:: A programming note, and a li'l history ::

It was brought to my attention a few minutes ago that my blog comment box has undergone a little overhaul, unbeknownst to me. Old posts still have the old black/blue pop-up box, but the last two, and this one I assume, have some new-fangled thing, which I do not like. For starters, I fear change. And secondly, no matter how many comments I get, the main display page of my blog still lists the comments as being "Comments (0)"

Until I just checked, I actually thought that not a single commenter had written anything on my last two posts. And I was sad.

What has happened, best as I can tell, is that the web-company that designed and operated my comments, Haloscan, has apparently turned into another company, which has in turn changed the commenting system.

Over the past few years, this blog has had a handful of behind-the-scenes technology issues, mostly on account of this blog outdated – by a number of years – the current publishing system used by Blogger. I started this blog back in 2003, before Blogger was acquired by Google, and before comments were even built into the available blog templates. That is why my comments are a pop-up box run by Haloscan, and not the same format as most other people's.

As a matter of fact, Classic Times (originally called In the 'Loops for those with long memories) is so old that the reason the email address classictimes @ gmail even exists is because, as a Blogger member, I was given a free address before they were available to the public – back when everyone was wowed by how much storage space Gmail users were afforded.

With regard to the comments, I had to sign up separately with Haloscan years ago, and Mike went into the HTML code for me and added the right lines in the right places for it to all work.

So yeah, we kick it old school 'round here.

The current look of this blog – the template, if you will – is a dinosaur. It's undergone a billion modifications of my own doing – the blog header graphic, the colours, the links, etc... – but the original template hasn't been offered by Blogger since it's big update a number of years ago.

And because I chose to stick with the old look – I fear change, remember – I've missed out on a number of things afford the new bloggers. For one, I don't have a drag-and-drop screen to move blog elements around easily. Anything I wanna do has to be done by digging through line after line of HTML code, and trust me, that ain't my thing.

Secondly, under my current account, I can't follow other blogs... can't do a number of things that would make my blogging life easier. And about three years ago, I lost the ability to moderate comments because I lost my Haloscan password and username when my old laptop bit the dust. (And it's because of this lack of moderation ability that a certain ridiculous, flame war was recently allowed to take place in the comment section of a particular post... Try and guess which one!?)

Yet still, I resist.

But I guess this is just a long-winded (because some things really don't ever change) way of saying this: I'm thinking that it's time for a change. It probably means changing the look – drastically – of this blog, and maybe even the web address will change, but we'll see.

It will pain me greatly to do it, but perhaps now is the right time to put the ol' blog to rest.

Or maybe I'll just leave it be. I mean, I am pretty fucking lazy.

:: Unanswerable questions ::

Earlier today, I was in the second-floor washroom in my office building. I was at the sink, washing my hands, when a tall, older man with an English accent entered. I had never seen this man before in my life.

I am not one for bathroom conversation – I hate inane small talk, and when you're peeing it's just that much more awkward – but unfortunately, we made eye contact. So I have him the polite head nod, eye-brow lift that essentially says, "I acknowledge your presence, but do not wish to engage in any real conversation."

Of course, this guy ignores bathroom etiquette completely by actually saying "Hi." So I was forced to respond in kind, as I dried my hands. I thought that would be the end of it – I mean, what more can be said between two strangers in an office bathroom?

Well, I didn't need to wonder long. As I'm about to leave, he blurts out "So, ya loading, or unloading?"

Uhhh...what?

Thinking that I'd heard him wrong – on account of his accent – I asked, "What?" and he repeated himself. Nope, that's really what he said.

Now, I have no idea what in the hell that question meant – absolutely no idea. In fact, I'm still confused hours later. Was this some Olde English greeting? Some kind of joke? A legitimate question about who-knows-what? I mean, I am in a bathroom so, taken literally, I suppose if I had to chose between the two options, I'd say I was unloading, but that's an awful personal question from a guy I don't know (and a weird and unnecessary one if we did know each other).

"Ya loading or unloading?"

I mean.. what the crap is that?

So, confused as all hell and regretting heavily the three coffees I drank earlier which got me into this mess in the first place, I did the only thing I could think of.

I Lloyd-Christmas'ed my way the fuck out of there.

"Well... see ya later," I said.

And then I left without saying another word and without further eye contact, while the English gent stood there as confused as I had been 10 seconds earlier.

:: Bizarro World ::

First off, an apology.

