XXXmas Potlatch - One Night Only

Oh yes.

A Homeless Man Trolls Craigslist

If you read my last post, then you're aware that I've been looking for an apartment in Toronto. Well, its been two-and-a-half months and the search continues. It's actually almost funny how ridiculous it is. Almost.

According to the Toronto Star, the vacancy rate sits at 1.4 percent in this city. I can just about guarantee you that the vacancy rate for apartments that aren't over $1000, that aren't basement apartments, and that aren't embarrassingly transparent scams posted by shameless Saudi princes is much lower. Probably around 0.2 percent. Basically, if you've got a reasonably priced apartment downtown, you'd be wise to hold on to it. Or rent it to me.

Anyways, now that I've updated you on the trials and tumults in my life, let's get down to the meat of this post...

Wanted: An apartment in downtown Toronto. Please.

Dear Toronto Landlords and Landladies,

My name is Alex and I’m a looking for an apartment in downtown Toronto. In fact, I’m moving to your fine city tomorrow around noon. I’m moving from Ottawa – Canada’s capital. Maybe you’ve heard of it. It’s nice, but not Toronto-nice. That’s why I’m moving.

I don’t even have a place arranged to sleep tomorrow night. What I do have is a collection of very generous friends who have offered a collection of very uncomfortable pieces of furniture (or floor) for me to sleep on.

In any case, I obviously need somewhere to live in this mythical city you call The Big Smoke. And I’d rather not sleep on my pal Boris’s floor for the next month and a half – both for the sake of my back and for the fact that I hate to impose to such an extent.

And so I’ve come up with this outlandish idea of finding my own apartment to live in. Crazy, I know, but stay with me here.

I started my apartment search on July 25 – nearly two full months ago. You might think it’s weird that I remember the exact day…I think it’s weird that you care. Let’s agree to disagree. Anyways, the enduring point that you should take away from this paragraph is that I’ve been apartment hunting for nearly two full months. TWO MONTHS. I’m not looking to buy a house here folks. I’m looking for an apartment. Bachelor or one bedroom. I don’t care. I just want something.

Sure, I have a few other stipulations. It must be downtown, and ideally it should be within 15 minutes walking distance of the Bloor line between Lansdowne and Castle Frank. I’d prefer not to co-habit with bedbugs. I’d appreciate if my prospective landlord didn’t buy drugs off one of his tenans while I waited to see his apartment. I’d rather not be offered a “bachelor” apartment that is actually an unequipped room in a flophouse filled with drug-addled miscreants…for the low, low price of $800. I want an apartment that I can stand up fully straight in without hitting my head. And no, I don’t want to live in your wretched basement apartment. (And yes, I can tell it’s a basement even if you don’t say so in the listing. Those paneled florescent lights and the single, one square foot window are dead giveaways. Go try to make easy money somewhere else.) Outrageous demands? Not really. A little constraining, sure. But I don’t feel like I’m asking too much.

Should it really be this hard to find a place downtown? Isn’t this the city that continuously makes national headlines for having an overbuilt condo market? Are the owners of these units just letting them sit vacant while they laugh at nondescript nobodies like myself who vent their unending frustrations to the cavernous wasteland that is the Internet? Is the city of Toronto collectively pulling a fast one on me? Is it personal? I don’t get it. Just rent me a *%$@!#*&@ apartment already. Christ almighty.

Would it help if I offered some incentive (even if that is your – the landlord’s – job?) How about I tell you that I have six months in cold hard cash worth of deposit waiting to inject into your favourite bank account? How about I tell you that I have a credit check ready and waiting to be examined by you or your favourite personal assistant (my credit is perfect, in case you’re wondering)? How about I tell you that I’ve even typed up a cover letter for my rental applications, as if I was applying for a job or an Ivy League business school? I’m not – I’m just looking for a godforsaken place to live – but I’ve done it anyways. How about I tell you that I don’t smoke? How about I tell you that I don’t own a pet, and would never, ever think of getting one? Do you want me to sign a decade long lease? What do you want?

As far as I can tell, the only way to get a decent apartment in this city is to sit at your computer and refresh Craigslist, View It, Kijiji, Pad Mapper and every other rental sight every eight minutes while remaining in constant communication with all of your Toronto friends and family to ensure that they are asking all of their friends and family to be on the lookout for a place for you at all hours of the day. I’ve actually done these things. I’ve even resorted to such old-school methods as looking at newspaper classifieds and biking through entire neighbourhoods to find “for rent” signs. Nothing has worked. And that, my friends, is completely and utterly fucking absurd.

I’ve come close. Two nights ago I found a great looking pad at Bloor and Ossington. I e-mailed the guy 23 minutes after it was posted, including a copy of my credit report and my references, also offering up four months rent in advance. I didn’t get an e-mail back. This morning I actually got through to a fella looking to sublet his place at Bloor and Avenue. I offered six months cash in advance this time. He was reticent, but agreed to show the place to me. I called him back shortly after to set up a time; the apartment had already been rented.

This is fucked. You people are fucked and your city is fucked. I don’t know why I’m letting you do this to me, but I am. I want to live in fucking Toronto, and I’m going to do it whether or not you give me somewhere to live. I’ve offered up just about everything short of sexual favours for an apartment. Please don’t make me go any further.

I just want an apartment. Not a drug den, or an old folks home, or a squalid basement hovel. Just something normal. Just an apartment: a-p-a-r-t…you get the point. I know we can make this happen together.

Say it with me now…Yes. We. Cangetthisguyanapartmentbeforeheloseshismindandgivesupallhopeforyourcityandthehumanrace.

Thank you and good day.

Post of the Year

Alright ladies and gentlemen, voting in the Post of the Year sweepstakes is officially underway.

If you haven't been following along over the past week (and don't try to tell me you have, because I check the page view stats semi-religiously, and the numbers have been anemic), the bloggers have each chosen a favourite post of one of their colleagues to enter the running for Post of the Year.

