Music Mondays - Late August Playlist

I've mentioned this before, but my good pal Kittens has this little tradition where she gives her monthly playlist. It's a pretty good tradition, and it's not really one I like ripping off. 

However, there comes a time in every blogger's life when he finds it's sunday night and he has no idea what to write for his monday music-themed post because he's spent most of the weekend having fun with friends/arranging his upcoming class schedule/congratulating his sister on her engagement.  And when those times come, those bloggers shamelessly rip off other blogger's ideas.

"Those bloggers," by the way, consists entirely of me.  In case you hadn't put two and two together. 

Hopefully, my re-workings of her ideas will inspire her in her own blogging creations, which I will then shamelessly rip off at some point in the future.

It's the blogging circle of life. 

Anyways.  My music list for this month has been all about "the cool" - songs that sort of rhythmically roll back and forth and have a groove all their own.  With a few indie acoustic-y numbers thrown in for good taste.

1. Spoon: "Who Makes Your Money" (Transference)
2. Cold War Kids: "Hang me up to Dry" (Robbers & Cowards)
3. Desert Sessions: "Subcutaneous Phat" (Desert Sessions 9 & 10)
4. The Dodos:  "Jodi" (Visiter) (not the best link)
5. Dan Mangan: "Fair Verona" (Nice, Nice, Very Nice)
6. Queens of the Stone Age: "Auto Pilot" (Rated R)
7. Modest Mouse:  "Float On" (Good News for People Who Like Bad News)
8. Kyuss: "Gloria Lewis" (...And the Circus Leaves Town)
9. Mother Mother: "Ghosting" (O My Heart)
10. Marvin Gaye: "I Heard Through the Grapevine" (In the Groove)

Now, I'm not one to toot my own horn (ha!) but if I say so myself, this is probably the best list of music in the history of humankind. 

It at least belongs on some sort of top ten list.

Last Minute Request

So, a few days ago, it was my birthday.  In case you haven't read, like, the last three or four blog posts about this subject (what can I say?  I enjoy my birthday, and always have - it's a great way to fuel my narcissism).  Anyways, due to the fact that I'm all "grown up" now, I didn't take the day off work, and so worked a gruelling day.  Sweat dripped off my brow, as it was one of those days where I had to deal with every idiot under the sun.  And every idiot under the son's retarded cousin, Jeffy. 

At about 4:20 (I get off at 4:30), I'm happily looking forward to drinks at my place at seven, bar at eight, and then crazy random adventures.  Of course, it's at this precise moment that I get a phone call from Cashline.

Y'know, the ATM Company.  The company that I used to work for, and quit about six weeks ago.  My last day was July 1st, in fact.  I hadn't heard a word from them since, although the deal was that if they needed me to fill in a shift, I'd do what I could.  In fact, I still have all the keys to the site, and all the passwords written down.  I occasionally debate breaking in and robbing the place, but then remember that the only thing of value in that office is the box of chai tea I mistakenly left behind. 

So, I pick up, and sure enough, it was my old boss, wanting me to do him a favour.

"Can you work tomorrow and sunday morning?"  Not even much of a "hello" or a "how are you?". 

"Wha?" I cleverly say.

"I need you at the office tomorrow at seven, and sunday too."

"Um.  It's my birthday today.  I have no idea what's going to happen tomorrow, but I imagine I'll be hungover and tired."

"It's your birthday today."  He says it disbelievingly, as if I'm giving him an excuse.

"Yup.  I've been having my birthday on this day every year, since the day I was born," I have to admit, I feel pretty clever, having said that. 

"Well, fine.  Bye." and with that, he hung up. 

I have no idea why he was angry - how do you call a former employee less than twenty four hours before you need them to fill a shift and then get angry when they've made other plans? 

Oh, yeah.  Squee and I came really close to calling the place that night, angrily telling whoever was stuck working that the machine ate our card. 

The only reason we didn't was because, well, we forgot. 

A few thoughts on growing up:

Way back, years ago, I was a teenager.  And hence, stupid.