I'm sorry friends. I truly am. I have caused some of you grief which you did not necessarily deserve, and heartbreak you most certainly did not want. I have wronged you, and I apologize.

You see, it was about 14 months ago that I – somehow, some way, against all odds and the laws of the universe – managed to snag myself a lady friend, and a fantastic one at that (That sound you hear is my stock going up with Christene). But there's been an odd twist over the last little while, too – something that I had not realized until Christene pointed it out earlier this week, during a bit of idle, random conversation.

"Don't you think it's weird that ever since you got a girlfriend, a lot of your friends' relationships haven't worked out?" she asked.

I had never realized it, but she was right. I mean, not to pick at old wounds or anything, but first there was Sean and Rach; then Ian and Bre; and then in an unexpected twist, my buddy Jay split with his wife. And if the gossip mongers are to be trusted (and if you can't trust them, who can you trust?) there has been the odd close call elsewhere as well, which is really none of anybody's business, but is out there nonetheless. Thankfully, each situation seems to have worked out for the best, which eases my guilt ever-so-slightly.

But it's still like bizarro world out there. Up is down, left is right, hamburgers eat people. Nick gets a girlfriend. Everybody else breaks up.

I feel a tinge of guilt, sure. In fact, to quote Bart Simpson after he cruelly sets up Mrs. Krabappel on a blind date with Gordie Howe/Woodrow (who does not exist), "I can't help but feel partly responsible."

I mean, had I known that my happiness would have upset the logical order of things as much as it has... I probably still would have done it. Yeah, I definitely would've still done it.

But I'd feel guilty as hell.

And for those of you out there still together and happy with your significant others, I applaud your resilience.

But be warned: The universe is pissed.

:: Deconstructing an apology ::

Last fall, when the whole Tiger Woods brouhaha erupted, I wrote that contrary to popular belief, the world of athletics – the whole world, some even said – was not crumbling into a pile of porn stars and crumpled Cadillac bumpers. In fact, all that happened was yet another athlete in a long line of them screwed up away from the field/course/rink/park, and lo' and behold, lost some fans, respect, etc.

Basically, I didn't agree with so many who decreed that sports was suddenly not good anymore, now that the Golden Boy had fallen from his perch.

And today, in case you haven't heard, Tiger spoke publicly for the first time since the shit hit the fan. And shortly after his 15 minute-speech - which was not followed by a Q&A session – the pundits came from all corners, critiquing his words, his actions, whether or not he should have cried, and oh, by the way, why wasn't his wife there? And what does that mean, exactly?

If you saw or heard it, you know how it went. He apologized many times, to many different people. Said he'd return to golf but he didn't know when, railed against the paparazzi angrily and told them to leave his family alone. And he said he did what he did because he was rich, famous, and felt – foolishly, wrongly he admitted – that he was successful and thus entitled to enjoy the fruits of his fame.

Post-apology, you had those expected parties – Tiger's "friends" – who jumped quickly to his defence, saying that he truly appeared sorry, he's learned his lesson, that it's a remarkable thing he's done to come clean; I even read online that some media outlet (I can't find the link now) called it one of the most remarkable, important sports apologies of all time, or some BS.

These came from the expected sources – the Golf channels, the few reporters and media groups handpicked by Camp Tiger because his handlers knew they wouldn't cause trouble or make waves... all the media people who "need" Tiger. Tiger's people knew they'd play nice, write nice things, etc..., because they need a continued good relationship with Eldrick to be able to function (apparently). This, of course, turns it from a press conference into an infomercial

And then, of course, are the naysayers. Those who demanded a "different" Tiger – ie: a non-robotic one, with emotions. Those who wanted tears. Those who complained about the lack of access to all but Tiger's friends in the media (As a media person myself, I agree with this criticism, but that's a long-winded post that I'll save you from reading).

But whether you accept his apology as sincere or think it was simply a PR ploy written by his handlers, it really doesn't matter. Why doesn't it matter?

Because he doesn't have to apologize to anybody other than his wife and kids. At least not publicly. Tiger didn't break any laws, didn't cheat (at golf)... Were his actions immoral? Sure. Illegal? Nope. Sure, you can make the argument pretty easily that he's let down his fans and sponsors, but he still doesn't need to apologize to them – he has not directed affected their lives, which was the whole point of my previous column.

