Yeah.  Everyone needs to check out this site.  Engrish is just too damned funny.

Obligatory Halloween Post

Ain't it fun putting off getting a halloween costume till the last possible moment?

I'm going to a "dead rockstar" party thrown by the Zone tonight, with my good friend The Shlesbian.  I've been wondering for a while now what to go as.... John Denver?  Zombie Frank Sinatra?  Or perhaps a milk carton, with a "have you seen this man?" ad describing Richey Edwards.

Well, I put it off too long, and now I need to go as Zombie Frank Sinatra.... since I already have the suit.  I just need to run down and pick up a few (hopefully cheap) things.  And brush up on my Rat Packology.  I think I'll spend the whole night saying things like "badda bing, badda boom" and basically act like a 1950s mobster.  I don't know why.

A future novel...

A line that needs to be in whatever book I eventually write:
"I had two imaginary friends in my lifetime.  And they both committed suicide, because they told me I wouldn't leave them alone.  Well, actually, only one technically committed suicide.... I supposed I pushed the other one.  It was an accident, and I didn't realize the building was that high up.  Oh, well, no real loss."

"Right," said Carter.  "They were, after all, imaginary."

"What do you mean?" Asked Ryan.

"Well, they were imaginary.  So they weren't real."

"Oh, they were real.  I just imagined they were my friends."


A few years back, I was in a physical anthropology class.  It was a class dedicated to human biology, and the cultural and evolutionary adaptations brought on by human physiology.  However, it was also pretty much a prerequisite for anyone wanting to enter the Criminology program.  A large chunk of the class involved identifying human remains, using actual human skeletons.  In short, it was a lot of fun.

The professor was a forensic anthropologist specializing in bones (yeah, this was before that 'bones' show came out), and she had a lot of police ties.  And one day, she called in two cops.

They started talking about crime scene assessment.  Early on, one of the cops asks, "So, who among you have ever watched the TV show CSI?"

Maybe three hands, in a class over forty large, are raised.  He shakes his head.  "Come on." 

The professor sheepishly raises her hand.  So does most of the class.

"Good.  That's more like it.  Now, how much of that show do you think is accurate?"

A few people in the class guess.  Forty percent?  Sixty percent?  People discuss all the inaccuracies they know about the TV show - DNA sampling isn't done so quickly, forensic anthropologists do not perform suspect interviews or carry firearms, there's no nation-wide program of fingerprints, etc.  The cop nods at each point, and then cuts in.
"Forty percent?  Sure, sure," the cop says, turning to smile at his partner.  Then he turns to face the class.

"I don't know about you... but the first thing *I* do on the crime scene is turn on the fucking light."

Shortened for Clarity...

So, I'm at the pub the other night, watching the hockey game.  An old buddy from high school shows up, who I haven't seen in about eleven years - I think he moved to Ontario when I was in eleventh grade.  We're talking, and I've got my eye on the game in the background.

"Wait.  Which team is that?"

"Um, Vancouver," I say.

"But, what happened to their jersey?"

"Uh, they changed it a few years ago."

"But... it's a hockey stick.  It's so... boring."

A few people look at us.  "Wow, you really aren't a hockey fan, are you?"

He laughs. A few people nearby frown, a bit confused as to what a complete non-sports guy is doing in a place that lives and breathes the canucks.

But then... he points at the screen. "Hey.  There's that Luongo guy you were talking about.  You know, I never even heard of him until you mentioned his name.  He doesn't look like a homo."

More glances.  A few glares.  I shrink into my chair. 

"Um.  You're thinking of a different Luongo."


So, I have odd dreams.  I had a few weird ones last night, which I'm not going to go into.  Mostly because while it was odd, it wasn't odd in an "interesting" way.  But, it got me thinking, about some of the dreams I've had over the years.  See, my dreams are unusually cinematic, and often, I'm not even involved in them.  They're often almost scenes from a movie - some have even lasted long enough to have a foreword, plot buildup, and a climax. 

There have been zombie movie dreams (one was set in a swamp, and was pretty damn cool).  There have been movies involving giant robots duking it out over Vancouver.  I've had dreams involving, basically, "Muppets vs. Alf".  Or the lovely dream inspired by the movie "Alien" that involved myself and a bunch of fellow students (I was in high school) trying to escape weird critters in the air ducts.  Oh, and then there was that dream involving ninja.

But one of the weirdest dreams I've ever had is basically a short, non-sequitor dream is almost a vignette.  And it was one of those dreams where I was the main character, but the perspective in the dream was external (ie, I was watching myself move about).

The whole dream was filmed like a movie, in a dark, dreary tone with heavy use of shadow.  I was in my house, sitting at the desk.  The rain was pouring down on the roof, and the "camera" panned to show rivulets running down the window.  There was obviously a storm outside.  My face was lit by only a single lamp light.

"Mendoza".  I whispered.  "Mendoza."

In the dream, I got up, increasingly agitated.  Pacing back and forth, holding a scrap of white paper in my hand.  Saying "mendoza" over and over again.

Then I opened the door to the room, and stepped outside.  The camera lifted up, and spiralled a little bit, before looking down upon me.  Face up, in the rain, on my knees.


