Another Christmas Letdown?

Christmas is a time of year that many look forward to. Some begin the Christmas countdown months in advance and are not shy to put up their tree well before the first thought of snow. Christmas is a time to enjoy family and friends, have a few cocktails while enjoying one another's company. What also comes with this is time of year is the kind act of exchanging and receiving Christmas gifts. Many love being showered in wonderful gifts from friends and family members because well…. who doesn’t like ripping open that wrapping paper to see a gift they have always wanted, or had specifically asked Santa to bring? Well, one person doesn’t, and that person is me. Now some of you might be thinking... Is this guy for real? Does he have a heart? Do we have a real modern day Scrooge on our hands?

Now don’t get me wrong, I like Christmas. I like the whole family get-together thing, Christmas parties (minus work parties and the overplayed “Ugly Christmas Sweater Party” that stopped being funny in 2007) and the giving of Christmas gifts. The one thing I do not enjoy about Christmas is opening gifts. For the past few years I have set the bar relatively low as to what I was hoping to receive in order to avoid the whole feeling of being letdown. The past two Christmases most notably I have been on the receiving end of gifts that did not only fail to meet the bar that I had set, they actually didn’t even come close. I understand completely that yes, it is the thought that counts, however how much thought did a person put into a gift that was 3 sizes larger than your actual size and did not come with a tag or receipt for any chance of a return? Or that sweater from last year with flames and an embroidered dragon on it (Oh Christmas 2010, one to remember...)?

This all being said, I have decided to take a new approach for Christmas 2011; having zero expectations and not setting any kind of bar because there is nothing that will surprise me anymore. In fact I don’t even want to open a single Christmas present this year, avoiding the standard Christmas Letdown.

(Important fact to note, the two gifts mentioned above were from the same person two years in a row. I have polled around on potential gifts for this Christmas: the top two answers: 1) Previously viewed Season 1 of the Sopranos and the Nutty Professor, and 2) Nothing).

Merry Christmas

On The Issue Of...

...Living Next Door To A Crazy Cat Lady...

"Get out! Get the fuck out!!"

This is what I awoke to at around 6:30am just about a month ago. Am I in some stranger's house? What happened last night? Did I go home with a rocket? I spun around and opened my eyes.

Latchelor apartment. Bed. Empty, save for this old relic. Regular Tuesday morning. What the fuck? Disoriented. Ten seconds pass.

A shriek.

"Get ouuuuuuutttt!!!"

A revelation. It's just the old fuckin' cat lady next door. Presumably the cats were making sexual advances on her again, and she wasn't havin' it. Get the fuck out, indeed.

The only known photo of the cat lady.

You see, I live next door to a bat-shit crazy old cat lady. I also happen to live in an apartment building with walls no thicker than tissue paper. Hence, the cat lady may as well be my roommate. Any tiny little peep made in this apartment building will be heard by your neighbour. She hears my contrived attempts to croon like Sam Cooke when I'm doing the dishes. I get woken up by her sneezing fits at 6:45am every other day. She bore witness to the time I brought a girl home two-and-a-half years ago, presumably covering her ears for the entire minute and 17 seconds. I get to listen to her make monkey noises at her cats. She bangs on the wall when I play a palm-muted version of Wheat Kings on the acoustic guitar at 10:45pm. I mumble "for fuck's sake lady" when she starts crashing around before 7:00am. And so we've built a wonderful life together. BRFs. Best Roomies Forever.

I see her in the elevator sometimes. Once every five months we happen to cross paths while running errands.  I even went to her apartment once to give her a bag of cat food that I had no use for after my parents adopted my beloved, if troubled, feline friend Johnson (the cat food gift was really a front for a reconnaissance mission – as expected, her apartment is a glimpse into the 1980s). I would describe our relations as cordial. I overlook the fact that she bangs on the wall every time I have friends over – no matter what time; she forgives me for sleepily telling her to "fuck off" when the cats get rowdy in the morning – I always regret my choice of language afterwards, but never apologize.

I once came home at 7:00am after working an overnight shift. I was pretty tired. She was walking one of the cats in the hall. I was initially unsurprised. This is back when I still had a cat of my own. On closer inspection, the cat she was walking looked just like mine. I thought maybe she had decided that three cats of her own simply wouldn't suffice. I thought maybe I'd forgot to lock the door the previous night. I thought maybe she'd snuck her way in and made off with Johnson. I thought she was now parading my cat around the eighth floor hallway; showing her off to all the other depressed apartment dwellers twiddling off to work that morning, or whatever it is these mysterious people do with their lives. I ducked into my apartment and quickly scanned the room. There was Johnson, lying on the bed, doing whatever it is a cat does when its owner isn't around. Turns out she didn't steal my cat. Hmmm.

Anyways, I don't really have a tidy way to end this little story. To sum up:

- crazy neighbour has lots of cats

- doesn't like music, or seemingly anything, really

- I used to have a cat

- hearing everything your neighbour does eases your own fears that you're some weird creep who would have no friends if any of them knew you occasionally talk to yourself

Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas from the Boizzzzzz

T’was the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not an ipod was playing, not even deamau5.

The stockings were hung by the wobbly table,

In hopes that St Nick would bring the boys cable.

Yeamax and Colin, nestled snug in their beds,

While visions of touches danced in their heads.

And Bert in his skinny’s, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the road there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the lobby I followed the noise,

And there I found Santa, and a sleigh full of boiizzz!

With a little topsy turvey, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Brodie! now, Howie! now, Dusty and Dickson!

On, Saunders! On, Latsy! on, on Angus and Stephen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each of those goofs.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney the boizz came with a bound.

They were dressed in all plaid, from their head to foot,

And their clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of beers they had flung on their back,

And each had a bottle, the boizz sipping some jack.

Their eyes were all fuckey! Latsy’s dimples - how merry!

Skin more red than roses, the boizz smelt like cheap sherry!

Skeet’s droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

I’d seen this before, but still couldn’t render,

How they tricked old Santa into this bender?

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Santa was shitfaced, a reason to dread,

They spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings, only coal for old Derk!

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

One of the lads let a burp go, up the chimney they rose!

Santa sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere they drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

What your cardboard cut out says about you...

Ousted from your group? Does the stress of making new friends get you down? Seeking comfort from an inanimate, 100% recyclable life size mock up of your favourite celebrity? If you answered yes to one or all of the questions listed above, never fear Mr. Lonely, you are not alone.