Even though I personally don't think he sounded overly sincere, who the hell am I to tell him to be more sincere? To cry or be more contrite? I'm nobody to Tiger Woods; he owes me nothing. And anybody else out there (media or otherwise) who thinks Tiger owes it to the world, and by extension to them, to be more apologetic, more teary-eyed, more emotional – in essence, less Tiger – well, these people are as foolishly self-entitled as Tiger once claims to have been.

I mean, who the hell do you think you are, anyway?

:: Just business ::

There is a scene in one of my favourite movies, The Wedding Singer, in which Adam Sandler's would-be wife visits him a day after standing him up at the altar. In her explanation for her actions she says, among other reasons, something to the effect of "I just don't love you anymore." Pretty boilerplate stuff. But it's Sandler's reaction that I've always loved – an agitated calm that quickly boils over. "These are all things that could have been brought to my attention YESTERDAY!!" he yells.

I could have screamed that same line at my bank today, when they called to inform me that, after finally getting around to looking in-depth at the purchase agreement for the new rowhouse (which I had faxed over, as part of the mortgage process), they realized that they will not – cannot – give me a mortgage, no matter how sparkling our finances may be.

Apparently it just dawned on them that this rowhouse is strata-free despite having common property (not common property in the legal/real estate mumbojumbo sense, but simply that there is a shared roof and the appearance of a shared interior wall. In reality, each house has its own walls, but the exterior facade makes them appear as one).

And apparently, because of this situation, these rowhouses are too risky to give mortgages to. ("What if you need to fix the roof and your neighbour doesn't agree?" the bank lady asked, despite me explaining that the roof warranty actually outlives the mortgage ammortization.)

I tried to plead my case a little bit, but to no avail. It's just company policy, and nothing personal, I was assured. Of course, my answer was to call the situation "horseshit" and declare my intention to pull my accounts entirely. (I'm so full of tact it's frightening).

But I quickly realized why I was so angry. It wasn't just because my house was deemed to be un-mortgageable by this particular bank (after all, two other banks today are quite pleased to give me a mortgage, I discovered after some phone calls), but it was the timing of the situation that pisses me off.

The subjects are to be removed on our new purchase in five days. This is when the bank decided to drop this bombshell on us. Not six weeks ago when we originally went in to inquire about a mortgage – at which time we specifically said what we were looking at buying. And not a week ago, when I contact with the bank's mortgage person again. And not even two days ago, when I first faxed them the contract.

No, any of those days would have been superior to today, which is when they finally decided to call and say, "Sorry, I know you only have five days, but how about starting from square 1 again?

"Don't be mad, it's nothing personal."

But considering that today has been stressful solely on account of their procrastination, I don't think a little personal consideration would've been too much to ask for.

(As an aside, this is the second time I've had to use the anti-Coast Capital label in the past 10 months. I think that speaks volumes. And isn't it credit unions that tout their 'personal touches' make them better than big, faceless, corporate banks? Hmmm.....)

:: New digs ::



Behold, our new house! Or at least a close approximation (our house is indeed brick, but is not an end-unit. This was the best picture I could find online).

We don't move until September-October though, so right now our "new house" is actually a pile of dirt, but it's still exciting. Until then, we'll play the waiting game.

It's been retardedly stressful the last month, between deciding to sell/actually selling/paperwork/offers/revised offers/revised-a-third-time offers/roof issues, etc... but it's all coming to a close now, and in a little less than a month, I'll have vacated my former home and will be temporarily shacking up in Cloverdale, where the rent is cheap (good) and we share a basement with an old, friendly orange cat whose company I've grown to quite enjoy (better) and a large, always stocked wine rack (best).

It's going to be sad to leave this place, for a number of reasons I'll get to in a later post, but for now I won't get to nostalgic for the days of yore (ie: four years ago when Kyle and I used to get blitzed at 3 p.m. on Friday afternoons, watching Simpsons re-runs while others worked.)

No, now is a time for looking forward. To bigger and better things. To new (larger) mortgages, a new address, and most importantly, a new strata-free existence where I can paint my fucking house bright god-damn yellow with blue stripes if I want to and no strata-president douchebag can tell me otherwise.

If it's OK with Christene, of course.

:: I don't have a problem; I'll tell you when I have a problem! ::

I have become something of a chain coffee-drinker.

Take today, for example. Christene has the day off, and since she still woke up before I did, there was coffee made by the time I got out of bed and got dressed. Then, as I finished the last of my cup of coffee, I grabbed my travel mug for the road, which was also filled with sweet, sweet caffeine.