I screamed it up at the heavens, waving my fists in the air.

...and then I woke up.

To all you shrinks out there... have fun figuring that one out.  I'm thinking it just means I watch too many movies. 

Cops En Masse

(Quick Edit:  I post-date most of my entries, so that there's an update every day.  This one was supposed to be dated for october 12th... due to an oversight on my part, it wound up being dated for december 10th instead.  I completely forgot about it, and just now realized it was dated for the wrong time.  So, yeah, this is an older one). 

As I speak, there are three police cars, parked outside my apartment building.  No lights, and they're just politely parked like any other car.  But the fact that there are three of them makes me a bit nervous. 

I came home from a light-night walk (yeah, I know this is an early post, but I post-date my entries, in case you don't already know), and as soon as I saw the cops, all I could say was "Aw.... shit."

Flashback to drunks kicking down doors a year or so back.  Or a man beating up his girlfriend in the hallway.  Or some fourth floor shenanigans - you can never trust those 4th floor people. 

I crept into the building, listening against the door to the ground floor.  No noise.  I peek inside.  Nothing.  Stealthily, like some sort of ginger ninja, I creep upstairs.

Listen at the second floor.  And ditto for the third floor - my floor.  Where are the cops at?

I even crept upstairs to the mythical fourth floor, slowly poking my head through the door and taking a look around like some sort of paranoid woodland creature.  Nope.  No cops.

Seriously.  If you're going to descend en masse to an apartment building, shouldn't you at least make the trip entertaining?  Jeez.


I miss bowling. 

There used to be a bowling alley in Victoria, but it was torn down a few years ago.  Since then, it's been a flat stretch of concrete that attracts skateboarders, and some rubble that serves as a condominium for the homeless. 

I remember one of my last times at that bowling alley.  I was with some friends, and we'd been having a few drinks.  And by "a few drinks", I of course mean "Hey, the floor is moving!".  The game was going well, though not as well as that of the Japanese exchange students next to us... one had been bowling a near perfect game.

Until my turn came up.  The world spun around me.  I grabbed my ball... and surged forward.  Before, you know, stepping up onto the lane.  Meaning, I tripped over the ledge at the edge of the lane, and fell flat on my face. 

I watched as my ball rolled into the perfect player's lane... in front of his own ball.  It rolled forward... slowly... slowly.... on the edge of the gutter.

And knocked over a single pin.

Drunk Dave sheepishly apologized while his friends laughed.  And then kept playing.  Angry japanese exchange student kept ranting in Japanese to his friends.  I can only presume he was swearing.  Or perhaps cursing the bowling alley to somehow be flattened.

Kids These Days...

So, I was at Wal-Mart the other day, to pick up some garbage bags.  I'm in the kitchen section, when a girl in her early twenties, perhaps even younger, politely addresses a grey-haired wal-mart employee.

With smiling eyes, she asks "Excuse me, can you tell me where the towels are?"

The employee helps, pointing the direction.  And the woman thanks her, smiling, mentioning off-hand that she's just moved into a new apartment, and that there are so many things you forget to pack when you move out of your parents' place.  They laugh, and the woman (who just oozed niceness) leaves.

At which point the employee, with grey curls and granny glasses, mutters under her breath.  "Fucking kids."

Yeah, kids these days.  All.... polite, nice, and thankful.  Happy and considerate.

What nerve.

Cops in the Hallway

Last night, at around 5 am.  there are about four cops in my hallway, banging on people's doors.  I was only half-asleep, so I get out of bed, throw on a shirt and my glasses, and wait for them to start knocking on my door. 

They never do.  Instead, they're talking to all the people on the other side of the hallway.

Turns out a guy called the cops because it sounded like there was a fight in the parking lot.  Followed by a guy in a lot of pain, and the sound of a "bang".  The guy thought there was a gunshot.  Knowing my neighbourhood (I think the guy is new here), that's not an unreasonable assumption.

My guess is some guy lit a firecracker and hurt himself.  And was angry about it.  It is, after all, almost halloween.

But, the cops were in that hallway for a while, taking statements.  So, I didn't get to sleep for a good two hours.  Woot.

More Plenty of Fish messages!

So, I've been digging through my old Plenty of Fish messages, hoping to add some more silly ones to this blog.  I really liked the first post I did on the subject, and the idea of publishing a book on the silly crap I say on dating sites has merit to me.  So, here are a few more I thought were worth keeping.
Re:  Iced Cappuccino

So, I've come to the conclusion that no matter what you say, PoF greetings are always gonna suck. I could say "hello", "hi", or anything even close to that, and it'd all be the same to you. So, instead of any of that, I choose to say "Iced Cappuccino". At the very least, you'll have to read a message with such a non sequitor beginning, right?

I like any Plenty of Fish profile that professes an interest in men that are nerdy - not, of course, that I'm nerdy. I mean, people think I am, simply because I read Wikipedia as a hobby, and I quote movies at odd moments. Ah, well. There are worse things to be called.

Like Iced Cappuccino, I imagine.