Teenage boys, for some strange reason, get a liberal dosage of stupid starting at the age of around thirteen, with this dosage of stupid slowly decreasing as they age.  Eventually, they hit their sixties or seventies, and most of the stupid dosage has gone away, just in time for the senility dosage to kick in.

Anyways, I had the good fortune of being the "voice of reason" amongst my group of friends, which basically meant that my dosage of stupid was only slightly higher than my dosage of "instinct for self-preservation".  I was, for example, the first to say "hey, guys, maybe you shouldn't be playing with that deer carcass", or "I don't think those beams can support our weight".  I was usually the first to say "you know, I think he has a gun, and we are trespassing" - always in a terrified whisper.

Sometimes, though, my stupid dosage got amplified and the voice of reason would use his position of power in the group to stage really stupid exercises that came close to winning all of us Darwin Awards. 

Teenage boys.  How any of us survive, I'll never know.

I say this because I feel I've shaken off most of my juvenile stupidity.  I am, for the most part, a mature enough male - I work a steady job, am a responsible first aider, and I don't even laugh at those crude "Dead baby" jokes anymore.

But there comes a time in every man's life where he decides it's okay to do stupid things, "for old time's sake".  And ,any of those times come when a man has a birthday.

And is exposed to tequila.

At the time of this post, yours truly is in a bar somewhere in Victoria, doing stupid things that would make his sixteen year old self proud.  I imagine, in fact, that sometime around this posting, I'll be on stage at a karaoke bar, singing "Bohemian Rhapsody".  Poorly.

That's right.  The former voice of reason is now being put to better use, mangling classic rock hits.  Bring it on. 

That is all.

*ahem*

Normally, there'd be a film friday post here.  However, this is not going to happen.  Namely, because it's my birthday.

That's right, everyone's favourite newt-themed blogger is turning 27 today.  It's also the birthday of Robert Plant, H.P. Lovecraft and (ugh) Fred Durst.

I would suggest you all celebrate the birthday of your favourite blogger (me!  Right?) by watching some of his favourite films.  Watch and absorb such masterpieces, and feel blessed that you better know the mind of the greatest blogger on the entire blog-o-net. 

Or you could just watch Multiplicity.  For some reason, I've really been digging that film, lately. 

That is all.

Actually overheard at work:

And I quote... verbatim: 

GIRL:  You downloaded the bible onto your iPhone?
GUY:  Yeah.  It's this great Bible app. 
GIRL:  Seriously?
GUY:  Yeah.
GIRL:  Seriously.
GUY:  Yeah.  Check it out, I can even search for my favourite lines of scripture and -
GIRL:  You're not gonna, like, show up at my door with a tie and pamphlets, are you?
GUY:  What?  No!
GIRL:  What about a shotgun and a shovel?
GUY:  Seriously?  You're going to go with that?
GIRL:  Hey.  My iphone just has music on it, buddy. 

Weekly Haiku #29 - you too can write a haiku!

first, witty remark

then, archaic sentences

clever line goes here

Day As Night #18: Too much "random" on the internet...

I've never giggled so hard in my life.  That final panel kills me.

(as usual, click if you want to read)

Music Mondays - Musical Theatre, anyone?

Musicals can be pretty fun.  Even at their worst, they're still usually pretty entertaining.  And yes, this is coming from a completely straight man.  Games are also fun!  Much more fun than, say, staring at an empty computer screen trying to figure out a musically-themed monday blog post!

Without further ado, the musical game - I'll post a "title" of a song, and you have to figure out what musical it's from.  Of course, I might not name the actual title, but you should be able to figure out what I'm talking about.

Completely real prizes that are not at all fake to the person who gets the most right!
1.  "Science Fiction Double Feature"
2.  "Blame Canada"
3.  "With my Freeze Ray I will Stop The World"
4.  "Rock me, sexy Jesus"
5.  "Tonight Tonight"
6.  "Can't buy me love"
7.  "Beauty School Dropout"
8.  "Smells like Teen Spirit"

South of the border...

One thing I absolutely hate are Canadians who make a big point out of how much they hate Americans.  Everyone up here knows the type - if the United States are even mentioned, this guy will make a face and say "ugh.  I hate Americans".