It's now 9:33 a.m. and my big travel mug is finally empty. Which coincides nicely with my department's daily 9:30 a.m. coffee run up the road to Tim Horton's. All told, I will have had coffee in my hand from approximately 7:05 a.m. until 10:30 a.m., non-stop.

Oh well, at least it's not a $1,000-a-day Faberge egg habit.

:: Country-fried America ::

This past weekend, Christene and I went to Seattle, for no reason other than we wanted something to do, and thought Seattle would be fun. We had a grand ol' time – walked around the downtown core a ton; ate a bunch of seafood; went on a historic walking tour of underground Seattle; fought off the advances of some gross homeless bum; and went shopping.

But of all the things we did – and we did a lot in a little more than a day – one of the seemingly minor things that stood out were the two breakfasts we ate: Saturday morning at the IHOP in Bellingham, and Sunday morning at the Denny's just outside Everett.

They have these two establishments in Canada, too, of course, but in both cases, the American menus are quite a bit different. Better, mostly. And also fatter.

One fatter-in-America example: American IHOPs have found a way to combine cake and pancakes with something called the New York Cheesecake pancake.

Another case in point: On both breakfast menus, country-fried steak is featured prominently. This is something that just isn't Canadian. I mean, it's steak, caked in deep-fried batter, fried (of course), and then topped with white gravy, which is approximately 214% fattier than regular gravy (rough estimate). For breakfast!

I mean, we here in Canada are fat – we invented poutine, for fuck's sake – but we're not that fat. Of course, though I mock it, I obviously ordered it on Sunday from Denny's (What can I say? I enjoy local cuisine... it was a cultural experience).

And not only did I order it, but I actually ordered it as part of some artery-choking extravaganza called the Meat Lovers Trio. The trio consisted of the following: country-fried streak covered in country-fried gravy; two sausages, two strips of bacon, two eggs, and then hashbrowns. But not just any hashbrowns – these were "new" hashbrowns, which were covered in cheese and sausage crumbles.

I know it said "trio" and I assume that refers to the three types of meat, but considering there are clearly more than three items, and sausage is in it twice, the number three could easily refer to the number of minutes you have, post-eating, until you keel over and die, or perhaps the number of times – maximum – that you will ever have sex again should you continue to eat in this manner.

At one point, I had on my fork a piece of steak, sausage, bacon, egg, and cheese. All covered in gravy, of course.

What a country.

:: Better switch to Starbucks ::

You know, there are punishments, and then there are punishments, and even though this seems heavy-handed – I mean, all he allegedly did was complain three times about coffee - the customer in question should probably know better.

I mean, taking on Tim Horton's? Are you nuts, sir? That's like badmouthing hockey or spitting on a picture of the Queen – or Wayne Gretzky. It's just not done.

:: Songs stuck in your head ::

As I was sitting here, browsing the Interweb for potential housing purchases (I'm moving - perhaps you've heard), my iTunes, which is on random, started playing some late-'90s Korn song that I didn't even know I had in my playlist.

Anyways, the song itself is pretty forgettable, but I hadn't heard it in ages, and it instantly reminded me of the summer between Grade 12 and college. And it's encouraged me to write a post that I'd been meaning to write for awhile (And actually may have written before, but a quick archive search turned up nothing, so I apologize if this is a repeat).

Through the years, there have been a handful of songs - or collections of songs - that instantly bring up a lot of memories, mostly good. And with that in mind, here they are:

1. Cruisin' Classics
When I was a kid, we took a handful of road trips to California - to go to Disneyland, or to visit my family in Northern California. And we had a handful of tapes (remember them?) for the trip, but the one that got played the most was Cruisin' Classics, which I'm pretty sure was bought at a random gas station one day, for about $3.99. Now, anytime I hear any of the songs from this tape - Rock 'n me by Steve Miller; Don't Worry Be Happy by Bobby McFerrin; Kokomo by the Beach Boys, among others - reminds me of sitting in the back of my parent's Volkswagen van for hours at a time, asking "Are we there yet?! Are we there yet?!"

2. Collective Soul
Anything off Collective Soul's self-titled blue album reminds me of Grade 11 spring break. Chris and my parents had gone out of town somewhere for a hockey tournament, so my parents let my stay home for 4-5 days by myself, along with Jay, who was in the early stages of living with us at the time. We didn't really get up to too much debauchery (because we were nerds), but we did drive around a lot in my dad's Hyundai Sonata, and we left the same Collective Soul CD in the stereo the entire time. And listened to it over and over and over again. So whenever I hear a song off that album, I think of that week - complete with drinking, driving downtown for no reason other than because we could (not while drunk though), playing tennis, and Duke Nukem. Good times.