So, I figured I'd say "hi", but without trying to sound as lame as I'm sure most PoF greetings are. I imagine most just repeat your interests back to you. Saying "hey, you're looking for someone fun and creative and thoughtful. Well, *I'M* fun and creative and thoughtful!".

I'm not, at all. Actually, I've been told I'm an utter bore. As for creativity, nah. And not thoughtful at all. I once kicked an orphan. But I'm still pretty cool. Those nerd-sayers aside, that is.

Hopefully, you'll browse through my profile, realize how awesome I am, and you'll swoon at my ginger-good looks.

You'll look at my awesome qualities, and realize you have to message me back. That you have no choice but to get to know a little bit more about me.

Plus, I know a bunch of engineer jokes. Just saying, is all.

And now I must go, off to do something fun and creative, yet thoughtful at the same time.

Take care,

Reading this one, I realize that yeah, I was kind of an asshole here.  Also, I believe the woman said she was an engineer, which is why I put in the "engineer jokes" bit.  Of course, with hindsight, I think those engineer jokes probably wouldn't have impressed her much... considering how she responded to this message.  (She didn't).

So, for the next girl, you have to realize that she said that she's smiling or laughing 95% of the time, and that she has a pretty sarcastic/wicked sense of humour. Also, I edited out some of the non-funny parts, because they kind of give this person away if you go on PoF.  Which is not what I'm aiming to do.
Re:  95% of the Time, you...

So, I've got one question for you: if you're smiling and/or laughing 95% of the time... how often do you sleep? I'm running the numbers here, and by the looks of it, you're only getting a little over an hour a night.

Unless you laugh in your sleep. Which may be true. I've seen it before. I had a friend who used to sing in his sleep. His girlfriend used to tell us all sorts of songs he'd been crooning.
**Personal Stuff Here**
Okay. I'm gonna shut up now. Take care, and have a great week! Hope to hear from you soon,

And here's number three.  About the only thing to keep in mind here is that this girl is from Australia.  And my original (sadly, deleted) message was pretty bad.  Thankfully, I didn't send it... not that it mattered.
Re:  Reasons of National Security

I'm afraid you're only going to get the quick message.

I like to make nice, long introductory messages that show off my unusually-hilarious self. I'd love to do something similar here, but unfortunately, I have about ten minutes before I have to leave my house. I have one shoe on right now, and my mouth still tastes like Listerine. The pub awaits, and I fully plan on losing at least a dozen games of pool, and poking out somebody's eye with a dart.

So, you get the short "hi" message. I'm a big fan of most of the interests of yours, with the exception of snowboarding (I consider it "falling with style") and travelling (not that I'm against it... but my wallet seems to hate the idea). So, I figured I'd send you a line.

But, I don't get to be my witty self. Which is too bad. You're missing out on a work of art, here. I briefly considered sending you a message pretending to be the Australian Embassy in British Columbia, telling you that you needed to go on a date with Dave, for "reasons of national security".

Unfortunately, you just get honest Dave, here. Would love to hear back from you, show you just how cool Victoria is, and see where it goes from there.
If not, well, take care and have fun.

And keep your ears open for any Embassy Requests.

Comedy gold here.  Especially if you're a paramedic or a police officer, I think.


Some are from TV shows, but most are real DUI's caught on video.  Absolutely unbelievable stuff. 

How to Date a Woman in Three Easy Steps

So, I was writing a plenty of fish message, and after about a few sentences in, I realized... "hey, this is going to be one of those messages that will later end up on this blog, unresponded to".  Naturally, I didn't hit the "send" button, and instead decided to reformat the message and post it here, instead.

I call this personal growth. You should be proud of me.

So, here goes:

How to Date a Woman in Three Easy Steps

The female species can, at times, seem to be a very elusive, confusing beast.  Their logic can be circular, avoiding a head-on confronation in favour of circling around and kicking you in the posterior.  Their physiology and sexual characteristics share much in common with subterranean caverns, where the bad things live.  And, of course, their obsession with horses and unicorns suggests an uneven psychology at the very least. 

Naturally, these characteristics make the pursuit of women a confusing, dangerous undertaking for any man.  Luckily, there are guidelines that the well-prepared man can follow to increase his odds of impressing the woman that has caught his fancy. 

There are three easy-to-follow steps in successful dating. The would-be suitor should make every attempt to follow these three steps if he hopes to make a lasting impression.

Step One:  Distraction.

Distract a women with a shiny object.  Women are much like crows or magpies - they have a genetic disposition towards shiny objects, like earrings or necklaces.  By presenting such an object, you distract them, allowing you to get close to said woman, allowing them to get used to your scent.  Which brings us to...

Step Two:  Smell Good

Women do not respond well to poor scents.  Mask your natural, dirty male smells with pheromone-ridden chemicals.  Women respond heavily to scent, and immediately react with fear and confusion towards "masculine" smells.  Do your best to smell like a chemical of some sort.  It has been suggested that many marketed scents, such as AXE body spray, are designed towards attracting women.  While this is true, the fact is that most women simply respond to any chemical smell whatsoever.  Anecdotal evidence suggests that women are just as likely to respond to Febreeze as they are to Old Spice.