If you wanna check out the write-ups, you can find them right below this post. Who knows, maybe one of them will be in the running for next year's Post of the Year.

Anyways, despite a few hiccups (I'm looking at you, CC, for somehow managing to choose two posts – obviously a thinly veiled ploy to try to derail my campaign), the nomination process has completed.

The finalists are (drum roll, please)...

CC on Yeamax : The Best of the Long

Despite how strangely the first half of that title reads, it's accurate.  My job here, as the tail end of the Best of the Blog, was to take a post by our illustrious leader Hal Yeamax, the Iron Fist, and describe why it's the best. Or as I like to call it, the Best of the Long.

You see, the dusty despot of this ol' blog is a fan of the long blog.  We even call him Long Blog Larry on occasion.  And while I am sure we all love his posts (this isn't sarcasm, I love his posts), having to review an entire year of them doesn't exactly take a minute (though we all know what does, right?  Amirite?).

And by doesn't exactly take a minute, I mean it.  I had tickets for Osheaga in Montreal this past weekend and had to miss the entire fucking trip, in the name of the blog!  Anyway, the rest of the boiz would've had my head on a pole (something something joke ex-wife something something) if I hadn't had this post up by midweek, and that's the way I likes it.  So I read some posts, and read some more posts, had a quick cider and nap, and read some more.  And I had a problem: my favourite post of his was also the shortest.

Dusty Daley's Post of the Year

Hi all, Thorough here.

I’d first like to say, happy birthday to blog. Where would I be without the constant banter of the boiz and the continual comfort of blog to keep me safe and sane during the past year? I know the answer. Dead as the ex-wife. Maybe, even more dead than that, and that’s reallllllly dead.

We all know the game plan here. Pick a post. Write about it. Nominate it to our faithful and beautiful readers.

So, as luck would have it, I drew Dusty. I’d like to mention right off the bat that this is a tough one. This is a lot of responsibility to nominate one of Dusty’s posts. He’s has great banter and his posts are top notch.

Some of you would think this would be an easy task. No sir, it is not. Oh, let’s take the easy way out and just pick the infamous “The Five Degrees of Dale” and call it a day. Some of you hold the “Sundays With Morley” post close to your hearts, why not end it there? “The Boiz Within”? That’s a hell of a post! What about the witty “Evolution of a Nickname”? All of the aforementioned post are fantastic reads and it’s a tough decision... Sure, I could easily nominate any one of these posts and be done with it. But no, posts of this stature deserve attention and careful deliberation.

Post of the Year: Yeamax on kcerwd

kcerwd, my old buddy. Known the guy for years; still have a hard time trying to figure out what’s going on between his ears sometimes. And that’s not a slight. You gotta respect a guy who’s unpredictable – and I’m not talking about the unpredictable type that gets drunk and randomly picks fights with people. I'm talking about the unpredictable type that gets drunk and randomly hugs people. I’m talking about the unpredictable type that plays left field for the blog squad, and throws perfect 350 foot strikes right over home plate, nailing foolish ignoramuses that think they can score from first base on a teammate’s two-bagger. kcerwd: gold glove of the blog squad. Swings a mean bat, too (right ladies?).

An invaluable member of Latch Out Loud Enterprises, kcerwd is known for addressing the hard hitting issues that nobody else would dare touch (JoPa, anyone?). He’s also a mischievous guy in the comment section of the blog. The lion’s share of those anonymous comments? Yeah, that’s kcerwd. You can tell by his signature unnecessary apostrophes. It’s his trademark. And that trademark has got him in hot water more than once.

kcerwd on Henry Thorough: On the Issue Of: #nmb2012

“Onwards and upwards, never backwards”

 

This heady piece of advice was given to me…wait, was given to our property management group as reason #8 for us moving out of our apartment. The engineer of this advice is my friend/roommate, soon to be just friend: Henry Thorough. Now I know what you’re all thinking; “Here comes another depressed kcerwd rant about how the boizzz are moving on, things never being the same, blah blah” - go fuck yourself please! That is not what this is. Instead of pissing and moaning about what’s changing lets take a little look back at what’s the same as it was this time approximately a year ago…

 

Henry has still not “touched” the young lady described as a rocket in the paragraphs below (although geography is now his friend and it’s only a matter of time). Alex Kovalev’s aunt Beatrice still makes a mean bowl of French Onion Soup. Henry can often be found sleeping in jeans and still is not interested in hearing about your coworkers, lady! Some of us still get drunk and squander, not as much the touches of others, but a squander is a squander is a squander is a squander. It’s always a good idea to get a couple of dawgs-into-ya and most importantly, everyone STILL loves a good breakfast. Confused? Ok, ok! Story telling has never been my thing, save one epic tale of the biggest beat down that never was (LOL Season 2 friends…)... read this post from Henry Thorough and give this paragraph a re-read…

 

HBD-LOL and the Search for the Post of the Year

Editor/Iron Fist’s Note:

Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday to you! 

Happy birthday dear Latch Out Loud!

Happy birthday to you!

In the immortal and quoted-to-death words of one Dave Chappelle/Rick James: It's a celebration bitches!!!

That’s right folks, you didn’t think we’d make it, but we did. Latch Out Loud turned one year old exactly one day ago. Sometimes I feel like the blog was born yesterday.

One year. Think of all the memories, right?

Well, that’s exactly what we’re gonna do to commemorate this special occasion. Each of the five regular bloggers has been secretly assigned to comb through one of their colleague’s posts from the past year with the task of selecting their favourite work. We’ll post the reviews over the next few days, and then (permitting that one of us can figure out how to actually do it) we’ll put up a poll on the blog, and the readers (if there are actually any of you left out there) can vote to pick the post of the year.

So without further ado, Dusty Daley is going to present his take on CC’s finest work.

(But before we get this thing officially rolling, I’d like to also wish a very Happy Birthday to my Aunt – and loyal L.O.L. reader – Carole, whose actual birthday is today. Happy birthday!)