3. Korn
I already mentioned this off the top, but Korn was still pretty popular when I was in Grade 12. I'd switched schools for my final year of high school, and my new friends were big fans of Korn and metal bands. Whenever I hear, say, Freak on a Leash, for example, all I remember is house parties at my friend Brett's house, which almost always got waay out of hand and would end with cops being called, doors being pulled off the hinges and toilets being shattered. Yes, shattered.

After spending the first 16 years of my life being cripplingly shy, this was the year I finally started coming out of my shell a little bit, mostly because Brett forced me too. He was outgoing, fun, and popular with everybody, and even though I was shy and at a new school, he made a point of dragging me along for the ride, including me in everything, and I always appreciated that.

It was a far cry from Grade 11, where I became something of a pariah because I was too smart, too responsible, not cool enough, etc.. (You know how high school works). I don't see anybody from Grade 12 anymore - not Brett either, because he kind of went sideways after high school, but these are the memories I'm left with.

4. Thunderstruck, AC/DC
Anybody who ever played minor hockey will likely have this song stuck in their head for eternity. It was always the default "hockey warm-up song" during the 5-minute pre-game warmup, and was a go-to song at pretty much every tournament you'd ever go to. It was also the "theme song" of the Langley Thunder, back before they were the Hornets and then, finally, the Chiefs. And when I was 12 or 13, I went to a lot of junior hockey games.

5. Apologize, by Timbaland/One Republic
Not a great song, by any means, but it's a more recent memory. Last spring, when Chris, Jenna, TO, Carly and I went to Las Vegas, this song played in the Monte Carlo casino - where we stayed - over and over again for four days. Now, whenever I hear it, I think of sitting in that casino, in front of a slot machine or video roulette table, drinking my face off, and losing money. So no matter that this song isn't that great, and is definitely not my style, it has grown on me because of what it reminds me of.

6. The Distance, by Cake
The first time I heard this song was when my cousin Brian came to stay with us for a week from his home in California. He was up here for a hockey scouting showcase that Chris was also in, so Brian and a couple of his hockey buddies - Marcus and Beltzy (real name also Brian) - stayed at our house, and they had a Cake CD. I'd never heard of them before, and now they are one of my favourite bands. We had a really great week, and even though I keep in touch with Brian on Facebook, the other two guys have sort of fallen off the radar, which kinda bums me out, because they were great dudes.

7. Any weird punk cover of a previously lame song
Mike likes punk music, and he especially likes really weird music. When I lived in Kamloops, he made me a CD with a ton of weird cover songs by bands I'd never really heard of - like Ghoti Hook, Black Train Jack, MxPx. They covered songs from Celine Dion, Paul Simon, and a bunch of '50s tunes. I still have the CD on my shelf, and the songs are all in my iTunes library (Even the bad quality ones, which suck), so whenever one comes on randomly, I think of driving aimlessly around Kamloops with Mike and Shaun, eating Arby's and stealing garden gnomes.

Feel free to add your own songs/memories in the comments.

:: Indulging the Id ::

id. noun: the part of the mind, residing in the unconscious, that is the source of instinctive impulses that seek satisfaction in accordance with the pleasure principle.

I don't like change. I don't know why exactly, but I don't. Never have. Part of it comes from my being a very organized person – I like to know where something is, when something is happening, what is about to happen. Essentially, I like – I need – my world to be in order. I'm borderline obsessive-compulsive, in this regard. It's not my finest quality, and it's annoying to be point of being quasi-debilitating, but I've learned to deal with it.

The other part of this fear, I figure, stems from my rationality. I am not an irrational, spur-of-the-moment person. Sometimes I wish I was, but I'm just not wired that way. It's been like that all my life, really. I went to school and did my homework because that's what you are supposed to do. And then when I was done that, I went directly to university – did no pass Go, did not collect $200, did not go to Europe, or join a garage band, or a travelling band of gypsies.

And four years later, I did the expected again – I got a job. Surprise, surprise.

The point is, I have almost always done the safe thing – or if not the "safe/smart" thing, then at the very least, the thing that will cause the least amount of upheaval in my life.

But this year is shaping up to be, well, pretty much the opposite because, as of this week, my house is for sale.