Step Three:  The Golden Rule

Common knowledge is to just "be yourself".  This is a lie.  If you act like yourself, you will inevitably scare the woman away.   The best way to attact a woman is to be anybody but yourself.  Lie for all you're worth, and if the woman buys the lie well enough, by the time she realizes who you really are, she'll be too invested in the relationship to escape.  This is how my grandfather got my grandmother.  Until last week, she honestly thought she was dating Arthur M. McGuinness, professional bear wrestler and moustache afficianado... when in reality, she'd been married to Arthur N. McPercival, a flatulent uncouth loan shark and anti-semite. 


So, there you have it.  By following these three simple steps, you will find that the women folk are bound to love you. 

No Axe in MY face, thankyouverymuch!

Yesterday, I did something a little stupid.  I went for a walk.

I wound up in the mall, chomping on curly fries from Arby's (sooo good!).  And, as usual on these trips, I found myself in HMV, looking at DVDs.  I really meant to just "look", and when I saw that How I Met Your Mother, Season Four had just come out, I calmly told myself that I can wait for a few months before getting it.

Then in came a man I shall refer to as "B.".  B. is one of those people who is quiet, nice, and far too clingy.  I know him because an old friend of mine introduced us while waiting for the bus.  That's it.  And, because of that introduction, everytime I see B., he talks to me.  Asks me how I am.  And tries to hang out with me.

Basically, the guy is looking for friends.  And I do feel bad for the guy.  But, I don't really like him... and I'm not responsible for everyone else in the world.  So, I'm polite, but when he tries to arrange chances to "hang out" or whatever, I make up a lie, and leave.  Because, let's be honest... psycho killer stories usually start with the poor victim taking pity on an unfortunate, shy person with eyes that never blink.

I don't want an axe in my face, thank you very much.

So, he starts talking to me.  "what are you up to?  What sort of plans do you have?" and so on, and so forth.  I know if I say "well, I'm just bored and walking around" I'll have a new hanger-on for the next three hours until I can work up a clever way to shake him off.  Instead, I grab the DVD and say "oh, here it is!  I've been looking for this.  Gonna buy it and watch it at a friend's house!"

Before he can try to invite himself over, I dash to the teller, buy the DVD, and hi-tail it out of there.  I console myself with the fact that I was going to buy the DVD eventually, so it's not really an awful purchase.

Unfortunately, I got home at around 5:30, and then realized just how addictive that TV show is.  There were some 22 episodes... twenty minutes each.  And I did something I've never done before, and will never do again.

I watched all of them.  Some seven, eight hours of a TV show.  I finally saw what happens with the goat, one of the most sappy romantic scenes ever, and the coolness that is SVEN.  Afterwards, I was tired.  Beaten.  And I felt dirty.  Soiled, somehow.

On the plus side, my face is still axe-free. 

He's Bald, Jim.

Once, years and years ago, I worked at an A&W restaurant, in the kitchen.  I was pretty much a kitchen supervisor, and did my job flipping burgers and all that fun stuff.  Naturally, I got bored at work quite often, and I'd mess with my co-workers.  Who, not counting me of course, were generally fairly gullible and trusting.

I played all sorts of fun jokes on my companions.  Told them we had hidden easter eggs in the kitchen, and watched as they searched for eggs that had never been hidden.  Invented silly games similar to shuffleboard and then told them I owned the copyright to the game.  And I'd draw silly little public service announcements on the fridge doors with a grease pencil about why you shouldn't brush your teeth with Preparation H.

My favourite, though, was when I convinced a gullible sixteen year old that our boss, who I'll call "Jim", had a prosthetic leg.

It was a slow day, and I came up with the lie to pass the time.  She was convinced I was lying (I was), but everyone in the kitchen swore it was true.  So, if I go to Hell for this, at least I'll have some accomplices to hang out with.  She even went up front to ask the front staff, and they figured it out immediately and agreed.

"Yes, he does have a prosthetic leg.  But he doesn't like to talk about it."

For a good two months afterward, I'd watch this girl eye Jim's (covered) leg while in the kitchen.  She'd be on line, flipping a burger, and then she'd just look down and watch as Jim walked.  She'd wait for him to limp, or some sort of sign to "give away" the fact that he had a prosthetic.

Naturally, I shut my mouth, and would burst out laughing when she left the room.

The crowning moment, though, was when Jim came into work wearing shorts on his day off.  He hung out for a few minutes chatting, and then went on his way.  The whole time, the girl stared at his leg.  His bare, real leg. 

Was I busted?  Nope.

"Oh, that?  It's artificial skin.  Like we said, Jim is very self-conscious.  He spent almost a year's paycheque to have the prosthesis with hairs planted in.  Those are his hairs in the leg."


"Yeah.  Haven't you noticed?  He's bald."

It took her another week or so before she realized I'm a dick.

Short and Sweet

As usual, Kittens was right.  Google Analytics is awesome.

Definitely makes things a bit clearer on who is viewing my site (and what they're looking at!)

