'em. Then we'd see them again a few weeks later a party because we'd be having sex with their other hot friends instead, and then they'd be mad because we weren't having sex with them anymore."
Sean: I'm going to urinate...or should I say, my-inate?
Me: What?
Sean: Well, it's not your urine that's coming out of me.
"I apologize for the blood guys, but yes, I did have something to do with it." - proud bouncer at Everett bar.
"I have a weakness for big hairy animals." - Amanda
"There's a clause in love that says if you puke from drinking tequila, I get to do whatever I want to you." - this guy Jordan, to his girlfriend, at Steamworks last weekend.
Kyle, on what me and him would do if we had expensive cars - me, the Cadillac I want to buy, and him, a Range Rover...
"We'd be ballin'. We could go pick up some hot chicks, have sex with them, and then ditch 'em. Then we'd see them again a few weeks later a party because we'd be having sex with their other hot friends instead, and then they'd be mad because we weren't having sex with them anymore."
Friday, November 23, 2007
:: 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.
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.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Jenna (looking at a menu): I want some food!
Chris: You're looking at a menu..See all the words? Food.
Jenna: But I want food - I don't want any weiner, pussy-ass shit.
Jenna: Can I get the clubhouse sandwich, with only two pieces of bread. I can't get my tiny, little mouth around such a big sandwich.
Sean: Chris must have a small sandwich.
Well folks, Mexico calls in less than a day, and I figure I better enjoy it because when I get back, and have to return to work, I suspect things will have taken a mighty turn for the worse while I've been gone. And then I'll have to decide whether I want to stay there or not. But that's a worry for another day. For now, it's Mexico time.
I will, however, leave you with one un-Mexico-related note. Go watch this movie trailer right here, called No Country for Old Men. It looks pretty fucking awesome/creepy. I especially like the line right in the middle of it, when one guy, after sawing off a shotgun, says to a girl in the room, "If I don't come back, tell my momma I love her." The girl replies, "But you're momma's been dead for years."
"OK, then I'll tell her myself."
Good, chilling stuff.
Chris: You're looking at a menu..See all the words? Food.
Jenna: But I want food - I don't want any weiner, pussy-ass shit.
Jenna: Can I get the clubhouse sandwich, with only two pieces of bread. I can't get my tiny, little mouth around such a big sandwich.
Sean: Chris must have a small sandwich.
Well folks, Mexico calls in less than a day, and I figure I better enjoy it because when I get back, and have to return to work, I suspect things will have taken a mighty turn for the worse while I've been gone. And then I'll have to decide whether I want to stay there or not. But that's a worry for another day. For now, it's Mexico time.
I will, however, leave you with one un-Mexico-related note. Go watch this movie trailer right here, called No Country for Old Men. It looks pretty fucking awesome/creepy. I especially like the line right in the middle of it, when one guy, after sawing off a shotgun, says to a girl in the room, "If I don't come back, tell my momma I love her." The girl replies, "But you're momma's been dead for years."
"OK, then I'll tell her myself."
Good, chilling stuff.
Monday, October 22, 2007
"Grolsch? That beer sounds evil - like a beer Hitler would drink." - Me, after yet another one of Ian's "let's-try-a-new-beer" episodes.
A-Scrams: Would you ever propose to me?
Buchs: I don't get enough butt sex to propose to you.
"Woo! I just about fought two raccoons out there." - Chris' excitable-but-random comment, after coming in front the front of Jeremy's house.
"This totally just adds to my metrosexuality." - Jeremy, liking his new Snap-On Tools hat while at the same time wearing camo shorts and rocking one helluva mullet.
:: In defence of SI ::
I have a big manilla envelope somewhere in my house. In it are Sports Illustrated stories and columns I've read over the years and felt compelled to keep.
There's only a few in there, because my standards of what constitutes great are pretty high. I know many people who say they don't like SI because they don't care about things like college basketball, or tennis, or any of the things that dominate the American sports landscape. They want hockey, a little football maybe, and baseball playoffs and that's it.
Fair enough, I guess, although - without sounding too snotty - I like SI on a much different level. I honestly don't care what the subject matter is, I'll read almost anything because I appreciate writers, words, and all that stuff that, to be honest, most people either don't get or don't care about.
Whereas most people just want to read about Sidney Crosby or Peyton Manning, I can appreciate a phrase, an ending, or the way a sentence flows - likely because I'm a writer. I've read 8,000 word epics on scrabble tournaments, for Christ's sake. My boss likes to recommend movies or TV shows to me that he says most people don't appreciate or like. "You'll appreciate it as a writer," he always says, and he's usually right.
Same goes for SI, I guess.
I decided to start the envelope years ago, long before I went to school and studied journalism and writing. When I was a teenager, I read a backpage feature in the magazine - far from the cover, which was likely graced with a flavour-of-the-month college football star. I can't remember the details now, but the story was about a high school cross-country team something in the United States. All members but one were killed in a horrific bus accident, and the story focused largely on the one who survived. The story was about the guilt he felt for being the only survivor, and about how, long after the funerals and the lost season, he ran the same route he used to run with his team. Over and over, by himself.