With social media tightening its grasp on human interaction, thousands of socially awkward Canadians have turned to the card board cut out for some heterosexual companionship. Not only do you get a famous face in your home every day, the cardboard cut out is a great listener! The epitome of the strong silent type (depending on the quality of your cut out, so don’t cheap out alligator arms!).

Once the decision to give up on the human race is made, an equally big decision looms. Which cardboard cut out do you purchase from the inter web and proudly display, at the foot of your bed, looking over you as if it were your guardian angel (personal preference)? Do you go father figure (Tom Hanks) or wise guy (Rodney Dangerfield), famous athlete (Wayne Gretzky) or digital temptress (Lara Croft)? Unlike the majority of the social relationships in your life, you actually get some say in which people you surround yourself with! Imagine that...

Choosing which cardboard cut out is for you is a big decision. If you decide that you’d prefer to crawl back to those hooligans you call friends and partake in “normal” social behaviour that is your right. There is no turning back from the cardboard world so please give it some thought. If you bail please don’t make fun of a person for preferring cardboard to human flesh, after all, YOU DID THIS TO US with your constant facebook status updates and lol-less tweets, YOU DID THIS!!!!!

Here is a quick glance at some of the most popular cardboard cut outs available and what ownership of these cut outs might say about a person. This look is just one man’s opinion, I know you didn’t ask for it but hey....you drove here.

Forrest Griffin

Former UFC light heavy weight champion and TUF season 1 winner. Owners of this cut out fancy themselves a bit of a tough guy and for the most part are not very intelligent. You can pick these people out by their self deprecating sense of humour and lack of personal hygiene. The smug look on Forrest’s face suggests he is unimpressed, and guess what? He is. Owners of this cut out are often looking to be motivated and like to push their motivation onto others. Personal trainers, coaches and former pro athletes are most likely to own this cut-out. It is available on hollywoodgaleries.net, a few clicks further and Forrest can be at your house in 5-7 business days for less than a 2-4 of Steamwhistle at your closest beer store.

People who own Forrest are also likely to buy: Chuck Norris, Mr. T and Tum Tum from 3 Ninja’s.

Barack Obama

...Motherfucker! YES WE CAN...People who have chosen the first black president of the United States have an inherent interest in all things political. Despite their obvious social short comings owners of this cut-out are usually real go getters and often very successful. Hope is their mantra and if they can dream it, hell, they can achieve it. If the latter isn’t true than people who own this cut-out might be categorized as “suckers for a smile”. For 32.99 at hollywoodmegastore.com you can smile along with President Obama as the U.S economy sinks deeper into the toilet. STOP LOOKING AT ME BARACK!

People who own President Obama are also likely to buy: Michael Jordan, Kim Campbell and Mister Magoo.

Harry Potter

Yes this is Harry Potter, if you know the actual name of the actor who plays Harry Potter please turn off your computer and promptly jump off the highest building within walking distance. Maybe Harry will save you? Owners of this cut-out are big fans of the fantasy books and movies. The fantasy genre in general is of great interest to them. You can find them playing Quidditch at Ottawa University on Sundays and contemplating becoming a wizard by trade. They can also be found in your local Chapters reading all the books but not paying for any of the books. If you know a guy or girl who is over 12 and has a life size Harry Potter cut-out in their house please punch them in the face immediately...they are going down a deep dark path that will eventually lead to the RCMP breaking down their door and taking all those pictures of 12 year olds saved on secure hard drives. If you want to buy this for someone younger than 12 here is the website, http://www.harrypottercutouts.com/ just promise you’ll burn it upon their graduation from Hogwarts.

People who own Harry also are likely to buy: Bilbo Baggins, Yoda and Paul Bertrand.

Joe Paterno

People who own this cut-out typically don’t have the best luck and don’t really know what’s going on around them. They are often loyal to a fault, trusting and have been known to be the scapegoats for an entire university’s poor decision making. Owners of a JoePa cut out aren’t as sharp as they used to be and could be part of a publicity stunt by those in power that will back fire terribly and leave the individual blacklisted from the communities they spent their lives building...Go Nittany Lions! Get em while you can folks, they won’t be for sale for long... http://www.thestudentbookstore.com/ePOS/form=robots/item.html&item_number=W40560&store=520

College football won’t be the same without you Joe!

People who own JoePa also are likely to buy: John Madden, Phil Jackson and Santa.

The Latest From Drake

Listen carefully. Not quite the motto but it's good to know Drake is on board.

Conservatives table legislation to outlaw snowball throwing

Bill C-17 proposes a minimum three month jail term for snowball throwing.

Ottawa – The Conservative government introduced another controversial piece of law-and-order legislation in the House of Commons today. Bill C-17, Adam's Law, seeks to make snow ball throwing a criminal offence. The proposed legislation is named for Adam Olinivitch who spent an entire afternoon in hospital being treated for a bloody nose after being hit in the face with a snowball on February 12, 2009 . If passed, bill C-17 will implement a mandatory minimum sentence of three months in prison for throwing snowballs.

"The Conservative government is sending a strong message to snowball throwers across the country with this important piece of legislation," remarked Justice Minister Rob Nicholson as part of his presentation of Adam's Law. "On May 2nd the Conservative government was given a strong mandate by Canadians to get tough on crime and stand up for victims. This bill helps deliver on our campaign promises by setting meaningful consequences for criminals, and offering real support to victims."

The minister cited 500,000 incidents of snow ball throwing in 2010, with at least 40,000 cases of injury or psychological trauma being inflicted upon the victim, as well as "countless" unreported incidents.

Nicholson fought off NDP house leader Joe Comartin's assertion that snowball throwing has been on the decline for three decades. "Reporting levels for these types of crimes are very low," insisted the minister. "And we've made it quite clear to this House and to Canadians that we don't govern on the basis of statistics."

 

Although smaller in scope than the much-maligned Safe Streets and Communities Act introduced in parliament last month, the current bill has also drawn criticism from a broad range of criminal justice experts. University of Toronto criminologist Anthony Doob decried the bill for proposing to criminalize what he sees as  a national pastime. "I have studied criminology for 25 years, and I have never seen a government overstep its bounds so flagrantly in the realm of criminal justice as this government has. I mean, snowball throwing? Really? What's next, a ban on laughter? This is ludicrous." The National Bar Association, the Canadian Civil Liberties Association, and hosts of youth have also come out in opposition of the proposed legislation.