On Muscle Shirts

So, last night, I took up Kittens' urging and installed google analytics on my blog site.  And now, I've been waiting for the 24 hour delay to end so I can find out just how few people actually read this thing.

In other news, I've been walking around like an asshole all day, wearing an old muscle shirt.  A little tuft of chest hair peaks out from the front.  And my white skin meshes nicely with the white shirt.  I really am about as pale as they get. 

Naturally, though, I've been flexing every chance I get.  Showing off the guns... to, well... no one. 

100th Post

Stay away from my kidneys...

So, way back when, I had a plenty of fish profile.  And after many, many rejections, I got into the habit of writing introductions more to make myself laugh than out of any hope of getting a message back.  Kind of a way to reject them before they get a chance to reject you.

Some of those introductory messages were hilarious, and I really wish I had kept them saved on my hard drive.  I really had a book possibility in those introductions - they were funny, they were charming, and they got me absolutely nowhere.

A little over a week ago, I put up a Plenty of Fish profile on a whim, and sent out a few "howdy" messages, thinking maybe I'd get a date or two out of the deal.  Not really expecting much... that's exactly what I got.  Naturally, my first urge was to start sending out silly messages.

I didn't do that.  Well, not exactly.  Instead, I started writing messages with the intent of getting a laugh, while at the same time complimenting the person and saying a bit about who I am as a person.  At the same time, one of the reponses I got back mentioned how I should post some of these messages somewhere.  And I agree - I want these saved for posterity purposes.

So, these are two sent messages that didn't get a reply back.  Both of them were messages that had me laughing pretty hard.  Hope you enjoy.

Subject:  Regarding Astrology and Cults...

Now, I have a rule with Plenty of Fish. If a girl mentions her star sign in her profile, it means I should start running now. Because when she catches me, I'll wake up in some compound in Bountiful BC with a shaved head, giving my money to the leader while working on a turnip farm.

But I think I'll ignore that rule this time, because you seemed to be sarcastic. And sarcasm trumps freaky astrology stuff every time.

Now, onto the big questions.

What's your dog allergic to? I'm hoping the answer is "other dogs". Because that would rock. Also what sort of strange books and good movies are you into?

Anyways. I'm a former Timmins/Toronto guy, figured I'd say "welcome to Vic", and if you're at all interested in chatting it up for a bit, seeing if there's any real common ground... there could be a pool game in the future where I would lose horribly.

Seriously. Last time I played, a dude lost his eye.

Take care, and maybe I'll talk to you soon.

This girl, who started with a joke about her star sign and her search for a soulmate, before talking about her hypoallergenic dog, gave me about three seconds' worth of consideration before deleting my message.  Fair enough.  This wasn't one of my better messages, but I don't want to post any that actually got a response.  It'd seem like an invasion of privacy, to me.

This next one, though, is a gem.  Really should be published.
I'm seeing a potential book in the future.  Just post a bunch of Plenty of Fish messages to unsuspecting women, and see how it goes.  But I don't know if I'm really comfortable in making a career out of my rejection.  After all, neither of these gems got a reply.
Subject:  You can't get my kidneys

So, I have a pretty strong suspicion that you get messaged a bazillion times a day. You're a great looking person with a great-looking profile, and that's a rare combination on PoF, it seem. And, because of this, you'll read my quick introduction and start laughing. And then you'll reach through the internet, grab me by the throat, and say "as if, buddy".

I'll wake up in a bathtub somewhere, covered in ice, missing a kidney. But the joke's on you... I happen to have two of the things.

On the off chance that you're not an internet kidney harvester, I figure I'll say "hello". I'm a pretty nice guy, with a good sense of humour, a fairly active life, and my belly is closer to a six pack than a keg. I like to write, try new things, and love cooking. My kidneys are in excellent shape.

I like to joke around, am pretty playful, and a romantic and nice guy. and I'd love to learn a bit more about you - what sort of books you read, your top three movies, what sort of games you're into (that sounded dirty... not what I meant!), and all that awesome stuff. Hopefully, you'll pop back, read my profile, realize how awesome I am, and we'll take it from there.

If not, well, that's cool too. But stay away from my internal organs, please.

Take care,


New Blog Labels!

Also, you'll notice I have a new "labels" listing to the side.  Thanks goes to Kittens for mentioning it... I haven't really categorized all of my entries yet, but I'm getting there.

Also, I'm stupid

So, part two of my story.  And this one is a bit shorter.  To quote Kittens here, "Shorter is Better".

In writing, at least.

I make my way down to the mall (a different mall than the one I live by, that actually has my credit union).  I get in the line up, fill out my paperwork, and fret about money.  No EI money coming in, and what am I going to do if it's delayed even longer?  I have to make my bill payments... how much money from this cheque am I going to have left?  And so on, and so forth.

I get to the teller, she asks me about my weekend, and I tell her how it was mostly really good, except for the whole EI fiasco, and we start swapping stories about how the government sucks.  I mention how it looks like I'm going to be broke for at least another day... one more day of Kraft Dinner!  I joke.

She looks at me. 

"Um.  Why don't you use your savings account?"

Blank eyes from me.  "I have a savings account."