It bugs me, because a lot of the reasons these people provide for why they hate Americans could just as easily be applied to themselves:  "they're judgemental", "they're ignorant", "they assume they know everything about us", "they're stupid", "they're incontinent", "they can't maintain an erection". 

The point is, these canucks make the rest of us look bad.  Live and let live, right? 

I really have no problem with Americans.  Individual American tourists have on occasion bugged me, yes, but so what?  There are just as many stupid Canadian tourists. 

Most of them are from Manitoba. 

That being said, there's one situation where I do get bugged - when an American tries to get on a Canadian's good side.  And they try to do this by assuming we're all "typical Canadians". 

Case in point:  we got a new boss on thursday.  He's from the states, and will be splitting his time between our office and the U.S. office.  During his first speech, he mentioned how "I'm going to have to start being more Canadian... I'll have to find a hockey shirt to fit in, start drinking more beer - Canadian beer - and, um, I'll say 'eh' at the end of every sentence.  And get ready for winter." 

Har har.  The whole thing was a little condescending, and everyone in that room felt like they were being talked down to.  Funny thing is, up until he said it, everyone in the room loved him.  After all, he's a pretty great guy, for the most part. 

And it's not that we're not proud of our beer, or our hockey - I'd say a great many Canadians are.  But we don't need people reminding us of the surface details of our culture.  Trust me, I know I say "eh" a lot - you pointing it out ("oot"?) doesn't make it cute or endearing.   

One of our favourite Americans who spends a lot of time at our office is a beer afficianado.  And everytime he comes up here, he makes sure he leaves with as much Canadian beer as possible - I have seen this man leave his clothes at the hotel room so he could fill his hockey bag with more cans of Kokanee because "hey, I can always buy more shirts at home".  This yank puts his money where his mouth is, and we love him for it.

So, to you all American tourists out there:  you just need to be a nice guy.  You don't need to do anything else.  To really get on our good side, if you see something here you love, admit to loving it.  And if you see something you dislike, just shrug and realize you can't win them all.  It's much better than being all fake and condescending.

After all, we have reality TV too, you know.

An Open Letter to the douchebag who called me at work:

Dear sir:

While I am an administrator and not a collector, I do understand that I do, in fact, work in a collection agency.  So trust me when I say that I realize part of my job is dealing with angry people.  In fact, I do it almost every day - people are constantly yelling at me, screaming at me to remove their credit bureau listings, and telling that they have no debts with my company.

But you, sir, brought douchebaggery to a new level.  Were there an award for being a douche, you would win the gold, with that guy from the Slap Chop commercials to your right, and Tiger Woods to your left.  That's right, sir - I seriously think you have a chance of winning the douche olympics. 

What are the douche olympics, you ask?  Why, they are a competition of all of the world's douches, fighting to see who is the world's biggest douche.  There are dozens of categories, judges from all over the world, and they're even televised - you can watch every event on FOX. 

It isn't that you excel in one particular area of douchery, but rather that you have high levels of douchery in multiple fields.  You, sir, could "own the podium".  You have that lack of intelligence and vocabulary necessary for douches the world over.  You have that self-centred attitude that is endemic to the western world.  And you have all of the charm of a rabid rattlesnake.  Add it all together, and we can see why you could have the gold hanging around your neck. 

For example, telling me that you're going to file a "class action lawsuit" against my company because we're calling you for a debt... that's not the brightest thing.  When I accidentally mention to you that it's impossible for one person to file a class action lawsuit, especially over three phone calls, your response should not be to correct me with an obvious lie ("my lawyer will be contacting you about this class action lawsuit if you don't do what I say").  That's a hell of a lot better than the Nigerian who can't figure out a better way to get rid of his father's crooked oil money. 

Expecting that we automatically know the second you hit "payment submitted" on your online banking reeks of self-centred douchebaggery - as if I wait by my computer, anxiously waiting for the moment you pay off your one hundred and thirteen dollar bill.  And then trying to explain to me how online banking works - me, the guy who processes online payments for about three hours out of every day - well, that little feat put you miles ahead of that Polish contestant who likes to kick cans at slow children.