Although criticism of the bill is widespread, the union representing elementary school principles and vice-principles has taken a strong stand in favour of the legislation. "We have been lobbying government for years to institute a law of this sort. Snowball throwing has become an epidemic on the playgrounds of schools across Canada. No longer will a handful of bullies be allowed to terrorize their classmates. I commend the Conservatives for taking strong and decisive action," remarked Mary Coal, president of the Canadian Union of Educational Administrators.

Prime Minister Stepen Harper spoke out in the House of Commons earlier today, accusing opposition parties'  criticism of Adam's Law as "being soft on crime". "We are living in a time of economic uncertainty in which we can ill afford to allow the reckless behaviour of snowball throwing to go unchecked. It's bad for our communities, it's bad for the economy, and quite frankly, by not supporting this law the opposition parties are telling Canadians that they don't care about victims of crime."

When pressed by Liberal Justice critic Marlene Jennings to articulate the negative effect that snowball throwing has on the Canadian economy, Harper accused the Notre-Dame-de-Grâce–Lachine MP of attempting to play divisive politics. "We simply cannot afford to play games of this nature while Canada's economic recovery hangs in the balance," the clearly agitated Prime Minister objected.

The second reading of the bill is slated for early November, after which it will be sent to the Standing Committee on Justice and Human Rights for review.

On the issue of...

...Keeping it on the rails...

“You keeping it on the rail’s tonight big guy?” – Pretty common question received by this old chunk of coal. Most often on a Friday or Saturday evening, when I get the question on a school night the answer is most probably no.

Thing about it is, it’s a tough call. Most of the time, the decision is made before you even know it. Like yesterday...I found myself spinning around in circles in my office chair. The amount of restless energy in that cubicle is on the same level as the amount of energy found in the core of a nuclear reactor (Only difference; when I melt down the effects won’t be felt by millions, only by my bank account and liver). In hindsight, that’s when I knew the answer was no; “no I am not keeping it on the rails tonight.”

“Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles and down 10 beers and 6 gin and tonics” – Shakespeare...ohhh Bill, you get me every time.

What it usually comes down to is a reason. Is there a reason to keep it on the rails? Do I need to make it into work on time tomorrow? Do I fear that if that girl see’s the real me she’ll go running for the hills faster than you can say olo? Tough call indeed. My advice; down a jager bomb, smash the glass on the ground and revel in the violence.

“You keeping it on the rails tonight big guy?”... I never had a choice.

bloggers note: I'm unaware of how nuclear energy is actually produced, I think the analogy works and if you don't like it you can kiss my olo

The Last Twenty Days

20 days without a blog,
Where did the latches go?
20 days without a blog,
To live a life OLO

Some stuff has happened since we last spoke,
But where do I begin?
Tats and concerts and Cocktober Fest,
And the occasional love-in.

This shit is tough we do our best,
So you should stick around.
Who really cares, get the hell out,
But the good times are abound.

If only we had more time to write,
Who knows what we could do.
We'd try to blog but likely just get,
Another round of matching tattoos.

20 days without a blog,
Where did the latches go?
20 days without a blog,
To live a life OLO.

Evolution of a Nickname

Hi everyone, my name is Dale.

Dale was not the name I was given on my day of birth. No, like many nicknames, this particular handle was given to me much later in life. The first time somebody called me Dale, I just knew it would stick. Nicknames are funny that way.

What’s in a name? Not much. What’s in a nickname? A whole hell of a lot.

I’d always hoped my nickname would be something cool. Perhaps a reference to Johnson size, something like the Hammer maybe. But see that’s the thing about nicknames…you can’t pick them. In high school, I thought it made sense that my nickname would be D-Mac but it just never materialized. See our high school already had a D-Mac.

So until that unforgettable day, my name was simply Dave.

It was a day like any other in high school. Early in the semester, students were all eager to make a good first impression with their newest lot of educators. David MacDonald was no different. As I walked into that English class, my goal was simple. Keep a low profile. Get in and get out type of thing. The attendance sheet made its way around the room and I found myself temporarily distracted by the soothing baritones of the teacher as she set the stage for what sounded like a terrifying semester. The attendance sheet skipped by but my seat mate, let’s call him the Ram Man (Another excellent nickname story) assured me that my name had been recorded.

It came time for the first call out of the year. A question was posed to the scholarly gathering, a question that I knew I could not answer. The inquisitor glanced down at the attendance sheet in front of her and stalked her first victim.

“Dale” she said sternly…

I was off the hook. I had dodged the impending embarrassment and some poor sap named Dale was now on the hot seat.

“Dale” she repeated, this time with an intensity that made me pity poor Dale.

It was the first day of the semester and the new kid (I didn’t know any Dales at this school) had been called on to answer the most complicated of questions. Poor, poor Dale. As I glanced up from my desk, reality hit me like a high-speed locomotive. You see, that bull of a teacher was looking at me. That’s impossible I remember thinking. My name is David, Dave perhaps, but Dale?

“You are DALE!” she barked out her eyes locked directly on me.

You see the Ram Man had hoodwinked me. When filling out the attendance sheet, he had written DAVE with that V on an extreme angle giving it the appearance of an L. Yep, I was Dale and it was pretty clear I would be from that point on.

The name has evolved over the years. Dusty Daley…Dusty…Daley Double…Ding Dong Daley…LaDale. But in the end, among the Lads anyway, my name is Dale and it seems pretty clear it will be from here on out.

Like Yeamax, D wreck, Skeet, Bert, CC, White Ron, Dumpy, Hook, Latsy, Dirk, Anus, Clinger, Savs, Mick, Brode, Jules/Buckpitt, Stinky, Petey, Donzo, Smitty, Howie, Jammer, Foss, Dodd Dogg, Vonner, Kelvy, JWo, AM Radio, PermaBone, Dinkson, Zogs, Kaner, Cormer, the Big Sleeze, Ram Man/Crash Man, and the Hurricane all found out, the name you are given at birth rarely sticks.

How To Make a Manhattan (A Picture Blog! [A Plog!])

Start with a low-ball full of ice.  This ensures a nice, cool drink.

Then you want to take your Angostura Brand Bitters.  Not the same thing as your feelings towards your ex-wife, but similar in their high alcohol content.

 

Get a few drops inndya!  3-4 drops, or "dashes" as they're known in the industry, will do just fine.  It's potent stuff.