Take it away DD!

---

Identity Crisis of a Young Canadian Traveler

You’re a young Canadian – maybe 21, 22. Perhaps even 24 or 25. You’re probably an upper-year undergrad. You may have recently graduated. Who knows? Higher education? You’ve got got that. Work experience, volunteer hours, active on campus? Check. You might think you’re better than the average person of your age. Hell, you’re probably right. I mean, you’ve worked hard to get to where you’re at. Relatively speaking, anyways.

You’d never admit it to anyone other than yourself, but when you look in that mirror you see success in the making. Staring right back at you. You’re the shit. But you’re also humble, polite, deferential. Focused. You know where you’re going, and you sure as fuck know how to get there.

Free Agency

Things are really heating up. Literally. The weather in the nation’s capital has been ridiculous. Things are really heating up. Figuratively.  Not unlike the Steve Nash’s and Zach Parise’s of the world the boizzz will face an interesting decision in the coming months. Where are the boizzz going to sign (live) come the fall? Time is ticking as at least 3 of the 5 major contributors to this blog have given their required 60 days notice to their respective/shitty property management companies, the very same respective/shitty property management companies that monthly steal a few thousand dollars from the boizzz bank accounts for very little in return. One boi is already living month to month and one boi seems to be locked into a long term deal, (but is always welcome at Cooper if that doesn’t pan out, well....until September rolls around anyways).

With this difficult decision hanging over the boizz heads more steadily than the dead ex wives hanging from the ceiling in Ritwinski’s barn, a cross roads is certainly ahead. It seems as though the boizzz may be headed to different cities, countries and perhaps even different continents. What does the future hold for the boizzz I wonder to myself? Does September mean the end of banter? Does the end of banter mean the end of bacon? I’d really like to keep eating bacon regardless of whether or not Henry Thorough goes to Korea to teach English.

Although I’m fairly certain the boizz will handle their respective decisions with the grace and tact we’ve come to expect from this group of outstanding twenty something’s, I can’t help feel a mix of excitement and sadness when thinking about what lies ahead. It hasn’t even been a year since the blog began yet nearly 2 months since the last post. The boizz have been busy. Moving onto bigger and better things?  I hope not but perhaps we have. I don’t know how to wrap this post up but I want to post this video. Let’s not let it come to this boizzz...

I'd also like to take this opportunity to post the hilarious reasons my roommate provided to multi-res management for us moving out...enjoy! 

We have multiple reasons for moving out.

1.     We are moving to a different city.

2.     We have very little natural sunlight in the apartment which makes for a depressing hangover

3.     Our shower faucet never stops leaking and it drives us insane during sleepless nights

4.     Walking to the top floor makes my back sore and transforms my state of mind from happy to violently grumpy

5.     The neighbors don’t like Van Morrison’s classic 1970 album Moondance

6.     The bathroom is directly off of the kitchen (and the door doesn’t close properly)

7.     An awkwardly long entrance hallway scares most ladies

8.     Onwards and upwards, never backwards

9.     The apartment is strangely situated

10.  The wobbly table met its demise and we are sad

Thank you.

The Boiz Within

A soothing Jazz beat echos from the stereo and through the empty Cooper St. apartment. Bert would love this, I think to myself.

The just cold enough Steamwhistle hits my lips.  I thumb through a slightly wrinkled edition of MacLean's magazine. Odd that some pages seem to be stuck together. Seriously fellas? MacLean's?

Guess I'm a little early.  The boiz should be here any minute, I think to myself.

Could have sworn I heard the door open not long ago but it must have been the neighbours across the hall.

When was the last time I saw the boiz anyway? Feels like forever. Thank god for the three way. It's nice to know what they’re all up to. Hell it's just nice to know they're there.  Between uncertainty at work and the recent demise of the Senators, sometimes it seems like the boiz are the only constant. The boiz are Dale's safe place, ya might say.

They really should be here by now...

I lean forward and return the MacLean's to the rickety, couch-side table and spot an unopened envelope. 

My curiosity piqued; I glance at the address on the front. 250 Cooper Street, it reads. Addressed to a Mr. Morley Dolax. Wait...Morley? Dolax? Odd.

At that moment, a picture frame hung on the adjacent wall catches my eye. It features a smiling couple. A 6 foot something blonde fellow and his plump yet pleasant girlfriend or wife. Quite a pair I think to myself, but why do the boiz have a picture of this couple on their wall?

I stand up, throw back the remaining Steamwhistle from the emerald bottle and walk towards Bert's room. I peer in. In the far corner is a baby's crib. The walls are painted in a soothing baby blue and a changing table rests where I could swear a couch once resided.

Something…Something isn’t right.  I can feel my heart rate accelerate.

I frantically make my way to Derk's room expecting, nay hoping, to see the usual disheveled sanctuary Derk calls home. I push the door open, and gasp. A perfectly made queen size bed, decorated with throw pillows and floral pattern duvet.

 

What the hell is going on here? Where are the boiz? Where am I?  I know this is the right apartment. It has to be…

On the desk rests an open lap top. Panicked, I log in to Facebook. I'm breathing heavily now.  The once soothing sound of the saxophone coming from the apartment stereo now only increases my panic.   I know what's happened but I'm not ready to accept it.

Cautiously, I begin to type a name in my friends list.

Paul Bertrand…No matches found

Alex Yeaman…No matches found

Derek McConnery…Did you mean Dave MacArthur? No I meant Derek McConnery, damn it!...No matches found

I type Colin Winters but I already know the answer. No matches found.

I desperately pull out my blackberry looking for comfort in the three way. Hands shaking, I scroll to the WhatsAp icon and click. Nothing. No conversation labeled “The Boiz”. But all that banter?  The cards…The scrabble…All those nights out? Could they be…Is it possible?

The sound of the sax booming out of the radio is unbearable now.

A drop of sweat falls from my brow. They aren’t real. I’ve made it all up. Hal, Bert, CC, Derk...The LOLs, the beers, the blog! All of it!