"Yeah.  You've got a good fifty bucks in there."

Looks like I opened the account a few years ago, put some money in, and promptly forgot all about it. 

Yeah, I'm a genius.

A rant

So, I was supposed to get my EI money on friday.  Of course, it hasn't come in through direct deposit.  I checked friday night at midnight, and nothing.  Ditto a few times on saturday.  Zilch.  I even checked monday night at around 3 am, because I happened to still be awake, and the offices in Ottawa would just be opening around then, after the long weekend.  Bleary-eyed, I fumbled with the ATM.  Still no cash.

A homeless guy walked by me, and casually asked for some change.  I shook my head, thinking to myself I was gonna ask you the same thing. 

It was the first thing I did this morning, too.  Got up, got dressed, and made my way down to the mall to check my money situation.  I'm beginning to have fears that mall security are going to start thinking I either have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or I'm a bank ATM enthusiast.  Still no cash.

I checked online, to make sure I had filed the report.  Yyup.  In polite government speak, it told me that I had just filed a report, and that my next was due for almost two weeks from now.  I could read between the lines.  It said "Nice try, Dave.  You're not getting any more money from us.  Piss off."

So, I call their number.  Get a message.  First thing the message says "If you are calling about late EI Payments, they have been delayed due to the long weekend, and will arrive a day later than usual".

A vein starts to throb in my head.  My newt looks up at me, mounting the plastic turtle.  I begin to wonder if newts are really as poisonous as everyone says, because I'm running out of cash... and food... I'll have to eat my fish first.

Brilliant work on the government's part.  Schedule a payment for the day before thanksgiving... and then don't pay them out because of the long weekend (and because of how FLEX days work, their office was probably half-staffed on friday). I wonder how many people out there, out of work parents, who couldn't afford thanksgiving because some people in Ottawa decided to leave early before mailing out the cheques? 

"I'm sorry, Timmy.  Mummy couldn't afford a turkey this year.  Eat your SPAM."

I worked in government.  We're not the most dedicated of people, true, but at least in my branch, we made sure the people got their money (or, in our case, licences so they could earn money).  Didn't matter if it was Christmas tomorrow... if a guy was missing a licence because of our own failure, you fixed it.  If a LOT of people were going to be screwed over by something, you paid the office workers their overtime and got it fixed.

Silly gits.

Free Money...

There's a certain beauty when you get what looks like a bill in the mail, and when you open it up, it's a cheque instead. 

That happened today, with my government environment tax credit.  A hundred bucks.  I'm rich!  The greedy little boy in me wants to spend it all on video games and chinese food (ODST, Here I come!) but the grown up is beating the little boy with a shoe, and saying I should spend it on either environmentally-friendly stuff, or on, you know, food

I wonder how many people actually use the credit for its stated purpose?

A New Law...

So, I'm watching TV.  And there's yet another crappy commercial on - some woman is shopping at a mall, and she sees her car get towed away.  Whatever will she do!?

Oh, wait, no.  There it is.  Whoopsy daisy!

Flash the logo for State Farm Auto Insurance.  Because, you know, in situations where nothing has actually happened, State Farm Is There.

Seriously.  It's time for a new law.

Whenever a crappy commercial is aired that is mind-bogglingly stupid or pointless, the commercial should be put on trial.  If the commercial gets enough votes, the makers should lose their film-making rights.  Preferably, they should also serve some sort of prison sentence.  And not one of those nice prisons, either.  I want to see the commercial guys leaving prison with all sorts of gang "tats", cornrow haircuts, and a perpetual scowl. 

Actually, let's extend the law.  Anyone that produces agreed-upon crap and garbage should suffer the consequences. 

I'm looking at you, Uwe Boll.

A completely pointless "Dream" post

The other night, I was tossing and turning in my bed, having a very strange dream.  I dreamt that my Dad and I were trying to catch a Superbowl game - which is odd, since I'm not really a football person.  But I know enough about the sport to realize that it would be highly unlikely for Vancouver to play Detroit in the Superbowl.  In fact, I'd put the odds at about 0% at this point.  And while I'm sure I'll get flayed alive for saying it, I'd say those are also about the odds of seeing that happen in the conference finals for the NHL Playoffs, too. 

Go ahead and hate me.  It's the sharks' year, baby!

Anyways, we catch the first half of the game, and we're in some weird "traditionalist" state like Conneticutt. Of course I had to dream of a state with an impossible to spell name.  During the half time show, my dad and I head to a liquor store to pick up something to drink - it looked like the set of "Cheers", only without the happy drunks.  The vendor asks my dad (A sailor) how the game is going, and my dad says something like "it's fucking close".

Turns out the city has a no-swearing law, and we wind up getting frowned at by everyone, and kicked out of the liquor store.  And we miss the last half of the game (it's okay, though... Vancouver won). 

So, I wake up, the dream still playing in my head, and the first thing I do is turn on my TV to find out if Vancouver actually did win the superbowl.  It took me a little longer than I'd care to admit to realize that, well, it was all a dream. 