I lost the issue, and have had no luck finding it online, mostly because I have zero details. I can't even remember what year it was. After I had no luck rediscovering it, that's when I decided I should start keeping some stuff.
The articles in my envelope aren't just good, aren't just mildy interesting. The only things that makes the cut are things that I wish I had written. Once in awhile, I'll re-read some stuff if I come across the envelope in a drawer someplace. Mostly I read it because it helps me when it comes time for me to write something.
Most people probably think it's pretty nerdy, but whatever. I'm cool with that. It's a popular opinion amongst writer-types that the best writers/journalists in the world are sports writers, for whatever reason, and it's a pretty solid argument.
By now, if you are still actually reading this, I'm sure you're wondering just what the hell I'm telling you all this for. The reason for this long-winded defence of the world's most popular magazine (Which, I suppose needs no defending, since it really is #1)?
I just added another thing to the envelope. It's long, but if you've got 2o minutes or half an hour to spare, go read it. If I ever wrote something this good, I'd quit writing on the spot, knowing full well that I'd never do any better.
And to think, if my dad had never wanted a free shoephone back in 1992, I likely would've never subscribed in the first place.
A-Scrams: Would you ever propose to me?
Buchs: I don't get enough butt sex to propose to you.
"Woo! I just about fought two raccoons out there." - Chris' excitable-but-random comment, after coming in front the front of Jeremy's house.
"This totally just adds to my metrosexuality." - Jeremy, liking his new Snap-On Tools hat while at the same time wearing camo shorts and rocking one helluva mullet.
:: In defence of SI ::
I have a big manilla envelope somewhere in my house. In it are Sports Illustrated stories and columns I've read over the years and felt compelled to keep.
There's only a few in there, because my standards of what constitutes great are pretty high. I know many people who say they don't like SI because they don't care about things like college basketball, or tennis, or any of the things that dominate the American sports landscape. They want hockey, a little football maybe, and baseball playoffs and that's it.
Fair enough, I guess, although - without sounding too snotty - I like SI on a much different level. I honestly don't care what the subject matter is, I'll read almost anything because I appreciate writers, words, and all that stuff that, to be honest, most people either don't get or don't care about.
Whereas most people just want to read about Sidney Crosby or Peyton Manning, I can appreciate a phrase, an ending, or the way a sentence flows - likely because I'm a writer. I've read 8,000 word epics on scrabble tournaments, for Christ's sake. My boss likes to recommend movies or TV shows to me that he says most people don't appreciate or like. "You'll appreciate it as a writer," he always says, and he's usually right.
Same goes for SI, I guess.
I decided to start the envelope years ago, long before I went to school and studied journalism and writing. When I was a teenager, I read a backpage feature in the magazine - far from the cover, which was likely graced with a flavour-of-the-month college football star. I can't remember the details now, but the story was about a high school cross-country team something in the United States. All members but one were killed in a horrific bus accident, and the story focused largely on the one who survived. The story was about the guilt he felt for being the only survivor, and about how, long after the funerals and the lost season, he ran the same route he used to run with his team. Over and over, by himself.
I lost the issue, and have had no luck finding it online, mostly because I have zero details. I can't even remember what year it was. After I had no luck rediscovering it, that's when I decided I should start keeping some stuff.
The articles in my envelope aren't just good, aren't just mildy interesting. The only things that makes the cut are things that I wish I had written. Once in awhile, I'll re-read some stuff if I come across the envelope in a drawer someplace. Mostly I read it because it helps me when it comes time for me to write something.
Most people probably think it's pretty nerdy, but whatever. I'm cool with that. It's a popular opinion amongst writer-types that the best writers/journalists in the world are sports writers, for whatever reason, and it's a pretty solid argument.
By now, if you are still actually reading this, I'm sure you're wondering just what the hell I'm telling you all this for. The reason for this long-winded defence of the world's most popular magazine (Which, I suppose needs no defending, since it really is #1)?
I just added another thing to the envelope. It's long, but if you've got 2o minutes or half an hour to spare, go read it. If I ever wrote something this good, I'd quit writing on the spot, knowing full well that I'd never do any better.
And to think, if my dad had never wanted a free shoephone back in 1992, I likely would've never subscribed in the first place.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
:: An Ode to October ::
The summer may be over, the day's cooler and the nights longer, but there is one thing about October that makes is one of the best months of the year (Or at least in the top 12): Sports.
This is, without question, the best time of the year for sports fans. The hockey season is just starting, both the NFL and CFL are in full swing, and most importantly, it's also baseball playoffs.
Yes, baseball playoffs. I can hear the collective yawn now.