Confused, I stand in the darkened hall way and look toward the exit.  The knob turns slightly at first and then again, more hastily.  The door creaks open…  

Boiz...?

The Boizzz of Summer: An In-Depth Preview of the Ottawa Fat Cats 2012 Season

Blogger note: I meant to post this last Friday but sometimes life happens. Nothing changes however, my prediction stays the same. I am also happy to report the Fat Cats went 1-1 on their season opening road trip...and most importantly...we found LaDale...

The smell of freshly cut grass. The first bite of pig and cow skeletal muscle and by-products fresh from the barbecue. The sound of a Harley Davidson’s tires squealing as Grape rides off into a beautiful spring sunset. May has arrived boizzz and girls and that can only mean one thing; it’s time for Fat Cat Baseball!

            Turn (down the window) back the calendar to May 2011. The Fat Cat’s were entering their second season in the Nation’s Capital. Staring toward an uncertain future with low expectations, one had to wonder if the Fat Cat’s sophomore season would be their last. A few months passed, as did a few Matt McGovern 9k, 1 run ball games and what do you know? The little team with the uncertain future would sneak into the playoffs. The cats weren’t done there. Lead by their solid pitching staff and reliable fielding, the Fat Cats would make the IBL finals only to be bested by the Brantford Red Sox. The improbable play off run by the Cats made them the talk of the city. A year older and wiser, with a strong co4re of returning players leading the TEAM, they prepare to battle a host of teams looking to take one of their 9 lives…and it all starts this weekend. 

This year’s team is stocked with a healthy mix of newbie’s and familiar faces. Do the Fat Cats have what it takes to return to the IBL finals? Let’s took a closer look and see…

Infield

The Cats return 3 regulars to the 2012 roster. Veterans Matt "The Gov" McGovern, Chris "Fernando" Latimer and Cody Mombourquette man the bags (when The Gov isn’t throwing fireballs from the mound that is) while newcomer Jason Coker has the unenviable task of replacing fan favorite Mark Charette at shortstop. Chemistry amongst the infielders was key in last year’s playoff run and the cats will need to recreate the magic if they hope to return to the promise land. One big question mark surrounding the Cats infield will be the catcher position. Ricky “Big Dawg” Howroyd has moved on to a Florida Montana’s and will no longer provide a rock solid presence behind the mound. Will Etain Moaz be able to fill the Big Dawg’s size 12 Air Force II special editions? The Cats better hope had better hope so as a solid catcher is a staple in the IBL.

Outfield

The outfield sees the return of more familiar faces. Kevin Detrick, last years most consistent performer, returns his steady bat and solid fielding to the line up. Joe Stone also return’s his potato gun arm; base runners beware! The success of the outfield may lie on the capable shoulders of LaDale “Say Hey!” Haynes. Although the fastest man in Ottawa has not yet arrived to be with the team, he is expected in time for opening day. The fat cats count on his knack for high light reel catches because if nothing else, they’re provocative, they get people going! Keep your eyes open for “Say Hey” LaDale, he’s not from around here and could be wandering around the city lost…

Pitching

The cats will once again rely heavily on Matt McGovern to anchor the pitching staff. He and newcomer Marc Andre Major will form a formidable 1-2 punch, giving the starting rotation more depth then in previous seasons. With “the Gov” and Major shouldering a lot of the load the Cats will also be seeking contributions from veterans Brett Sabourin, Josh “May the Beard be With You” Soffer and Danny “Evil Kenivl” Desclouds. New comers Brandon Huffman and Will Sebastien will also see some innings of work. No you’re radar is not broken Huffman has been reported to hit the low 90’s with his fastball. Can you say Dijon mustard with a dash of horse radish? Ehhh yoooooo!!!! The Cats will once again field one of the most solid bullpen’s in the league and if last year is any indication, solid pitching can bring a team a long way come July/August (Playoffs baby!)

Hitting

The 2011 Fat Cat’s were team that capitalized on opportunity. The top of the order always managed to find a way on base while the power hitters did just that; hit for power. With Big Dawg and Charette having moved on to greener pastures, someone new will have to step up and get Latimer and Mombourquette circling those bags. We know Kevin Detrich is up to the task, but who else will rack up the RBI’s? This in my mind is the biggest obstacle facing the Cats. Can they find consistent offensive production? Only time will tell and that folks, is why we play the damn games.

Prediction

Having no knowledge of the other teams or players I find it very difficult to tie my well respected name to a prediction. That has never stopped me before however…I predict the Fat Cat’s will finish third in the regular season and run the gantlet, sweeping the 2012 IBL playoffs and bringing the city of Ottawa it’s first IBL championship! I also predict Grape will continue his mischievous antics! The tax man will continue to offer up discounted rates on financial services alongside Sports Centre Top 10 worthy spills and crashes – can someone get the damn shopping cart some new wheels? And the Fat Cat’s faithful will continue to lead the league in alcoholic beverage consumption – I can do my part on that one and I trust our faithful readership will do the same.

Let's Go Fat Cats!!!

The Week That Was...

Man... it's quiet in here.  And who left the window open?  There's moths everywhere now!

Ah, well anyway, thisc,.bb,         xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,                                                                     

Sorry, I had to fix my space bar.  This post is called The Week That Was, but it's much more of metaphorical a week, like saying "man, what a week!" than any definitive amount of minutes.  To our loyal readers wondering what happened to us, well... the boiz get busy, ya know?  It happens to the best of us, and it happened to the rest of us.  You see, the boiz had things to take care of, specifically internationally, and while it would imprudent to get into any particular details, CC is gonna anyway.  Ready?