Here we have our Martini Rossa Vermouth.  Sweet vermouth differs from dry vermouth in it's red colour and completely different flavour.

Only need about a quarter oz. of this stuff.  Toss it in there!

WHABAMM!  We're half way there people.

Here we have the bourbon.  A Manhattan without whiskey is like a bun without a dog, utterly useless.  This is the finest and coincidentally also the cheapest bourbon at the Commission.  For a sweeter, less spicy and more patriotic Manhattan, substitute bourbon for rye.

The discerning eye will notice that this is the same photo as was used for the vermouth.  Well I lost the photo I took of the shot of bourbon, so use your gosh darn imaginations people!  A full oz. of whiskey is required.

Oh a combo pic! Here we have the near-complete Manhattan with ice, bitters, vermouth and whiskey.  Take an orange, slice a small wedge, and rim that glass like its your job.  Clockwise motion works best.

Take a very sharp knife and cut the wedge in half.  Eat section and discard peel.  Toss other section with peel into cocktail.  Using the same sharp knife (sharpness is necessary for optimum hydrodynamics at this stage), stir half-vigorously three or four times.  Do not lick the knife! Just put it in the sink and call it a day.

Here we go team. Take a sip of that bad boy! Here is the finished product, forlornly gazing out the window, thinking of loves lost and opportunities passed by.  Manhattan, man, you're trouble.  You should be seeing a psychiatrist, but why on earth did you come here?

On The Issue Of...

...Making it to class on time…

You see, this is all very familiar to me, though it’s been a while. I finished the undergraduate portion of my university life at the end of 2009. We now find ourselves eight-and-a-half months through 2011. In economic terms, we are in the third quarter. If the calendar year were a game of hockey, we’d be a few minutes into the third period. In soccer, well…who cares, right? My point is that it’s been nearly two full years since I stepped foot on a university campus for any sort of meaningful or lawful purpose.

I’ve been back in school for precisely 9 days. The transition from being a part-time professional tickler to a full-time student has had its trials, though I’ve mostly experienced the transition in a seamless manner – the same smooth efficacy that you’d expect from an expensive watch, the Swiss rail system, or a Steve Nash no-look scoop pass. I’ve diligently purchased my textbooks, completed required course readings, and engaged with my professors in a manner you’d expect from a student who takes his newfound responsibilities seriously. I’ve even got myself a day-planner. Yes, I feel like I am now important – and busy – enough to structure my days by the iron fist of the rigid, oppressive agenda – the same tool that we all knew and loathed in middle school.

The part of school that I can’t seem to grasp is the concept of arriving to class – or any commitment, for that matter – on time. As of last evening I had arrived to every class, meeting, orientation, luncheon, and informal drop-in party late. I’ve never been much for punctuality, but my so-far flawless record of tardiness is also uncharted territory for me. Like any respectable lad, I usually try to play the middle. So far, not so good.

And so I found myself at 11:20am this morning, rushing out the door to make it to class. The fact that I live just over ten minutes from campus surely doesn’t help me get out of the house on time. Do you know how much you can accomplish between 11:08 and 11:20am? Not a whole hell of a lot. Certainly less than you think. In fact, it’s somewhere between nothing and trying to brush your teeth while eating almonds and fiddling with your iPod; desperately scrolling to find that perfect nut-gnashing, teeth-scrubbing, soul-invigorating jam that you were blasting the last time you found yourself in this outrageous predicament.

At 11:21 you kick down the door of your apartment, veer left and punch the elevator button an inch into the concrete wall. Inevitably the elevator takes what feels like an eternity to crawl to the eighth floor. Mercifully, it grinds its way to the top, doors blasting open so aggressively that you begin to wonder if you should really board this vintage lift, or just settle for the stairs. Of course, a split second after the first elevator threateningly announces its presence, the one right next to it gently opens, beckoning you inside with its elegant faux-wood paneling.

Being a man of adventure, you shun the gentle elevator in favour of its boisterous kin. It proves the wise choice, as you arrive at the ground floor of your apartment in record time, left wondering whether the elevator was in free fall or if the ancient beastliness of the car’s interior is simply a disguise for the post-modern technology they’ve recently installed in the building. You opt to forget about it in favour of again fiddling with your iPod, this time in an attempt to put on some serious fast-walking music. You intend to make it to class on time, and you’re gonna get all the help you can manage from good ol’ Zach de la Rocha and comrades.

You make it to campus without incident. The highlight: a middle aged woman smiles at you. She may have blurted out some sort of pleasantry regarding your $4 purple sunglasses, but your Olympic-calibre speed walk meant you couldn’t quite decipher exactly what was said. And you sure as hell weren’t about to stop and ask her to repeat herself. You do know one thing: you’ve got an ally in this world. You begin to quicken your gait. You’re gonna make it.

Campus. The Gauntlet. The real test. You pass under the OC Transpo underpass, which has recently been segregated into bike lanes and pedestrian lanes. In spite of the fact you could make some serious headway by walking in the bike lane, you decide that if you were on a bike, you would run yourself over just for allowing such a thought to cross your mind. You deferentially move to the right. After passing a couple of giggling sloths, you dodge the garbage can planted squarely in the middle of your lane, and needle your way through the throng of people gathered at the end of the tunnel.

You bound up the steps and into the sea of chaos that is the University of Ottawa campus at the start of lunch hour. Somebody immediately bumps into you. “Sorry, bro.” Right. Turn your collar down.

Neglecting for a fleeting moment that you’re late, you stop to survey the scene and draw up your plan of attack. All you see are breasts. What is wrong (right!) with these girls? Absolutely nothing, you decide, and you lurch abruptly forward, forgetting what it was you had stopped for. Now you are distracted, but with good cause.

You ask yourself: “can I cut through the library to get to my class?” Yes, but remember that you’ve never been in the library and you are therefore 100 percent guaranteed to get lost. You opt to take the long way, right into the army of shills trying in vain to get you to become a member of the society of Nobody-Cares-About-This-Cause-Except-Us.

“Excuse me, do you have a minute to talk?”

“Yes I do! You must know by the way I have my headphones jammed into my ears to the point that they’re bleeding; the fact that I’m trying desperately to avoid eye contact with anyone; and the walking pace that I’ve adopted, inspired by what I want to do to your neck!”

He gets the point and gets out of the way, narrowly dodging the forearm shiver you direct at his pointy chin.

