Friday, September 30, 2011

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.

Friday, September 23, 2011

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?

Thursday, September 15, 2011

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.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

The First 28 Minutes.

The time is 10:35AM on September, 14th, 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, 14th, 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, 14th, 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.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

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. 

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

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.

Monday, September 5, 2011

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!

Friday, September 2, 2011

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.