Ol' Iron Fist Yeamax, otherwise known as Hal, hasn't been seen in awhile.  Not because he's in jail (we hope), lost his personables (actually pretty likely) or that he quit the blog (impossible), but because he is currently zooming around Eastern Europe in pursuit of the Albanian Dream, Soviet-era tractor steering wheels (he collects these for some reason, it's an issue) and criminology research opportunities.  If the fall of communism and its subsequent inspiring of organized crime and oligarchies is any indication at all, that cat is probably pretty busy.  Plus the boiz have it on good authority that wifi access in that part of the planet isn't exactly widespread, so a check in is made more difficult.  If he makes it outta there in good shape though, he is going to swing by Bertapest, capital city of Hungry, to see if he can't find something that...

Henry Thorough left him.  Our very own transcendentalist in residence made a quick trip over to the land of milk and 17-year-old ballet dancers recently, and just may have left something behind (I know I know, his dignity right? Wrong.  He hasn't seen that in years).  Will Hal find it?  Will it be contraband?  Is it two pre-loved jars of pickles?  Who knows. What we do know is that Henry had a great time with some of his boiz, and we are all better because of it.  Hurry over there folks, its a great place to visit but I hear it can get tight at times...  And I mean busy, like where...

Dusty Daley went, NYC.  Manhattan ladies and gentlemen, the Big Not-So-Easy.  And what was he doing there, leaving the cozy confines of Ott Dot?  Nothing less than Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals! ...I mean Round 1, but still hella important nonetheless, as our hometown boiz the Sens took King Henry and the rest of those talentless schmucks to the brink of elimination.  Dusty was legitimately fearing for his life, but he made it out safe and sound and I can only assume slightly hungover, only to ride that party all weekend long, stopping off for a ballgame and another (much less important) hockey match in Philly.  If Dusty were a professional sports writer, he would've been getting paid for this trip.  But he made it back by the grace of Amtrak and reported to work Monday morning.  Bam!  You know who else had to work that morning? ...

kcerdw did.  kcerdw went to Montreal for some reason, I'm still not sure why.  He told me over a cider so that's probably why I don't recall the specifics, but MTL is pretty cool too right?  And it may not be international per se, but they do speak a different language there, much like they do where...

CC works.  Kitchens.  No not your momma's kitchen, but restaurant kitchens, a whole mess of 'em.  6 different kitchens, 6 days a week.  That's a lie, but I was a busy cat while all this was going down, and figured the best thing to do when the boiz are out of town, and the cider doesn't taste as sweet, and the card table is empty, and the 3 way is silent, and the streets are unfriendly, is to hold that shit down.

So I did, and then I wrote this post, and when all the boiz are back in action, they're gonna hold a referendum, and Bytown will be unanimously agreed to have its name changed to Boiztown, and all will be right.

And for those wondering what the rest of the blog team is doing, I'll tell ya... as soon as they text me back.

State of the Union

Ok, so if it's not already evident, Lad of the Week has met its untimely demise...at least for the time being, anyways. For this we are terribly, terribly not sorry (never apologize folks). The boiz have been bandying about various ideas to rectify this unfortunate situation, including making Lad of the Week a monthly feature. So long as there are lads to be recognized, we shall be here to bestow those honours. Something will happen. We'll figure it out. Trust us. This is what we do.

In the meantime, I've continued to develop my strange fixation on writing craigslist advertisements. For sale this time is my old television that's largely responsible for the blighted state of my apartment. It's a serious eyesore. This thing needs to go. Like, seriously. Now. Get it out. By any means necessary. Please. Thanks.

http://ottawa.en.craigslist.ca/ele/2958258437.html

I can only hope this will lead to another depraved individual trying to shoehorn his way into my life in some sort of morally reprehensible fashion. If nothing else, it'll perhaps breathe some life into a blog that has certainly seen better days. Stay tuned, for we shall see...

Late Night Blogging

Stroll in at four in the morning and start bloggin'. Classic Dusty Daley. In the wee hours of Sunday morning, Dusty Daley decided to take SensChirp for a spin. Here's what he had to say...

TITLE: Bring on the Rangers!

After nearly two week of preparing for the Bruins, the Senators find themselves matched up against the New York Rangers in round one.

The Sens walk into the payoffs on a three game slide and that slump finds them matched up against the Eastern Conference's number one seed. While Sens fans have thrown their support behind the home town there is still nothing to fix.

After nearly two weeks of setting up for the bear but i hope to see you tomorrow.

CC's Three Free Thoughts o' the Day Fo'ya

Sometimes I get to thinking.  Not about fiscal solvency, political turmoil, crime rates, international business transactions, professional sports, the ex-wife, falling amounts of creativity in Canadian universities, or theatre culture in Toronto, just thinkin'.

1. The nail on my smallest toe is so small I don't even know what it's doing there.
2. Despite the fact that rice has been a food staple for somewhere around twelve thousand years, I am still completely unable to cook it properly.
3. The average age of the boiz is 25.222222222222222.

Lad of the Week

Hi folks. Thorough here. Let’s cut to the chase and take a quick look back on the week that was.

We saw a massive heat wave sweep Ottawa and boiz, oh boiz, it was hotter than an Albertan brushfire. It was even hotter than the ex-wife’s legs – and she had great legs. She also had a strong left-hook, but great legs. This week of condensed global warming was just excellent. It was great for shirts vs. skins basketball games and drinking mojitos on the patio at the Pump, but, more importantly,  it was great for zoomin’ the ladies, creepin’ the ladies, and skeetin’ the ladies. This week reminded me of how much I love legs. Legs are awesome, also, play this in the background when reading this post. I’d like to gobble down a whole batch-load of lady legs for breakfast. Nom nom nom.

For a good time, stay the hell away from my apartment

I don't know what it is, but weird shit tends to happen to me on a pretty consistent basis. So often in fact, that I've made a habit of leaving my apartment less frequently than I did in the past. Step out the door and I'm bound to end up at some foreign party, drunk and disorderly, touching all sorts of strange people. Go to sleep one night in the comfy confines of my own bed, wake up two nights later in a Chicago hospital with a lampshade around my neck. Leave a birthday celebration with my friends for a mid-afternoon date with a rocket I'd been zooming for a while, end up back at home wondering what in the world prompted me to kiss her on the top of the head, instead of simply saying "goodbye". Sure, I let alcohol get the best of me sometimes. And yeah, maybe I err on the side of social awkwardness more often than not, but I swear this world is out to make me into some sort of caricature sometimes. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME, PEOPLE????

