:: 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.

:: 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.

"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.

"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.

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?

Damn you, groundhog! Damn you!

:: The Cruelest Season::

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Digby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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....

:: 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.

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.)

:: 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.

"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.

"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.

"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."

:: 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.

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.

"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.

:: 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.

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.

"I wrote the book on Awesome." - Dave

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

Hi, I'm Troy McClure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I didn't really lose a single pound.

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

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

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

Damn you Coors. Damn you to hell.