Screaming at our receptionist got you some points.  As did refusing to leave a message - I particularly like the fact that you called us over ten times, and never left a single message.  Had you left a message, we would have replied a lot sooner, and your issue would have been cleared. 

So, yeah, you're going to win the douche olympics.  Great for you!   Unfortunately, I had to listen to your screaming tirade over the phone.  And while I know you thought you  were intimidating me with your foul language and falsetto screeching reminiscent of feral baboons, in reality, I was making faces at the phone and searching google.  Like I said, I've been screamed at before. 

But here's the part where karma bites you in the ass.  See, it turns out, we owe you money.  We owe you a little over a hundred bucks, due to a clerical error we made a few weeks ago.  I tried to tell you this - twice - but you screamed over me.  I gave it my college best, and I certainly wasn't going to bust a nut helping you.   Fact is, I don't think anyone will - there are several notes in your file that you're a douchebag. 

I have a feeling that money will be sitting there until you actually listen to the people you're screaming at.  Until then, though... we'll be on the other end of the phone, making fun of you.

Enjoy your gold medal.

Douche. 

Film Friday: High Fidelity

It starts with a man yelling out to his ex-girlfriend "If you really wanted to mess me up, you should've gotten to me earlier!" and then compiling a top five list of the worst break-ups of his life.  It doesn't end with a passionate kiss in the rain, or a wedding, or anything like that. 

And it's second only to Bladerunner on my list of awesomest movies ever.  High praise, indeed. 

The movie is High Fidelity, and if you haven't seen it, well, you're a little behind the times.  I mean, it came out in the late nineteen nineties!  You know, that time period where so many great movies were made, but no one watched them because they were too busy watching Titanic? 

Trust me, High Fidelity is a much better movie, even if it lacks that guy hitting the propeller while he falls.  Come on.  You know the scene I'm talking about - don't pretend you don't. 

So, in the movie, we've got Rob, played by the always brillian John Cusack.  He gets dumped by his longtime girlfriend Laura, wonders why he is always abandoned by the women he loves, and starts analyzing his life.  He chases down the top five breakups of his past (Rob's obsessed with "top five" lists - he works in a record store, and spends most of his day composing these lists).  And then he tries to deal with his losing Laura.

It's a brilliant picture, in a very understated sort of way.  It is filled with great musical name drops, and for a borderline Asperger's guy such as yours truly, this is pure awesome.  It's brilliantly acted, it's brilliantly filmed, and the dialogue is just, um... brilliant.

I bring this up because, every time I go through a break up, this is the movie I watch.  I have no idea why - it's not a particularly happy movie, or a particularly sad one.  It's just a movie about a guy I share a lot of similarities and character traits (some would say defects - but those people are communists who listen to Abba) who tries to figure out where he went wrong.   And I like that.

If you watch it, make sure you get the deleted scenes.  There's this great bit where Rob is offered the greatest record collection of all time, with so many collector's wet dream rarities.  He knows it's worth at least a hundred grand, and is trying to buy it for a couple of thousand dollars - the woman who is selling it knows exactly what it is worth, and wants to sell it for fifty bucks.  She wants to get even with her cheating ex-husband.  Rob, even though he knows the guy is a douche, can't do this to another collector, and there's this great reverse bargaining scene that always makes me crack a smile.

And of course, there's John Cusack's best monologue in movie history.  Seriously.  This even beats that part where he holds the boombox over his head.  Apparently, though, it doesn't compare to a guy hitting a frickin' propeller.

On the matter of Coffee Shops...

Victoria is a city of coffee shops, bistros, and little holes in the wall that occasionally serve cinnamon buns.  This is an established fact.  I am pretty sure that for every person that lives in this city, there are approximately three coffee shops.  How they find staff to run said coffee shops, I don't know, but statistics and demographics don't lie, right?

The point is, if you want a cup of coffee, a chai latte, or some sort of weird drink with whipped cream and froofy sprinkles, I'd be willing to bet you can find it within a block or two.  There's just an abundance of hot beverages out there!