Lad of the Week

 

Jason Russell is a man of many talents.  He can pull the heartstrings, he can hike in jungles. And he can solve problems.

Know what a big problem these days is?  Warlords. And specifically their penchant for recruiting child

Jason Russell: Beating off religious militants, one stroke at a time.

soldiers.  Warlords have had a rich history – Ghengis Khan immediately springs to mind.  But these days, in our modern, rat-race, work-a-day world, the romanticism of these particular brand of assholes has faded significantly. No one likes a warlord, that's just a fact.

On The Issue Of...

Subletting my apartment.

That's right everybody, Latch Out Loud has followed the lead of the rest of the world and has succumbed to the forces of corporate soul sucking...also known as advertising. Those of you who are keen readers of the blog might have just thought "Yeamax, CC has already done a post on book bag advertising!" Well, that was all about the concept of advertising; it wasn't an actual advertisement on the blog. Have we at Latch Out Loud sold our souls to the corporate shills that pervade so many aspects of our day-to-day lives? In short, no.

Lad of the Week

Allow me to introduce you to Connor Crisp.

Now I know what you’re all thinking, who in the hell is Connor Crisp? And until Sunday afternoon I would have said the exact same thing. “There is only one CC in my books,” I likely would’ve shouted.

An Open Letter to Multi-Res Management and The Neighbours Who Dwell Below

I don’t know about where you come from, but where we come from – the outskirts of Centretown, we do not respond kindly to threats...

After a relatively quiet weekend that saw one of the Cooper lads improve his second language in hopes of attaining a high paying job and breaking the boizz out of this shithole (you’re taking me with you, right Bert?!?!), and saw the other Cooper lad dip into the darkness known as the abyss after a lack luster dunk contest and one too many draft beers (I still don’t see the problem in taking off all one's clothes and asking your roommate to scratch your back...while on the toilet, but that’s another blog post entirely), we awoke Monday morning to find this message in our respective inboxs...

Lad of the Week

Happy Monday ladies and gents! And by now you should know that "happy Monday" really means "happy Lad of the Week day!"

Okay, let’s cut to the chase…

Lad of the Week

Well, it was a tough one this week. Over the course of two Latch Out Loud board meetings, deliberations for Lad of the Week didn't really get anywhere. Jeremy Lin was an obvious candidate, but he really had a better case last week, and we've already had a sports figure named Lad of the Week. Paul McCartney recently quit smoking weed for his daughter's sake, but that really isn't gonna cut it. Adele is a girl. Bashar al-Assad is unfortunately having his way in the world, but he's not exactly the type of candidate we're looking for. Floyd Mayweather is in the news again for not having a brain. Yeesh. Let's just say it was a tough week to nominate a worthy lad. That's why we've gone the lifetime achievement route and awarded Lad of the Week to Rex Murphy.

Uncle Buck and Today's Youth

With great power comes great responsibility.

It’s hard to imagine that one of the boiz would rise to the ranks of management in any office setting, but it has happened. David Dave and Dale (I give them equal credit for my ability to rise through the ranks) has recently been placed in a supervisor role for a new employee. Now I don’t know about you, but my management skills are pretty good- I like to keep mine razor sharp.

Lad of the Week

As some of you may have noticed, productivity at Latch Out Loud Enterprises has dipped markedly in  February. After a prolific month of January that saw the publication of gripping tales from Apartment Swap 2012 and the classic piece The Five Degrees of Dale, the boyz have become somewhat complacent. There has been much speculation as to what exactly caused this slump. Internet rumours swirled about CC defecting to the Barbados. TMZ reported that kcerwd had

Da...

Boizzzzzzzz

Five Songs Named After a Member of the Fairer Sex

Oh, hi...you're back. How nice of you to drop by.

I have some music for you. It's music that has, in one way or another, been inspired by a female. Or a male with a woman's name; unfortunate a situation as that would be.

If it's not already evident, I've adapted this idea from my good friend CC's post, Songs That I Like That Mention Cannonballs. Now I don't fancy myself a rip-off artist or any of that non-sense, but I'm running desperately low on original ideas at the moment. Also, CC is currently asleep on my couch, so I'll do whatever I damn well please, thank you very much (for a lovely game of fives)!

Friday roller coaster - the highest high and the lowest low

Well another one in the books. The weekend is officially over. Coming up next? The worst day of the week - Monday.

Friday was entertaining. A roller coaster ride of emotion, dignity and questionable behaviour. The day started at 8 A.M. accompanied by a minor hang over. I was awaiting the results of the biggest test of my life which were to be released at 10 A.M. The culmination of months of studying, wasted weekends and multiple choice questions were coming to an end. I waited impatiently until 10, at 10:04 I checked the website - passed. Thank goodness. Let the weekend begin!

OTIO... Picking up servers/bartenders/waitresses

First off, let me immediately say that I should be in no way writing an advice column on how to pick up serving staff, or any type of staff for that matter.

So that's why this won't be an advice column, but more of a lament with some insight.

Apartment Swap Wrap Up

Apartment Swap 2012 came to a screeching halt Monday with the boys exchanging keys over a much debated, yet thoroughly delicious Thai dinner. Banter was at an all time high as the boys conversed about the week that was. Some stories were funny, some sad; all of which contributed to the boiz gaining an appreciation for what their fellow boy must face on a day to day basis. Now that the Dusty Daley has settled we can all take a moment to reflect on the #AS2012 that was…

Apartment Swap Journal

MacLaren and Cartier Edition

Friday, January 13, 2012 1:40pm

I’m not sure what I expected to achieve from Apartment Swap 2012 (#AS2012), but blithe happiness was not high on my list of anticipated results. #AS2012 was meant as a social experiment to test the very limits of the latches. How does environment affect the latches? What are the consequences from removing a latch from a comfortable habitat into a new and potentially dangerous surrounding? These are the questions I had asked myself at the very beginning of the swap.