Why did I decide to do it? Well, there are plenty of rational reasons – I don't really like my high strata payments nor the strata council itself; Christene lives with me now so more space makes sense; I can make a tidy profit; my place is older and needs a new roof, etc etc etc.

I could go on – and in my head I usually do, considering I tend to need self-reassurance 50 times a day, to convince myself I'm doing the right thing. But here's thing – I might find problems with the strata no matter where I live; Christene insists she has no problem staying where we are; roofs get fixed eventually, and profit or not, a lot of that money gets sucked up in the process of buying a new place.

So... why am I moving? Well, that's what's odd:

I'm moving because I feel like it.

At its core, that's really all it is, I think. I just want something newer, bigger, better. And even though the rational-thinking part of my brain is telling me "That's not a good reason," the other half says that there is nothing wrong with wanting that, whether it's selfish or not.

I mean, sure there is something to be said for being content, and not adopting a grass-is-always-greener philosophy, but if you can make it work, and want it, why not? It's that same reasoning that led me to buy my truck last April. Sure, I didn't need a truck. My car was perfectly fine. But I wanted one, so I bought it – my id run amok after nearly 30 decades of being caged.

And though I've waffled back and forth (much to the chagrin of Christene.. just ask her), it was only this week that I've accepted that this reasoning is perfectly acceptable, perfectly sane.

So yep, time to sell the house.

Now enter that fear of change again – the moving stage.

This entire year – or at least until August – is going to fly in the face of how I like to run my life. You see, the plan is to sell my place first, get the money in hand, and then go about finding another place – about the most irrational thing we could do this side of selling the house outright for $6 and an old boot (Believe me, there were offers).

Partly, this is because many new housing developments require huge deposits/down payments, which of course, are hard to come by unless you've sold the first place first. It'll be OK – we won't be homeless or anything. We're just going to move into Christene's parents' basement, which is where Christene lived before.

And though I know it will be fine, it's completely out of character for me. There I'll be, in a new town (Cloverdale), living out of a suitcase and a couple drawers, all my stuff in storage and scattered around, trying not to go completely batshit crazy until we move again. And the going crazy part isn't a slight against anybody – Christene's parents are awesome – but more an indictment of how neurotic I truly am. I fully expect to get the shakes at some point.

On the plus side, perhaps this will be an opportunity for me to grow as a person – to overcome my crazy fears and realize that the world won't actually come crashing down around me if I haven't done laundry in 2 weeks, can't find any of my stuff, and find myself watching TV on an old couch in the basement, next to Little Mo the family cat.

Or it'll kill me. Guess we'll see.

:: Geez, I didn't see this coming... ::

Oh, wait. I did.

You may recall a few weeks ago, I wrote about the new bathroom policy in my office building – a policy that required a key to use the bathroom. I enjoyed my "private washroom" situation for about a week or so, until a few other people finally discovered it on their own.

Since this brilliant plan was put in place, there have been three keys floating around the office for each washroom. On Sunday, one of our male employees – who knows that the keys also open the handicapped room – tried to use the handicapped washroom, but the key snapped off in the lock, thus breaking the key and ruining the lock.

Down to 2 keys.

Then this morning, after building maintenance removed the broken key and apparently fixed the lock, I took one of the remaining keys and also tried to unlock the handicapped room. Of course, the lock was still broken, and the key got stuck in the lock. It didn't break, but it cannot be removed.

We are now down to one key, and the handicapped washroom is now not lockable. The holder of the remaining key (well, it's his department's key) tried to blame us for using the handicapped washroom.

"If you just used the proper washroom, this wouldn't have happened," he said.

This logic is flawed, to say the least. Doesn't matter if I needed to use it or not (full disclosure: I did not need the privacy of this washroom. I just felt like using it). The fact is that this washroom is available for use. It's not banned. Fuck, it's not even frowned upon.

It's a readily available washroom that I'm entitled to use. The problem wasn't that somebody used it – the problem was that the lock was broken and not repaired properly.

It's like somebody getting in a car accident, and then someone else saying, "You know, if you never left the house, this wouldn't have happened."

I can't wait until the third and final key goes missing. We'll all be pissing into coffee cups.

:: File this under "Not Surprising" ::

Chris and Jenna are in Edmonton this week, for a hockey tournament. On Wednesday night, they went to the Canucks-Oilers game. As you may be aware, the Oilers – losers of 15 of 16 heading into the game – blew a late lead, and the Canucks won it in overtime.

