:: 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.

:: 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.

:: 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.)

:: 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.

:: 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

:: 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...

:: 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.

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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:

Fucking geese.

:: 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.

:: 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.)