You blast down the final straightaway, careening past the first years who think not showering and wearing sweatpants to class is a unique fashion statement, take a quick exhale of cigarette smoke to the face, and scale the nine steps to your final destination. As you turn down the volume on the seductive crooning of Adam Levine (who the hell put this thing on shuffle?) you note the time: 11:29am. It only took a dozen tries, but you’ve done it. You’re on time.

The First 28 Minutes.

The time is 10:35AM on September, 14^th, 2011. I wake up.

The first realization is that I am in my bed. The second – I am alone. So much for my efforts with Kate last night. OK. I am wearing the same shirt I had on last night and in a terrifically sad effort to ready myself for bed, my pants are around my ankles.

I always have two glasses of water beside my bed for when I wake up, sober or drunk, I fill them. I reach over for the water. They are empty. Shit.

“Why didn’t I fill my water when I got home..? I always fill my water... Did I get drunk last night? What happened yesterday...? Why are clothes still...? Uh oh.”

The mornings first real moment of clarity – I blacked out last night.

The time is 10:43AM on September, 14^th, 2011. Time to think fast, Skeet.

I roll over to my other side and grab my cell phone. At least it is in its usual spot. First order of business, text history. The last text received is from a friend by the name of Alison, it reads, “Where did you go?”. I didn’t reply. Shortly after there is a text to friend by them name of Chris, it reads, “Call me ASAP.” The only other message, in or out, after that was sent two hours later to a third friend. It reads, “Banks”. OK, not much can be gleaned from that. The call history provides me with even less information seeing as how at some point during the evening I accidently deleted the history and all I’m left with is one, late night, one minute phone call to a particular ex that I cannot imagine calling. Whoops. So I send out a series of messages to friends baiting them into telling me what happened.

The time is 11:03AM on September, 14^th, 2011. I feel full of shame, assuming the worst.

I reach over to my laptop. There is a quarter stuck to my hip, I remove it. I open my laptop and begin to blog.

Traditionally...

... there are significant differences between the two, and in order to illustrate this, jelly will be included as well.  Starting with jelly, it is the result of preserving fruit juice with the aid of pectin, a thickening agent, which is boiled together with said fruit juice and as it cools, becomes the jelly we all know and love.  Jam is essentially the same thing, except that in this case, the whole fruit (or chunks thereof) is used, as opposed to just the juice.  The added moisture and fibrous content produces the smoother texture that one would associate with a jam.  Marmalade, while unfortunately not following the "J" pattern previously established, is also quite tasty and could be said to be the Man's Preserve on account of its lower sugar content.  It is almost always made from the citrus family of fruits, and usually contains bits of the bitter rind. 

An Alternative to Rideau Street-whoring

As many of us know, post-secondary education is an expensive endeavor.  Taking into account the moderate annual increases, the current tuition tab (it's more fun when you call it tab, 'cause then it's more like drinking at a bar than pissing money down the drain) for my very exclusive/lucrative Baccalaureate of the Most General of Arts is a little under one billion dollars, or $6300, I can't quite remember.  Either way I'm taking Arts not Mathematics.  In light of these... crushing... realities, I have decided to become a marketing and advertising mogul.

Nobody reads newspapers anymore, everyone steals television, and internet ads are almost completely ignored.  As a result of the failure of these traditional venues, I have created a wholly new and, I might say, absolutely fucking brilliant form of advertising.  May I present to you...

Book Bag Advertising and Marketing!

 Looks like a regular old book bag doesn't it?  Well get yer damn eyes checked.  What we have here is a mobile (like your cell phone!) billboard.  Looking at the detail shot...

For the low, low price of whatever I get around to charging people, you could own several square inches of my Levi's canvas book bag, and advertise your wife's business, your blog (Dusty?), or your love of Boris Johnson.

Any takers?

Sundays With Morley

Alright, enough tautology, pleonasm and circumlocution.

It’s time for me to put digits to keys and tell the world a tale of glass smashing and LOLz, a story that will make you laugh, that will make you cry, but that most of all, will make you thankful you aren’t Morley Abbot.

It was some time after 1:00 AM and before 2:00 AM when it all went wrong.

A quality night out with the Lads took a sudden and unexpected turn. Rarely is the decision to hit the dance floor a good one but in this case it was particularly ill-advised. As foot met glass, I knew I was in trouble. I glanced down to assess the damage and it was immediately clear this would not be a quick fix but I said to myself, I’ll be damned if I'm gonna let shards of glass mess up my Sunday. I removed a three inch piece of night-ruiner from my foot and attempted to dance it off.

Poor choice.

The prolonged toe-tapping just made things worse. The wound would require further attention and unlike so many of life’s problems, this wasn’t going to be solved with erratic arm waving and unnecessary groin thrusts. I left the dance floor and began to make my way out of the establishment. At the advice of an experienced glass stomper, it was decided that a hospital visit may be in order.

As I sat outside on a bar stool, hemorrhaging on to the side walk, while confused bar patrons looked on, I found myself beginning to feel shame- a shame that was in no way reduced when the ambulance pulled up, sirens on and lights flashing. Any hope I had of making a low profile exit had been thwarted.

As they loaded me into the back of the ambulance, I could see the unfortunate flash of cameras going off. Because this was my first time being on a stretcher, or in an ambulance, I was not entirely sure what the protocol was. I gave the crowd a reassuring smile and thumbs up just to let them know, Dale is gonna be ok. As the ambulance doors closed shut, I witnessed a couple of the lads in a heated exchange with some onlookers that had attempted to snap their own photos. That’s what friends are for.

• Ambulance attendant: “Could I have your name please?”
• Me: “LaDale”
• Ambulance attendant: “Your real name please…”
• Me: “Morley Abbott”
• Ambulance attendant: “Your address, Morley…”
• Me: “Darby”
• Ambulance attendant: “Where on, Darby?”
• Me: “Hmmm”

It went back and forth like this for quite some time. The ambulance attendant was actually a quality individual and certainly a fan of LOLs. We joked back and forth about the hilarity of the situation. He laughed at the decision someone had made to wrap cotton around the wound and indicated that it actually made things much worse. After about a ten minute drive, we arrived at the hospital. Still feeling significant indignity over the situation, I refused to be carried in on the stretcher and instead hobbled my way in the front door.