Holy Crap

So, I read a lot of paramedic blogs.  You could say that, right now, I'm something of a paramedic fanboi.  When I see an ambulance, I slow down and watch, and try to pick up techniques through osmosis.  I don't really know the details of being a paramedic, mind you, but I think I know the basics of the paramedic's life.

So, when I heard a bunch of Paramedics badmouthing the new TV show Trauma, I realized I had to see it.  And today is my chance.  I found it on my channel listings, and clicked to it.

Holy.  Crap.

It's really no different than any other show that seeks to emulate a profession.  ER is an over-the-top "medical" soap opera.  Any show about cops is the same.  So, really, I shouldn't be surprised about a paramedic story.  Every case, of course, is over the top and melodramatic . The characters are all super heroic, twenty-something actor types.  And I just watched a car crash into a streetside market, obviously hitting about three dozen people.

It's just so... funny?  I mean... a guy has a bleeding leg artery... let's apply a tourniquette!  Without, you know, applying a pressure point first.  Whoopsy doodle.   Just a lot of little things like that... .and if an OFA like me is picking up those, I can't imagine the bigger errors that go on.

The Newt Speaks...

Right.  He's gone.  I don't have much time.

What's the deal with Hockey?  I don't get it at all.  Some men chase around a little black piece of rubber, and then they fight.  When the piece of rubber gets pushed past a guy wearing a mask, Dave will either stand up and cheer, or he'll start swearing like a sailor with Tourette's.

Dave has these new "hockey channels" - he can watch any game he wants, whenever he wants.  So, he's always watching the stupid thing.  The only good part is when that girl Cassie Campbell comes on, and talks.  She's pretty.  If I'm a boy, I think I have a crush on her.  If I'm a girl, well, my great aunt newtina was a lesbian.  So it's all good.

And now I have to go.  The Fish are telling knock knock jokes again.  Stupid gits.

Dany Heatley

So, a few weeks ago, I said some bad things about Dany Heatley.  About how I didn't think his trade was a good thing for the Sharks.

Tonight, watching Sharks vs. Blue Jackets, I realize I was wrong.  Damn, what a game.

Toy Story 3

Apparently, they're re-releasing Toy Story and Toy Story 2 in the theatres next year... only, they'll be 3D.  This is being done to pave the way for the next Toy Story movie, reintroducing the movies to a new generation of kids... after all, Toy Story 2 came out ten years ago. 

I love it when old movies hit the movie theatre again.  I missed the last time they aired Bladerunner in the indy theatres, and I'm bugged by that to this day.  I mean, I've never seen Toy Story in the theatres (fairly obvious, since I was a teenager when they came out, and in that "too cool" phase) - and I really want to.

I want to go to a Classic Movie screening - all older (10+ years) movies, all that time has declared "Classics".  Imagine being able to spend the weekend in a theatre, watching gems like The Princess Bride, Bladerunner, Jurassic Park, Pulp Fiction, High Fidelity, 2001, Apocalypse Now, and Saving Private Ryan

Movies that you didn't have the sense to see when they came out, but realized afterwards they were classics and needed that silver screen viewing.  I remember, when I was around thirteen or so, I very stupidly chose to watch Homeward Bound 2 instead of The Birdcage.  And that bugs me to this day.

The point of the story is, when the new Toy Story comes out, preceded by the first two, I want to be there, watching them.  I'll probably take my niece and nephew, so that I'm not that creepy guy alone in a theatre surrounded by kids (ew). 

Plus, everyone knows that kid movies are the best to see in the theatre.  Because they have popcorn deals.

With toys.

Some Flaming

Years ago, I was in a band.  I must have been around seventeen at the time... this would be around 1999 or 2000 or so.  We were called Charlie C-16, and we were pretty awful.  But, hey, it was fun.

My friend Squee wasn't much of a guitarist, but he liked hanging out with us while we practiced.  And he did try - he just had a terrible sense of rhythm.  I remember he'd get bored with the playing, and then get up to all sorts of trouble.  He'd tie our shoelaces to patch cords.  Or start throwing stuff at you when you weren't looking.

My personal favourite involved lighting people on fire. 

He had an aerosol spray can, and a lighter.  And he was very fond of making a flamethrower, and shooting it at you.  Usually your back, or your arm.  Of course, the aerosol burns off before the fire creates any heat, so you barely feel any warmth... it's just a weird effect to see your arm on fire for a second before it dies out.

I remember once, I was playing a guitar solo.  Back when I sucked (even more than I do now) at guitar solos.  We had been "jamming", and I tried ripping one out.  It wasn't a great solo, but it wasn't terrible, either.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see everyone watching me, a little shocked. 

"hell yeah!" I thought to myself.  "I'm the greatest guitarist who ever lived!"

The drums stopped playing.  The other guitarist stopped playing.  The bass faded out.  But I kept ripping on my guitar.  And then, I stopped.

Hands started patting me on the back.  Furiously.

That's when I smelled the burning cotton. 

Squee had lit me on fire during my solo.  And my shirt caught.  Apparently, most of my shirt was on fire during my awesome guitar riffage.  And it wasn't dying out.  I looked at the shirt afterwards - holes had been burnt through the fabric.

