:: A chance for greatness ::
At the risk of having my Canadian citizenship revoked, I admit that I cared very little for today's Grey Cup between the Calgary Stampeders and the Montreal Alouettes. I tried hard to care, I really did, but I couldn't do it. Unlike some sports and leagues (baseball, NFL), I can't watch a complete game unless I have a vested interest in at least of the teams, or a player on one of the teams (I watched, for example, nearly an entire Minnesota Wild game the other game on TSN2 simply because I knew the rookie right winger). And the Stampeders/Allouettes just wasn't doing it for me.
Instead, I spent my day running errands, going for lunch with a friend and helping my dad put up the Christmas lights. In fact, I didn't even know what time the game started, and I didn't plop down on the couch and turn on the TV until the game was already well into the second quarter.
Eventually though, I found myself drawn to the game, not so much because I cared who won (because I didn't), but because the game was relatively close. And when the score is close in a meaningful game - championship or otherwise - I'll usually watch, for the simple reason that I don't want to miss some amazing moment that goes down in sports history.
Nobody wants to be the guy who missed the Hail Mary pass or the Music City Miracle.
Granted, those things rarely happen, but there's been more than a few sports moments I've missed or can't remember, and as a pretty big sports fan, that bugs me. If the Canucks ever make it to the Stanley Cup finals, for example, I won't even leave the couch, just to ensure I don't miss something great.
So that's why I watched the game on Sunday. And although there wasn't much in the way of historic moments, there was a somewhat dramatic 50-yard field goal by Calgary's Sandro DeAngelis (his fifth of the game!) that iced it for the Stamps.
And, of course, I missed it.
I was in the garage, grabbing myself a Diet Coke.
That aside, I'll leave you with these two Grey Cup moments:
The first came in a text message from Jenna, who was watching the game with her family. They were picking squares, and her mom won the first quarter:
"My mom just won the first. She's a bitch."
Ouch.
And then this from my dad, after TSN showed a clip of Montreal's dreadlocked Larry Taylor making two TD returns in last week's Eastern Final against Edmonton:
"Of course he's fast. He's probably used to running from the cops."
Thursday, November 20, 2008
:: The storm clouds are gathering* ::
Since Oct. 9, the first game of the Vancouver Canucks' season, I have made roughly $950 writing about them for one of my company's publications.
And though it's been just a month and a bit, and I've only been to 4 games live, it has been quite an experience. Press passes, press boxes, free popcorn, locker room access (Sorry Lanette, still no Bieksa picture) all kinds of behind-the-scenes stuff the regular person never gets to see. A few weeks ago, for example, Wayne Gretzky walked right past me in a hallway, and the game before that, I ended up getting my mug splashed on Sportsnet, after I walked behind an interview, and into the camera's frame.
So it's cool. But I don't feel like I technically "cover" the team, as other reporters do. It's just not in my job description. It's not my fulltime gig, however much I wish it was, so I don't foster relationships with anyone there, and all I ever have to write is 200 words on each game.
And that's what troubles me lately - the word count. I understand I can't write much longer than that - with the design of the publication, there isn't enough space on the page for more. But I'm a word guy - in my regular day job, I have the freedom to write basically as much as I want. I get beyond the score of a game, and can get into details, tell amusing stories, add in some good quotes, etc... But with this other thing, I can't.
Instead of telling you that Steve Bernier broke out of his slump and scored his fifth goal of the year after he chopped a knuckleball past the goalie, who wasn't paying attention; or instead of talking about what it meant for Pavol Demitra to come back strong against his old team with a goal and an assist, instead I tell you this:
"In the second period Steve Bernier scored his fifth of the season, while Demitra added one of his own."
That's it, that's all. No analysis, no insight. Just the facts.
Granted, I'm not actually complaining - the extra money's nice, getting to watch games live and for free is even better, and there's no way I'd ever voluntarily give up this gig, but sometimes I just wish I could write.
Thinking about my situation tonight, moments after I filed my 218-word opus on Vancouver's win over the Wild, I was reminded of 2 scenes from an episode of Sports Night, my all-time favourite show.
(The YouTube clips are longer than they need to be...in Clip 1, fast forward to 5:18, and in the second one, watch from 1:23 until 2:19. And the files aren't embedded in the blog because YouTube has that option disabled on these clips... sorry)
You gotta make it shorter (5:18-)
The storm clouds are gathering (1:23-2:19)
*Without watching the clips, only Mike will get this reference
Since Oct. 9, the first game of the Vancouver Canucks' season, I have made roughly $950 writing about them for one of my company's publications.
And though it's been just a month and a bit, and I've only been to 4 games live, it has been quite an experience. Press passes, press boxes, free popcorn, locker room access (Sorry Lanette, still no Bieksa picture) all kinds of behind-the-scenes stuff the regular person never gets to see. A few weeks ago, for example, Wayne Gretzky walked right past me in a hallway, and the game before that, I ended up getting my mug splashed on Sportsnet, after I walked behind an interview, and into the camera's frame.
So it's cool. But I don't feel like I technically "cover" the team, as other reporters do. It's just not in my job description. It's not my fulltime gig, however much I wish it was, so I don't foster relationships with anyone there, and all I ever have to write is 200 words on each game.
And that's what troubles me lately - the word count. I understand I can't write much longer than that - with the design of the publication, there isn't enough space on the page for more. But I'm a word guy - in my regular day job, I have the freedom to write basically as much as I want. I get beyond the score of a game, and can get into details, tell amusing stories, add in some good quotes, etc... But with this other thing, I can't.
Instead of telling you that Steve Bernier broke out of his slump and scored his fifth goal of the year after he chopped a knuckleball past the goalie, who wasn't paying attention; or instead of talking about what it meant for Pavol Demitra to come back strong against his old team with a goal and an assist, instead I tell you this:
"In the second period Steve Bernier scored his fifth of the season, while Demitra added one of his own."
That's it, that's all. No analysis, no insight. Just the facts.
Granted, I'm not actually complaining - the extra money's nice, getting to watch games live and for free is even better, and there's no way I'd ever voluntarily give up this gig, but sometimes I just wish I could write.
Thinking about my situation tonight, moments after I filed my 218-word opus on Vancouver's win over the Wild, I was reminded of 2 scenes from an episode of Sports Night, my all-time favourite show.
(The YouTube clips are longer than they need to be...in Clip 1, fast forward to 5:18, and in the second one, watch from 1:23 until 2:19. And the files aren't embedded in the blog because YouTube has that option disabled on these clips... sorry)
You gotta make it shorter (5:18-)
The storm clouds are gathering (1:23-2:19)
*Without watching the clips, only Mike will get this reference
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
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.
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.