Apartment Swap Journal, Unwanted Visitors Edition

January 12, 2012 - Sometime in the afternoon (I'm sure neither of us really care that much)

Here I sit at the wobbly table, CC’s laptop weighing it down so heavily in my direction that I’ve considered making a pre-emptive call to the search and rescue folks. There’s nothing worse than getting buried alive under a pile of newspapers, a Scrabble board, and its accompanying scorebook filled with pathetic seven point tallies – just ask Seymour Skinner.

So I was busy manning the apartment today, minding my own business. A knock at the door. “This can only be trouble,” I thought as I trundled over to see what all the fuss was about. I opened the door to a couple scruffy looking dudes – one carrying a tool box and some weird panel of something-or-other, the second a fella that had come to the door two days prior to “fix” something (though he didn’t even know what it was until I told him – the bathroom; all of it, please). This guy hadn’t actually fixed anything two days ago, since CC was showering when he arrived. Rather than wait out the ten minutes for CC to vacate the bathroom, the man decided to stand in the kitchen for about seven minutes and subject me to his ravagingly awkward presence, then leave just moments prior to the bathroom being vacated. Oh well, I suppose I can deal with this guy one more time.

As soon as I opened the door the two men burst into the apartment as if executing a search warrant on a drug den. “Hello?” I offered. No response. These two fellas were clearly far too busy and important to exchange customary greetings. Their important standing in this world also exempted them from taking their boots off. Cool, we’re not trying to keep the place tidy or anything.

“So what is it that needs fixin’ in here?” the shorter, stockier, and stupider (not a word, I know) of the two inquired. “I thought we went over this the other day,” I pretended to say out loud. “I’ll call the people that live here and check.” This clearly wasn’t going anywhere productive. I called Henry and kcerwd to confirm what needed to be done. As I suspected, it was exactly what I had told this idiot the other day. 

By this time the second guy was in the bathroom, spilled all over the floor like my ex-wife after a night of drinking. “Alright, well the problem here is someone who didn’t know what they’re doin’ went in and welded this part here, but he did it too high, blah, blah, blah, I was dropped on my head a half-dozen times before the age of three, blah, blah, blah,” he spewed in an accusatory tone. “No, I didn’t try to weld away the water pressure issues,” my brain said to my inner ears. 

“Well, people aren’t gonna be happy with you guys; I’m gonna have to get Derek in here to shut the whole system down. No water or heat for anyone in the building for half a day, minimum.”

“Well, let’s get a bucket under that leaky faucet in the bathtub and we should have enough to cover half the building’s needs by morning,” raged the conversation taking place in my brain.

“I don’t live here. I’ll pass the message on,” I politely replied. Blank look. More browbeating over what he suspected to be a clandestine welding operation I was running out of a swapped apartment.

And so for the second time this week, they packed up and made their way out of the apartment; not before exchanging “you’re a fucking idiot” looks with me.

Sure, I’d love to have at least a modicum of water pressure coming from the tap in the bathroom sink. Having the faucet in the tub not gurgling 24 hours a day would be swell, too. Why not patch up that gaping hole in the wall that inexplicably spews cold air all day and night? These would be great upgrades to get me through the home stretch of the apartment swap; but if it means encountering these yahoos again, I’d rather just do without, thanks.

Hatefully yours,

Yeamax

Waverley and MacDonald, The First 48 Hours

Tuesday January 11th, 2011

11:14 PM - The first 48 hours have came and went and just as I'm getting to know this latchelor pad a little better, it too is getting to know me. I've finally come to believe the constant gurgling sounds are actually the fridge and not a dying cyborg, as I originally had thought. In turn, the bed, despite being the center piece of the latchelor pad, has probably guessed that it will not be made before I leave for work tomorrow, just as it has not been made the previous two mornings. Day by day, hour by hour, chez Winters becomes more like home.

The most trying part of living in a new apartment is getting used to the subtleties. As previously mentioned, the dying cyborg in CC's closet, errrrrrr his refrigerator, is a completely new noise to get used to. Especially when trying to get some shut eye, "the gurgle", as I have not so affectionately coined it, has proven to be a little trying. The pressure washer the landlord installed in place of the shower, seemingly ideal to most, is very different than the weak steam we've gotten accustomed to on Cooper Street. Although not ideal, we've gotten used to that weak stream and in doing so, have started to like it. By the time hour 168 approaches I'm sure I will begin to loathe going back to the weak stream, but I'll be happy to get away from the cyborg.

Living alone is different. I'd done it once before and hated it. This time around I enter with a more open mind but am still struggling to find things to do with my alone time. I find myself sleeping more than usual. I also find myself craving a glass of scotch. Not sure I have ever had a glass of scotch. Both of these things are uncharacteristic of me and I wonder how I came to feel this way? Are they simply the options that have become available to me with the change of apartment? Is there more to it than that? These things will no doubt become more clear as the week lingers on, but for now I wonder...

I also spend time wondering how my old roommate is doing in the latchelor he was afforded for the week. I'm sure he is enjoying some quiet time to read and be alone with his thoughts. I also imagine he has spent some time getting to know the guitars that call his latchelor apartment home. These are the certainties but I have also begun to cook up a few questions. Is he making nice with the crazy cat lady? What hidden treasures lie in Yeamax's closet that may be causing Henry Thorough grief at night? Is the crazy cat lady jammed in Yeamax's closet alongside his feelings and possibly his sexual preference? All these answers and more to be revealed when things get back to normal next week. For now, I'm just left to wonder...

I'll be back soon.