Looking back, it’s strange that the situation was so urgent that I needed to be sped off in an ambulance yet the three hour stay in the hospital waiting room was just part of the process. I issued myself a wheel chair and passed the time conferencing with some of my fellow hospital patrons. Interestingly enough, there were three other people that had stepped on glass waiting to speak to a doctor. We compared stories, laughed at ourselves, and developed a union that would last a life time, had I been able to remember any of their names.

My cell phone had died earlier in the night so I wasn’t able to entertain myself that way. Instead, I used a hospital phone to make calls to numbers I could remember off the top of my head which included calls to Schwartz, Yeamax, White Ron, Foster and home. You’re welcome, everyone.

Eventually my name was called (I want to say it was Morley they called for but I really can’t recall.) I was taken in for an x-ray by a rather attractive young rocket and passed the time making her feel fairly uncomfortable. From there, I was taken to a hospital bed and told to wait for the Doctor to see me. I fell asleep in the hospital bed and unsurprisingly, woke up in a confused state when Doogie arrived. He examined the wound, told me there was no glass (I think?) and then gave me some fairly specific details about what I should do to look after the injury. Unfortunately due to my somewhat intoxicated, entirely disoriented state, I was unable to retain any of the information shared.

“You’re free to go”, he said and left the room.

And with that, my long weekend and the last night of summer had come to an unspectacular end. I cabbed home and arrived at my front door just as the sun was coming up.

This morning, I hobbled on to the bus to work and was greeted by a somewhat familiar face. Glancing down at her foot, I could see a bandage and that’s when it hit me- this was one of my fellow glass-stompers from Sunday. We gave each other an awkward yet knowing glance and a polite nod.

A bond like that lasts a lifetime.

Redux

We've all been there. Some of us more often than others. Some of us lost in the deepest depths; ensnared in its slimy and disgusting tentacles, others floating happily on the surface. It can make a weak man mighty; it can bring a mighty man to his knees. It can provide you with a day's worth of entertainment. It will sometimes bring you to the darkest, most twisted and depressing corners of your hazed mind. It can make you laugh and cry at the same time. It is a paradox that is somehow allowed to exist in reality, bending the otherwise iron-clad rules of the space-time continuum. Perhaps you are grappling with one right now. Or maybe – if you're lucky – you're enjoying one. Maybe you have a loved one who has been afflicted by this dark and terrible phenomenon. You may have recently shared with friends the joys that this condition sometime brings; all of you paddling happily down the same glorious river. I speak, of course, of the hangover.

All of us experience the hangover in different ways. In fact, it is my belief that we all endure two main types of hangovers (some scientists believe that each main type has several subsets – though there won’t be time to delve into that phenomenon in this space). I’m referring to the “happy” hangover and the “depressing” hangover.

The former will often occur on a Saturday afternoon in which the hangoveree has few or no commitments on the horizon. Perhaps he is at the cottage with friends, sitting around lazily in the sun, or floating idly on a small lake. He is drinking cold beer, and engaging in ridiculous and inane banter with friends – the kind of chitchat that is only funny when one is riding the high of the “happy” hangover.

The latter is a much more serious condition. Symptoms include feelings of hopelessness and isolation, low levels of self-esteem, and a general lack of drive and desire to forge on. This hangover often occurs on a Sunday, or holiday Monday. The subject might have come to the realization that summer is over, and the days of working part-time in a dead-end job with an unrealistically high salary, and responsibilities that are low and therefore equally impractical are over. The real world beckons. The hangoveree can hear its siren call. He pulls the pillow over his head, hoping to drown it out, but it only gets louder. He longs for the days of simplicity and LOLz. Unfortunately, those days exist only in the proverbial rearview mirror of life.

Sometimes a hangover can have an effect on an individual who is not even dealing with one. Let me elaborate. Yesterday I received a call from a good friend (and fellow blogger). He was hungover and wandering the streets of Toronto, attempting to find a brunch spot where he was to meet friends. We engaged in a long conversation in which nothing of substance was said. With my help, he conducted an informal poll of Toronto residents. The question was “If you were to make a lasagna, would you put meat in it?” The results are as follows:

Yes: 6
No: 3
Depends: 1

Indeed, very interesting results.

A few months ago, in search of a remedy to the conundrum that the hangover often presents us with, I set out to find myself an assistant. The idea was to have someone there to help me through the troubles of the “depressing” hangover, or alternately, to share in the joys of the “happy” hangover. I made a job listing and posted it on Craigslist. I received some interesting responses. I was threatened by one individual. In hopes of being hired, another man forwarded his date of birth, social insurance number, and full name (I have since ruined him financially). Months after the posting went up I even managed to secure a date with a model who found my work humourous (she also, unfortunately, thought that it was a real job…things didn’t work out). Most of all I learned two things. Firstly, there are some seriously weird people trolling the general labour section of Craigslist’s job postings. Secondly, not very many people understand my sense of humour.

Anyways, dear reader, I’ve decided to share the posting here on Latch Out Loud, as it was removed from Craigslist before it could be enshrined in the hallowed Best of Craigslist. So, without further ado:

Hey there folks.

Having woken up one too many times with a debilitating hangover from a previous night's shenanigans, I've decided that I desperately need to find myself a personal assistant for the hours/days which I find myself incapacitated by the dehydration, headaches, stomach pains, depression, hopelessness, and hilarity of a hangover. I can't bring myself to miss another sunny (or work) day writhing around in the bed of my tiny apartment, desperately begging the sun to stop shining so brightly and offensively on my unshaven, hungover face -- it gives me a headache. So, I've come to Craigslist hoping to find an ambitious and dedicated ally in the fight against pain and unproductivity.

Now I know some of you are saying "hold the phone, Boris... you can't be serious!". I assure you, Craigslist job hunters, I absolutely am. This is important to me.

Anyways, a bit about the job:
 

It will be on a casual, on-call basis, meaning that the candidate must be ready and willing to work any day of the week at any time. For the sake of clarity, the hours will mostly be confined to Saturdays and Sundays between 9am and 9pm. However, depending on the season, you may be able to pick up extra shifts here and there (e.g. Christmas season, summer holidays, road trips, etc.). You can also likely count on a couple of weekday shifts each month, though you'll likely not get much more notice than an incoherent phone call at 4:00am telling you to be at work by 9:00. (I realize this is less-than-ideal, so we can perhaps work out some sort of compensation for short-notice on-call shifts like this).