Had this result been in Vancouver, the rink would've been filled with Wooo!'s (which to the uninitiated, is the newest fad, Rick Flair-esque cheer at GM Place). Apparently, the numerous Canuck fans in attendance in Edmonton – Chris said "at least half" were wearing Canuck jerseys – tried to recreate this trend. Some more, uh, directly, than others.

Chris, via text message: Oh, there are some unhappy Oiler fans in here. This is hilarious, I don't think I can get enough Rick Flair's in before I leave.

Me: Haha, excellent work. Woo it up.

Chris: Oh, I did. Everyone was doing it. Especially me. Very loud too. And right in people's faces.

Me: Are you drunk?

Chris: No, buzzed maybe.... only had like seven beers.

:: Time limit ::

Twice this morning, people I've been talking to on the phone have wished me a "Happy New Year."

Granted, today was the first time I've talked to them this calendar year, but still, isn't it a little late? At some point you've just got to cut your losses and move on.

:: Bathroom Genius ::

As of this week, the washrooms in our company's building – which we share with one other business and many empty suites – require a key to enter. This is partly to do with the building changing ownership, and the new company wanting this rule, and partly because having unlocked toilets is an apparent security risk.

Not sure what security risks are posed by a urinal, toilet and a couple sinks – terrorist activity is pretty low 'round these parts – but whatever the case, this is the situation we're faced with. None of us like it – we think it's a tad unnecessary, not to mention a bit of a privacy invasion, reminiscent of elementary school when you had to ask permission to pee. I mean, some of us pee an awful lot, which is what happens when you drink 3 cups of coffee, a Diet Coke and about 5 glasses of water in an eight-hour shift, but so much for sneaking out gracefully and quietly....

There are about 4 keys for both the women's and men's rooms (soon to be less, as people lose them. My department has already lost one. It was bound to happen.), which is fine, but there is also a separate handicapped washroom on our floor, and the building owners did not give us a key to this washroom. Now, there are no handicapped people in our office, but this bathroom is the only one that isn't communal in style – and it is also a bit out of the way – and as such is very popular for people who have to drop a deuce, or just like their privacy.

There was the usual uproar about how we should ask for or demand a key from building management, but nothing has come of it quite yet, and the uproar has largely died as the week has gone on, as people learn to accept that they'll no longer be able to shit in peace.

What they did not do, however, is take one of the regular men's/women's keys and try it in the handicapped washroom door, just to see what would happen.

But I'm smarter than everyone else so I, of course, did this right away. And ever since Tuesday, I've had my own private bathroom, because I haven't told anyone about my discovery.

And I don't plan on doing it, either.

:: How to ruin a conversation you no longer have an interest in ::

In the department adjacent to mine, I overheard three of my colleagues talking about wild animals, and more specifically, close encounters with these animals. At first, I was mildly interested – one story involved a cougar in a campsite, another had something to do with being about 10 feet away from a bear, another still involved a wolverine, I think.

But though my curiousity was temporarily piqued, the conversation officially Jumped the Shark when one colleague started a story this way, and I'm paraphrasing here (but not by much):

"One time a badger ran in front of our truck..."

At this point, one of the others (the guy who told the wolverine and bear story) stopped her in her tracks with a "A badger? C'mon..."

And you know what? He was right to do it. I mean, seriously – you're bringing a badger story to the table? A fucking badger?

Of course, the badger-tale teller tried to defend her story – which she of course hadn't even finished – and this conversation/disagreement went back and forth for a few annoying minutes, before I'd finally had enough*.

So, what did I do? Well I walked over there, pretending to listen for a few minutes, thus immersing myself in this conversation about badgers, and then said, with a straight face, "Who cares about a badger? A couple summers ago I came face-to-face with a Werewolf. Now that was scary."

Then I walked away. The looks I got were, of course, full of bewilderment, and I'm not entirely sure anybody knew how to respond. Was I actually serious - he can't be serious, can he? Was I being funny? Was I mocking them?

Needless to say, it killed the conversation right there on the spot. Mission accomplished.

*full disclosure: This was the second time today a loud, mostly useless conversation came from this part of the office, so my patience was wearing thin already.

:: Track records and over-reacting ::

"When you said you were coming over, I thought we were going to have to clean out the basement again." - Christene's mom, when Christene went home for dinner one night this week, without me, because I had a prior commitment.

I guess this sort of thing has happened before.

:: Celebrating in style ::

This weekend marked Christene's and my one-year anniversary. Technically, it's not an exact date - if you wanted to get technical, it might be New Year's Eve - but we figured that, in order to distance the occasion from the holidays, whatever weekend is closest to Jan. 7 would be our weekend.