Cooper St., Round 2: The Sequel

January 11 2012, 1:38 PM

I woke up early this morning.  A terrible dream about my frigid ex-wife roused me from a fitful slumber.  She was cooing to me in the dream, and I was as confused as any person would be if they woke up in a strange bed, in a strange room, in an extremely familiar apartment.  As I shook off the cobwebs I realized that the cooing hadn't stopped. What is this woman trying to do to me?, I thought, just as it dawned on me.  It's a damn pigeon!

You see, my swanky digs for #AS2012 has provided me with a balcony, right next to the bed (that itself is difficult to notice under the Everest-sized mountain of pillows.  I myself am a pillow minimalist).  Great news for a nicotine addict like myself, but also great news for this aerodynamic egg-laying rat that likes to call this balcony home.  I prefer confrontation in my underwear–like any good latch–so I jumped out of bed and gave it one helluva fist shake.

Is an apartment swap weird?  Possibly, but I prefer to think of it as a military exercise, a metaphorical 3 AM wake-up call accompanied with a 5 mile run.  It keeps you on your toes, it keeps you fresh. It's not the why that is important here, as a matter of fact we can't even remember why we're doing this.  Rather, it is the because, because we can damn it.  Need an iron every morning? I don't.  Like to unwind with a few hours in front of the flat screen?  Too bad.  Can't go without seeing your beloved grapefruit tree for a few days?  It's tough, but... she'll be there when I get back. 

So I sleep in contention with a battalion of pillows on an otherwise gigantic mattress.  I put my toothbrush in a different pint glass when I'm finished with it.  I use a hashtag instead of a front door fob.  I drink gin instead of scotch, and gentle cooing puts me to sleep instead of refrigerator gurgling.

And I'm a better latch because of it.

Apartment Swap Journal - Cooper St. Edition

January 10, 2012, 12:25pm - Cooper St. low-rise, 3rd floor.

Soundtrack: Dead and Gone - The Black Keys

Everything is foreign to me. Fifteen pillows on my new bed. A laptop computer. Bathroom sink water pressure that likely couldn't summon the power to drown a gnat. A roommate. Bacon and eggs for breakfast. The raw kinetic potential of a $300 noise fine hanging over the apartment from this past weekend's indulgences; threatening to drop like the gavel of a bloodthirsty judge. Peach yogurt, futon sofa-beds, a flat-screen television. An Atari, two woefully incomplete copies of the Saturday Globe and Mail crossword, the "legendary" first draft of Jack Kerouac's On The Road. A record player, scores of empty beer bottles, a glass jar with $22 in it – labelled "apology jar". This may be a little weird, but I'm certainly not sorry for the position I'm in. This is my adopted life for the week. This is the apartment swap.

The swap is already imposing its will on me. My usual slumber was cut decidedly short. Late to bed and early to rise, I was; my sleep bookended by a hastily completed, Bud-Light-fueled two page assignment written for the first day back to school. I did a poor job of it. I don't care, either. I hope my professor reads that last sentence, too; if only to satisfy my own self-absorbed thirst for yet one more reader of this convoluted and depraved blog.

You see, an apartment swap can throw any lad's daily routine out of whack, no matter how mundane his life. Used to coming home after a long day, opening the fridge to pour yourself a cool glass of water? Not this time, pal, you got iced! Like your plain-yogurt-and-berries smoothie every morning for breakfast? You're a peach yogurt guy now. What's that you say? The water temperature in this new shower is more temperamental than that crusty old ex-wife of yours? Get used to it; the boys at Cooper count their blessings when the pipes spit out so much as a drop of hot water.

I think the real challenge lies in the first 24 hours of the swap. So many unanswered questions. How does your pal sleep in this bed with so damn many pillows? Are they a surrogate companion? Why peach yogurt, and not something more manly like plain or blackberry? Am I a psychologist? What an impressive selection of fragrances; I wonder if he'd notice if I... Have I moved into a girl's bedroom? Has he even read half of these books? If so, that's kinda impressive. Can this Foreman grill make toast and cook hash-browns? Better to find out. Why is my roommate still asleep? Should I eat his breakfast? What kind of weird stuff do you think Henry did in my apartment last night? I bet he already ate that can of beans I left for him. Henry loves beans. I wonder if the crazy cat lady knows she has a new neighbour? I wonder.

Apartment Swap Journal, Waverley and MacDonald

Editor's note: CC, kcerwd, Henry Thorough, and Yeamax have just begun Apartment Swap 2012. CC and Yeamax have given up their bachelor apartments to kcerwd and Henry Thorough, respectively. kcerwd and Henry Thorough have vacated their two bedroom abode to make way for CC and Yeamax. Stay tuned to Latch Out Loud for all the juicy details.

Without further ado...

First night

4:43 AM - I awake. It's cold. But what was I expecting when I checked into Chez Winters? I turn to check my phone/alarm clock and it's off. I press the power button to no avail.

I begin to wonder what has happened. Has the apartment swap disturbed the natural order of things? Have the boys ruptured the ever so delicate equilibrium of our fragile universe and in doing so, crippled society to the point that the technologies we so heavily rely on can no longer function?

Truth is, my friend's dog tried to bury my phone in the snow New Years day, that's probably why it won't turn on.

A few hours later I awake to the ominous buzzing of onlineclock.net. I eat the eggs left behind by my gracious host.

Shampoo quantity low. Water pressure very high.

Lifesavers should take care of any lingering morning breath.

I arrive at work early for the first time in 2012.

To be continued...

Songs That I Like That Mention Cannonballs

 Marbletown by Mark Knopfler.  Marky Mark just killing that acoustic git-box, I think its about coal miners trapped somewhere or something.  Great either way.

Butcher Blues by Kasabian.  Don`t know why a butcher would ever have the blues, you work with broads all day!  Excellent bass line.

Champagne Supernova by Oasis.  A (long) song about getting high and sparkling wine-fueled cosmic happenings.

Cannonball Days by Ryan Adams.  This is just a damn good song; bottoms up, cheers, baby here`s to your tears.

Cannonball by Damien Rice.  I`m not actually a huge fan of this song, but it is enjoyed by many and I had to fill out this post.