Key qualifications:
- Patience and the ability to empathize with the bearer of a difficult hangover.
- Teamwork, motivational skills, and the ability to build the self-esteem of the employer.
- Ability to screen phone calls from would-be debt collectors, angry friends/family/colleagues/employers, and annoying telemarketers.
- Basic knowledge of coin-operated washing machines and dryers, and
the ability to fold clothing.

- A sense of humour and the willingness to listen to "I-guess-you-had-to-be-there-to-find-this-funny" stories
- Ability to water plants, compile a grocery list, make a to-do list, as well as an interest in basketball, electric guitars, jam bands, and nonsensical banter are all considered assets.

Key duties/responsibilites:
 - Basic duties include household chores such as: doing dishes, washing laundry, sweeping the floor, feeding the cat, and going to the store for various items.
- You'll be in charge of staying on top of my appointments and responsibilities. If I am hungover and need to be at an appointment, it is imperative that you make every effort to get me there. For this reason, it is considered an asset if the prospective Hangover Assistant owns a vehicle (gas mileage will be paid where applicable/when I can afford it)
- Depending on the level of drunkenness attained the previous night and the severity of the consequential hangover, it may be necessary for the Hangover Assistant to apologize on my behalf to the recipients of drunken dials/texts and inappropriate booty calls. Phone/text apologies are the norm, though in-person apologies may be used on an as-needed basis.
- In rare instances the Hangover Assistant may be required to visit several bars in search of items lost the night before (typically cell phones, jackets, ID, dignity, etc.)

- Some travel may be required, especially during the summer months. I'll do my best to cover travel and accommodation expenses, although anything that I deem "fun" (i.e. concerts, baseball games, wine tastings, trips to the zoo, haunted houses etc.) will have to be paid out-of-pocket by the Hangover Assistant.

- You may be required to go to work for me if I'm too ill to make it (meaning that a doppelganger, stunt double, likeness of myself, etc. will be looked upon favourably in the application process). If this isn't feasible, you will at the very least be required to call in sick on my behalf. I will provide you with the requisite telephone numbers.
- While at work, the Hangover Assistant is expected to maintain a cheery demeanour and a generally positive outlook on life. This means that cynical comments made by the employer should be playfully deflected and turned around to reflect the positive direction in which the employer wishes his life was going.
- Under no circumstances should the Hangover Assistant agree when asked if the employer should "never drink again". Everyone knows that's crap.

Although I can't promise this job will always be sun and rainbows, there will be jokes, funny stories, friendship, and a general good atmosphere about the place of work. On some instances it might so happen that the Hangover Assistant is him/herself hungover. This is perfectly acceptable, and even encouraged in some instances. Anyone who is worth their weight in gin knows that a pair of desperately hungover sloths can have a grand old time burning the day away watching Curb Your Enthusiasm and spouting off unintelligible jokes that any clear-headed Tom, Dick, or Harry would take as pure idiocy.

So, as you can see, I'm not trying to start the next Kramerica Enterprises or any other sort of cottage industry, I just want to make it through the day and ensure that my dishes get done, I maintain steady employment, and have clean clothes for the next time I decide to venture out of the house -- whenever that may be.

If this job sounds like something you might be interested in, please apply via e-mail with your resume, social insurance number, bank account information, and a photo of yourself. I promise to read all applications and to undertake a fair and thorough review, however, only a select few candidates will be contacted for an interview.

Thanks for your time and best of luck!

On The Issue Of...

Procrastination, everybody.

Sitting in my apartment, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette with the minimum required clothing on, listening to a cool covers project, on the Friday morning of a latterly-weighted long weekend, with nothing more important to do today than grab a Cuban sandwich with one of the latches and hit the lanes in Vanier tonight sounds pretty relaxing right?

And it is, believe me, except that the dump truck-sized pile of maroon Turkish coffee that I crammed into my stove top espresso maker half an hour ago has got me buzzing real hard.  Trivial mention perhaps, but this post and the topic it is concerned with, the dreaded, high-blood pressure inducing pains of procrastination, is intrinsically tied to God's Crack-Cocaine, Colombia's other national export, the only reason the Roman empire lasted as long as it did, coffee.

Sorry, in my heightened state of alertness from this reddish-brown magic I just had to water all my plants and rearrange them to take advantage of the fengshui and optimum UV ray coverage.  Back on track and on topic, procrastination is a bitch.  It has already caused me three medium-intensity heart attacks right smack in the middle of the university library, people crowded around me as the paramedic attempts to subdue me with leather straps so that he can administer the defibrillator, while I'm on the ground on my back, the keyboard clenched in my right hand while I type furiously with my left at 110 w/m, valiantly attempting (and eventually succeeding) to complete a 5000 word paper on Soviet-Cuban economic and political relations pre- and post-perestroika, which I eventually hand off to someone while being carried away on a gurney to submit for me to the class I am already twenty minutes late for by paying them off with cigarettes.

The mere fact that this has happened on more than one occasion is cause for concern.  That amount of stress and adrenaline is not healthy for anyone, except maybe a championship boxer, but that doesn't stop me from doing it again and again, every single time I have been given a deadline for anything.  It's one of those things, which at the time of caffeine and adrenaline induced clarity, is the creation of a beautifully crafted and wholly eloquent essay on whatever the topic may be, but that afterwards, weeks later once the paper is returned with the inevitable 79.8% mark and "well written but could have used more editing/research" commentary, that one pauses to remember the creation itself, and the only thing that is recollected is the ten minute cigarette intervals, constantly bouncing knee under the keyboard, jittery head turns back and forth, wondering if anyone else in the library at all of those computers around you is noticing all of these suspicious actions and may actually believe that you are in fact a crazy person.

I have now completely forgot what in the fuck I was writing about, so I will drop some knowledge on you all from one of the literary world's most successful habitual procrastinators, Hunter S. Thompson:

...it might easily be something as simple & basically perverse as whatever instinct it is that causes a jackrabbit to wait until the last possible second to dart across the road in front of a speeding car.  People who claim to know jackrabbits will tell you they are primarily motivated by Fear, Stupidity, and Craziness.  But I have spent enough time in jackrabbit country to know that most of them lead pretty dull lives; they are bored with their daily routines: eat, fuck, sleep, hop around a bush now and then... No wonder some of them drift over the line into cheap thrills once in a while; there has to be a powerful adrenalin rush in crouching by the side of a road, waiting for the next set of headlights to come along, then streaking out of the bushes with split-second timing and making it across to the other side just inches in front of the speeding front wheels.