We decided early that we'd go out for a nice dinner - we decided on The Keg because we're predictable (and it's delicious) - and then we also decided we should do something "fun" earlier in the day. Trouble was, we didn't think up anything ahead of time, so on Saturday morning (after a healthy sleep-in by yours truly) we tried to come up with something. In typical fashion, it was Christene who came up with all the ideas:

Science World, IMAX, Capilano Suspension Bridge, some museum in Burnaby that she inexplicably likes, the States, etc....

And in typical fashion, I pretty much shot every idea down. Not because I'm a jerk, but because anything that involves going downtown immediately gets a strike against it. I just don't like going into Vancouver. I guess I'm lazy. Eventually, I got on board for the States, but once we had breakfast/lunch, we quickly realized this was not feasible - there simply wasn't enough time in the day. I guess we should've thought it up the night before, and left earlier in the morning.

In the end, after returning from breakfast, we tried our best to salvage the day, but still, could not agree on anything to do. So what did we do, you might ask? Well, we took a "nap" which was then followed by, well, an actual nap.

For more than three hours.

We woke up just before 4 o'clock. And the thing was, we weren't really that upset about our "wasted day." It occured to us, as a matter of fact, that this is just who we are:

People who make grand plans for their big day, and then end up doing absolutely nothing, yet still are perfectly content. Better than content, actually.

Eventually, we got our act together and went for dinner, and this is when our day hit another snag: The Keg had a two hour waiting list. And that was just for the bar! (Or so we overheard somebody say).

So now our day was really shot (no surprise) , but again, we salvaged it by going to our favourite Greek place, Galini, which turned out to be fitting actually, because it's where we actually went for dinner last year, right before the New Year's Eve party at Brett and Tara's. We followed that will some Marble Slab and a quick jaunt to the casino, before retiring for the evening at about 10 oclock. Christene went to bed (she had started not to feel well earlier in the day) and I stayed up to watch the Canucks/Flames game that I had PVRed.

So all in all, 'twas a fantastic day. Just not exactly the one we'd planned. But then again, we didn't really "plan" anything at all. So if there's anything I've taken from this experience, it's this:

Even if you fail to plan ahead for your one-year anniversary, don't make reservations anywhere, and for no real reason fall asleep for hours upon hours right smack in the middle of the day, you will still get laid and get a good meal.

Take notes, fellas.

:: I've had to remind myself of this many times over the last 48 hours ::

"I never make the mistake of arguing with people for whose opinion I have no respect." - Edward Gibbon

:: Oh, now I remember why the gym sucks ::

Last night, I went to the gym for the first time in awhile. It was obviously busy - as it is every January, as people try to make good on their New Year's resolutions. By mid-March the crowds have thinned out, but yesterday it was busy.

My gym is also quite small, and there are only five or so treadmills. When I was there, four of these treadmills were occupied by four mid-20s bleach blonde guys - the typical douchey gym rats. I didn't know just how douchey, however, until about the five-minute mark.

As I watched from a stationary bike, I realized that these four guys were all at the gym together, and not only that, but they appeared to be "racing" each other.

Yes, racing each other. On treadmills.

They were really into it, too. At one point, two of the guys actually high-fived each other, so pleased with themselves were they. Yes, while running. It was at this point that Ed Hardy himself (is he even a real guy?) could not have made them any more douchebaggy.

Douchiness notwithstanding, the real problem here is that they were racing. Did I mention they were on treadmills? They kept the "race" going for about 5-6 minutes, at least. And they really seemed to be getting into it. The problem, in case you haven't already figured it out, is that treadmills aren't ideal for racing.

Sure, the four guys kept bumping their respective speeds up and up and up, but the thing is, once one guy gets to a level that nobody else can manage, it's over. Just stop. He wins. He's the fastest. Simple math suggests that, whether you are racing to 1 km or 1,000 km, he's getting there first. There are no speed bursts, so slowing down, no winning by a nose. No drafting. No nothing.

Just one speed. That's it.

If they were simply goofing around, then maybe I'd give them a break, but I couldn't tell for sure that they were, and - judging simply by the high levels of douchery - I would guess that they were more serious than not.

God I'll be glad when the herd thins again, and all the gotta-get-in-shape-for-2010 folks give up and head back to watch TV. Because one they're on the couch, they can high-five all they want.