In the past two weeks since playoffs hit the field- begining with the Padres/Rockies wild card tiebreaker that I now count as one of the best games I've ever witnessed - and I've watched many a game. And no matter where I watch it, I always hear at least one person say the same thing: Baseball sucks.
I even met a guy the other day who said he didn't like watching baseball because it was too slow, but he instead preferred watching soccer because "there's always something going on."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" is all I could spit out, so baffled was I. I'm sorry, but watching soccer is like watching me go for a run - sure, there may be brief moments where you're impressed with the speed of the action, but for the most part, it's pretty repulsive to watch.
Which brings me to my point - the people who say baseball (especially playoff baseball) is boring and slow are uneducated on the sport. All they see is a guy throwing the ball to another guy with a big stick, with long moments in between.
But many of us know better. There's so much more to cold, October baseball than one guy with the ball and another with a stick. Baseball is the battle between the pitcher and the hitter. It's the hitter messing with the pitcher's rhythm by calling time to knock dirt off his cleats. It's the infield playing the David Ortiz-shift, because they know it's going to right field. And it's the sheer cleverness shown when Ortiz shocks everyone with a bunt to third base.
It's the lefty vs. lefty matchups. It's pitchers coming in from the 'pen only to throw three pitches before hitting the showers, their job done for the evening. It's the hit-and-run and walk-off bombs. It's extra innings. It's Dave Roberts stealing second base even though everyone in the stadium knows that he's running. It's a changeup on a 3-2 count. Or the manager pinch-hitting with a pitcher, not for a pitcher, because it's the 13th inning and his bench is empty. It's Schilling's bloody sock, catches at the wall, and the 6-4-3 double play.
It's 60 feet, six inches to the plate and 335 to left; it's Steve Bartman, and Homer, Ozzie and the Straw.
It's the god-damn playoffs.
Boring? You gotta be fucking kidding me.
The summer may be over, the day's cooler and the nights longer, but there is one thing about October that makes is one of the best months of the year (Or at least in the top 12): Sports.
This is, without question, the best time of the year for sports fans. The hockey season is just starting, both the NFL and CFL are in full swing, and most importantly, it's also baseball playoffs.
Yes, baseball playoffs. I can hear the collective yawn now.
In the past two weeks since playoffs hit the field- begining with the Padres/Rockies wild card tiebreaker that I now count as one of the best games I've ever witnessed - and I've watched many a game. And no matter where I watch it, I always hear at least one person say the same thing: Baseball sucks.
I even met a guy the other day who said he didn't like watching baseball because it was too slow, but he instead preferred watching soccer because "there's always something going on."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" is all I could spit out, so baffled was I. I'm sorry, but watching soccer is like watching me go for a run - sure, there may be brief moments where you're impressed with the speed of the action, but for the most part, it's pretty repulsive to watch.
Which brings me to my point - the people who say baseball (especially playoff baseball) is boring and slow are uneducated on the sport. All they see is a guy throwing the ball to another guy with a big stick, with long moments in between.
But many of us know better. There's so much more to cold, October baseball than one guy with the ball and another with a stick. Baseball is the battle between the pitcher and the hitter. It's the hitter messing with the pitcher's rhythm by calling time to knock dirt off his cleats. It's the infield playing the David Ortiz-shift, because they know it's going to right field. And it's the sheer cleverness shown when Ortiz shocks everyone with a bunt to third base.
It's the lefty vs. lefty matchups. It's pitchers coming in from the 'pen only to throw three pitches before hitting the showers, their job done for the evening. It's the hit-and-run and walk-off bombs. It's extra innings. It's Dave Roberts stealing second base even though everyone in the stadium knows that he's running. It's a changeup on a 3-2 count. Or the manager pinch-hitting with a pitcher, not for a pitcher, because it's the 13th inning and his bench is empty. It's Schilling's bloody sock, catches at the wall, and the 6-4-3 double play.
It's 60 feet, six inches to the plate and 335 to left; it's Steve Bartman, and Homer, Ozzie and the Straw.
It's the god-damn playoffs.
Boring? You gotta be fucking kidding me.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Two old quotes I found written in an old notepad file that I almost deleted. I'm assuming they're both from Bucholtz, likely from our famed but now largely defunct Friday Afternoon Drinkathlons.
Buchs: Ahh, nudity, my second favourite word in the English language.
Me: What's your favourite word?
Buchs: Poltergeist.
"Hey Nick, want a degree in shutting the hell up?"
Canucks tonight. Hockey Night in Canada on Saturday. Football Sunday. I have half a pizza and a few cases of beer in the fridge, so if anybody wants me, I'll be on the couch.
Buchs: Ahh, nudity, my second favourite word in the English language.
Me: What's your favourite word?
Buchs: Poltergeist.
"Hey Nick, want a degree in shutting the hell up?"
Canucks tonight. Hockey Night in Canada on Saturday. Football Sunday. I have half a pizza and a few cases of beer in the fridge, so if anybody wants me, I'll be on the couch.