 From Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72

Who knew. 

May I Present to You A Brand New Latch Out Loud Blog Series presented by the latches of Latch Out Loud Blog.

“On the Issue Of…”

This is a little series which will be a series of pithy remarks on a variety of topics. You’ll get the idea…

On the issue of: Late Night Hook-Up Etiquette.

You get a call late in the evening and end result is you showing up so extremely intoxicated that you look like you’ve been drinking liquid morphine all night. You find yourself, at 4am in the morning, trying to walk and talk like a normal functioning human being and it’s not even remotely working. She asks “What the hell took so long to get here you idiot” and you slur “Alex Kovalev’s aunt Beatrice made me a delicious French onion soup” or some sort of gibberish and in some bizarre turn of events, she laughs.  It’s a miracle anyone (let alone a rocket) would open the door for you in this state, but alas this is the nature of the game and you rush to get to the victim’s bedroom to commence what you think will be the worst performance of shibbity-bibbity or/and hoppity-boppity of your meaningless existence.

You try your damn damned damnedest to get her clothes off, thinking this should be fairly easy, because why the hell else would you be let in at 4am in the morning? I’m not here to talk about your co-workers lady. I have one thing on the mind and it certainly isn’t democracy in Libya or the impending crisis of hurricane Irene. I’m here to get to the bone yard, like a sex-deprived mongoose in mating season.

Next thing you know, you wake up in a familiar state of confusion, disorientated, wondering how the hell you biked 20 minutes to get to the other side of town. And who is this person next to me? Why am I still wearing my jeans.

Moral of the Story: Have sex with me please.

On the issue of: Really Drunk Friends.

We’ve all been here, one of your pals gets so drunk on liquid morphine that he can’t stand up or tell the difference between a hot rocket and an officer of the law. He’ll probably start mouthing off old ladies, hell – any lady that is in the direct vicinity because his drunken, maniacal mind can’t process social decency.

Sometimes this phenomena deters from your ability to pursue the woman your night revolves around because, let’s face it, if you don’t come to the aid of your brother-in-arms, he’s definitely going to get arrested, savagely beat up, or hit by a car on the long bike ride home on your expensively priced road bike. So, needless to say, he’s insulted everyone (including yourself) and you try the hail-mary attempt to get one last gin and tonic at the bar. Obviously, the bartender takes one look at this disheveled mess as he falters in his effort to sit in a bar-stool. There is zero chance this guy will get another drink at any establishment, save the Dom, but you can’t take him there, he’ll be eaten alive by the local patrons.  

The only thing left to do is to let your friend run crazy on Elgin Street and laugh ferociously as he comments on anything/anyone/everyone who walks down the street. At this point in the night it is highly encouraged that you get a couple of dawgs-into-ya and call it an evening.

Moral of the Story: Everyone likes a good breakfast. 

Fat Cats Fever

The Ottawa Fat Cats are headed to the Intercounty Baseball League Finals. With last night’s 8-5 win over the Barrie Baycats, the Fatties completed a four game sweep of the hapless Baycats and now await their next victim in the championship series.

Fat Cats second baseman and Birthday Lad Chris Latimer paced the attack for the home side, collecting a couple hits and two huge RBIs which came off a clutch, based-loaded, two out hit early in the game. Following Latimer’s knock, both dugouts emptied over an alleged spitting incident. Despite a lot of tremendously tough talking from the Baycats, cooler heads prevailed and Ottawa cruised to victory.

In-game entertainment was top notch as always, with Grape delighting the 3,400 fans in attendance. The tax-man took a tennis ball directly off the neck and can-of-pop won the Concession Stand Race. And in perhaps the highlight of the afternoon, the team’s GM attempted to snag a foul ball hit into the stands but instead spiked it off the head of an unsuspecting elderly gentleman seated in front of him. LOLs were had by all.

With a 26-9 record, The Baycats were the league’s top team over the course of the regular season but had no answer for the hard-hitting Cats. This post was extremely difficult to write considering both teams are called the Cats. I’d like to propose that Barrie change their name to the Barry's Bay Baseballs or the Fat Cats become the Latches. Either way.

Stay tuned for more information on the IBL Championship Series as it becomes available.

Fat Cats Fever. Catch it!

Notes From The Road

Last I checked in I was scheduled to depart for the west coast by way of the thumb. Well, the plan was to use a sign, but you get the point. Anyways, a lot has happened since now and then. I’ve taken in a concert. I’ve participated in loud, unruly acoustic guitar jams at all hours of the night. I’ve slept at a lovely cottage in a remote area of Ontario, where I drank more beer than I would have ever expected. I’ve sunk my teeth into a generous helping of LOLs. I’ve lit off fireworks, and struggled to scrub the smell of campfire from my body. I’ve had no trouble finding rides. I’ve even run into some old friends. It’s been truly awesome.

Sounds like an unbelievable weekend of hitchhiking, doesn’t it? Well, it is indeed unbelievable, as I haven’t made any forward progress in three days. I’m in Ottawa. And I’m sorry blogosphere, as I know that I’ve let you down. There will be no wild tales from the road. There will be no photo essays. There will be no highly descriptive narratives of my heroic escape from the lad-napping attempt of a backwoods gap-toothed human trafficker in the British Columbia interior. Yes, my friends, the gig is up, and I’m left feeling a little gloomy. I had a great weekend, but it’s over, and I’m firmly planted at square one.

I now sit at the computer in my apartment, hastily attempting to plan my escape. I don’t have time to hitchhike to the coast and still visit all the people I intended to see. So I’ll have to fly. I made the (faulty) assumption that standby flying existed in such wondrous lands as the real world. I assumed that I’d have an easy time acquiring a last minute ticket to Vancouver at a fraction of the cost that every other customer pays. Alas, such fantasy lands exist only on television, and in the minds of pie-eyed travelers who are more content to live in the moment than to carry out months-old plans concocted to satisfy the appetite of a man dazed by his own wanderlust. Of course standby flying doesn’t exist. Why in this god-forsaken world would any self-respecting business reward its most reckless and self-indulgent customers for being lazy and complacent, and for showing flagrant disrespect toward the highly ritualized customs of air travel? Barring a minor miracle, I’ll be charging an arm and a leg to my MasterCard sometime late tonight or early tomorrow, accepting defeat, and boarding a flight to Vancouver. This is depressing…

Board Meeting- In Photos