Which begs the question:  why is it that there is always a line at the damned one I want to visit?  Within a five minute walk of my place of employment, there are no less than three coffee shops - four, if you count Tim Horton's.  And yet, my shop of choice always seems to have a line up to the door, unless I visit first thing in the morning or right before they close.  I'm hoping I can convince them to just give me a key.

I've been to the other coffee shops in the area, and they're perfectly fine - just not for me. 

One is more of a cafeteria, but with homemade organic foods and cheap lattes.  And in an office sector where everyone pretends they're classy but in reality cannot afford it, everyone likes cheap, right?  The few times I've been there, there hasn't been that much of a line. 

And the other one just oozes charm... an eastern european owner with a moustache who will insist on giving you free refills, fresh muffins covered in seeds of some sort, and a heavy dose of the colour orange.  It's never that busy, but it is the home turf for the guys that work in the ministry of mining.  And while the hot beverages aren't perfect, they are perfectly drinkable.  I think.  There was a dead canary in a cage, last time I went in.  Never seen so many nervous coal miners. 

And Tim Hortons... I mean, yeah, it's gross, but it's the heart and soul of Canada, isn't it?  And just like Canada's heart and soul, it's owned by an American company, but let's not go there.  The point is, people should leave my shop alone, and get their crappy coffees from Timmies.

And yet, all of the office drones have to flock to my shop. The nerve.  I mean, it's an awesome place and all - the type of shop that will play a radiohead album right next to Thin Lizzy's greatest hits before playing something acoustic-y by Tegan and Sara.  But who the hell do they think they are, coming in on my turf?

I have half a mind to open a coffee shop of my own.  I'd call it "distraction", and I would have it follow every coffee shop gimmick known to the human race:  cheap beverages, faux artsy decor, trendy music by musicians you've never heard of, and strange names for cup sizes.  And it will have a discount for all customers who have a "preferred customer card" (which is, obviously, free).  Of course, I'll never drink there, but hopefully it will thin out the crowd a bit at the good coffee shop.

Either that, or it's time to put plan "start shooting from a bell tower" into effect. 

Weekly Haiku #28 - Vegans be damned

amputee chickens

give us hot wings; we give them

new prosthetic arms

Day As Night #17: Sadly Autobiographical...

Hey, look!  Finally, a new Day as Night update!  This one's been on my desk for a few weeks, slowly being added to in moments of inspiration.  Yes, I love diet coke. And I have been known to leave restaurants that only serve diet pepsi.  And yes, this makes me sad. 

As usual, click if you want to enlarge. 

Music Mondays - The Dodos

I hate downloading music.  While I know there are differing views on the subject, I can't help but shake the feeling that it's depriving artists of their hard-earned money.  However, there are always extenuating circumstances.

For example, after buying my ticket to Rifflandia this year, I realized I didn't know too many of the artists, and got to work doing my research - listening to free mp3s and the like.  This wasn't enough to give me an impression, so I torrented some albums, with the idea that I'd buy the albums I liked at the live upcoming shows. 

This led me to The Dodos, an american group that I would describe as a sort of Indie Folk Rock.  The song "walking" is a mixture of classic acoustic jams and banjo lines, combined with a very modern "indie" vocal mixture.  "Paint the Rust" makes me think of an acoustic gypsy march, while "The Season" sounds almost like has a Theremin in the background. 

To put it simply, these are tunes that are comfortably familiar to those songs you grew up listening to while also being exciting, fresh, and modern.  In my mind, The Dodos are the band I was hoping to hear when I first listened to The Fleet Foxes. 

So, yeah, I torrented their album.  But you can bet your ass I'll be buying at their live show.  As well as every other album they have on sale. 

Can't wait to see them live.  If you're at Rifflandia, that's the show I'll be at.  Front and centre, intently staring at the guitars and being absolutely oblivious to everyone else at the show.  I'll be doing my best to creep out the band with my intent lack of blinking.  It's gonna be awesome. 

A note:

So, a little over a year ago, I made some comments on the nature of first posts.  That's right - it's now been more than a year that I've started this li'l blog o' mine. What's happened since then?  Well, um... actually, not really all that much.