Squee stopped lighting people on fire after that.

Ah, the dating scene...

Ah, the dating scene.  How I hate you.

I was talking to Kittens about this the other night, about how the dating scene totally favours women over men.  She thought (obviously) that this was a perk, and the way it should be.  I disagree, probably because I'm only on the losing end of things.

I can see why a lot of guys pick up women with the intent to take 'em home, sleep with them, and boot 'em out the next morning - because if you were actually trying to find something worthwhile, it would be a process of constant rejection and loss.  And a lot of guys I know don't handle rejection and loss very well. 

I've tried the websites, and with a few exceptions, they don't really work - you write up a very cute (I'd say hilarious) e-mail message, and then you watch the woman read it, and delete it.  Why?  Our interests matched, my message was given care and attention, and I'm not a troll in the looks department or anything.  The reason is, of course, that women get dozens of e-mails a week on the websites... they get to pick what they see as the "Cream of the crop". In any situation like that, you have to make yourself stand out from "the pack" - and a cute e-mail and a decent profile will only get you so far. 

One day, I should post some of my old Plenty of Fish messages.  They're pretty hilarious.  I can kind of understand why I didn't get messaged back by some people... I got a bit carried away with the jokes, for sure.  I once told a woman (who I had never met) about how I thought the "Golden Girls" sounded super dirty, but if it was what I thought it was, I'd pay to watch it (and shower afterwards).

My goal is to start the bar/pub scene.  That'll be fun... it'll give me a chance to use some pick-up lines.  Gems like "excuse me, but does this rag smell like Ether to you?" or "Do you have any german in you?  Want some?"... or, the best pickup line ever.

Our life, for archaeologists

Sometimes, I wonder what my neighbourhood would look like to Archaeologists, a thousand years from now, digging in the dirt.

I imagine some sort of massive catastrophe wipes us all out tomorrow, and it takes civilization a thousand years to build itself back up.  And then, archaeologists start digging and looking at the bones of our buildings, examining what we had, who we were. 

The mall, down the street?  Some sort of enclosed marketplace, perhaps?  Or a gathering hall?  This "food court" area was probably a place where the local leadership was able to prepare foodstuffs to the large population.

The playground outside my house?  Obviously an object of religious importance.  And it seems like it was very important for us to indoctrinate our children into our religion early.... these symbols always seem to appear near schools!

And that gym, that looks like a pyramid? 

Why, that was a way for us to communicate with the gods.  We'd ride stationary bikes to ascend to the heavens by following the steps of the pyramid.


Another long hockey diatribe

I've got a hockey package on my TV right now.  Basically, I get access to every televised hockey channel, and it's absolutely free.

I have a sneaking suspicion this is a limited-time thing, and they'll pull the plug on me mid-season, and I'll be writhing in the agonies of cold-turkey hockey withdrawal, pondering blowing the totally-unreasonable sum they demand so I can watch each and every sharks game.

I really enjoy watching the Sharks play, watching the game on a California-based sports network.  It's hockey, done through an american lens.

I'm not here to slam americans.  Hockey is not their game to the same degree that it's a Canadian game - I think everyone will agree on that.  But it still cracks me up, as I'm used to watching the very professionally-done CBC broadcasts.  And you can tell that American televised hockey is not up to the same standards. 

For example, on the season opener, the announcers were explaining the nature of the penalties called against the players - why a "high-sticking" was called, and what was meant by "holding".  In a Canadian-announced game, of course, that very rarely happens - commentators assume you know what those calls mean.  And if you don't, odds are 50/50 you're in a pub, and you'll just ask the person sitting next to you.  (I did this the other night... I called up my dad and asked him why a double minor had been called... he simply said "because the other guy bled and cried."  I said "Oh", and hung up.  True story) 

Also, the commentators naturally point out the "hometown heroes".  What's funny is that, in a game dominated by Canadians and Europeans, how they describe players, and imply foreign players are "local heroes" because of where they played college hockey.  Dany Heatley, for example.  The commentators announce that he played in the university of Wisconsin - that he was an "U of W boy".  The reality is, Dany Heatley has Canadian and German citizenship.  My guess is, they didn't even realize they were doing this - they just had the info on their fact sheets on where a player played, but had no idea of nationality.  Not that I blame them - if you were trying to sell a game to an American audience, would you do it by telling them that most of the good players are foreign... that the only local players are mostly pretty crappy?   

My favourite moment in the opening game, however, had to be after Patrick Marleau's second goal.  The announcers begin with "Patrick Marleau's parents are watching the game in Newfoundland right now, where it's 12:30 a.m.  Marleau told us he grew up in Newfoundland, and his parents would drive him a one hour drive, in the freezing newfoundland winters, every day to hockey practice.  And it obviously worked out for them..."

Which is a nice story.

...Except Patrick Marleau is from Saskatchewan.

Ryane Clowe is the Sharks' newfie.  But it was nice of Patty Marleau to fly his folks all the way across the country to watch the game with Clowe's folks.

Welcome Back

It's a little after 4 pm, western time.  October 1st.

I just want to say...

Welcome Back, Hockey.