My posts may have become slightly less vulgar, and are definitely a bit more frequent (with a few slumps here and there notwithstanding).   It's kind of funny - when I started this blog, it was meant to be a collection of funny stories of my past, sort of an exaggerated version inspired partly by - if you'll believe it - Tucker Max.  Of course, when I realized I am nothing like Mr. Max (this is a good thing), this blog turned more into a soapbox for someone who likes to bitch about, well, everything.

I don't really want to make a long celebratory post, because that's not the type of guy I am.  Instead, I just feel like saying - it's been a year.  Here's to many more.

I quote Oppenheimer... mostly because it's funny.

I have started a war with the woman who lives next door to me. 

I have never seen her before, though I have heard her talk to her boyfriend as I walk past her apartment.  Really, I know nothing about her beyond her voice - she might not even be a she.  But I'm pretty sure, based on her accent, that she's french.  Or spanish.  Or maybe italian. 

In any case, she's from one of those countries that is historically unable to win wars. Or remove unwanted body hair.  So it was perhaps ill-advised of her to start this little "police action" of hers, but start it she did.  She started it a few weeks ago, probably without even realizing it.  And she began by cooking salmon.

It was a basic smoked salmon, and the smell lingered in the hallway, twisting in the air every time I opened my door - a hint of the ocean, mixed with butter and a blend of herbs.  It was one of those aromas that makes one remember poolside barbecues, enjoying time spent with your family - while trying to pretend that you don't notice that your cousin looks really hot in that bikini... to put it simply, this salmon smelled delicious, and just a little sinful.

She followed this up the next day with a mystery dish that had a hint of jalapeno and heavy cheeses, a mexican fiesta... sans donkey show.  And later in the week, there was this brilliant french onion stew accompanied with actual swiss emmenthal.

Naturally, I couldn't let such a challenge pass.  So I started baking in response.  I made the most aromatic weapons of psychological culinary warfare - chocolate chip cookies one day, and cinnamon muffins the next.  Since I can't really eat the things I bake (damn you diabetes!), a lot of my results have been brought to work - after their delicious scent has faded a bit, of course.  My co-workers have been steadily gaining weight, to the point where we've had to enlarge the doors and invest in a freight elevator.

I then made up a hearty chili.  Followed by a thai stir fry.  And I've been making a huge variety of omelets every morning. A few days ago, I wanted to make myself a southwest spinach salad, but I decided against it simply because the smell it made wasn't strong enough.  I made a pan-seared peppered steak instead, with garlic mashed red potatoes and flash-fried broccoli. 

I'm debating buying a mini fan, and pointing it towards my front door, to better waft the scents over her way.  One hundred years ago, we used to waft mustard gas over the french countryside.  These days, it's a well-made hollandaise sauce. 

I call this progress. 

Delicious, delicious progress. 

She brought out the big guns tonight, though - fettucini alfredo, with a pepper boursin sauce.  The fact that I can smell the precise cheese she used, through the very walls, speaks to the sheer power of this woman's cooking.  She is the culinary equivalent of a sherman tank.  If I want to win this battle, I'm going to have to follow in the wake of my ancestors, and bring out the weapon to end all wars.

It's time to go nuclear. 

That's right - it's time to start cooking with curry.

For today I am become death, maker of samosas.

Film Friday: The Princess Bride

The Princess Bride:  just your
basic film about a swash-
buckling dread pirate in seach
of adventure, revenge, and - of
course- true love. 

I don't even know why I'm bothering with this.  I mean, it's kind of a pointless post, talking about a movie like this.  I mean, everyone in the world has seen this movie - and those who haven't are obviously living in some sort of third world country, taking shelter from moustachioed dictators by hiding under rusty pieces of corrugated steel, occasionally spearing rats with a sharpened sticks and roasting said rodents over the burning remnant of abandoned hopes and dreams.

The point is, the Princess Bride is kind of a great movie, and people who haven't seen it have obviously been robbed of basic human joy that is recognized by the U.N. as a human right. 

I came across this realization when not one, but two of my co-workers mentioned having never seen it.  And both are very bitter men.

"You seem like a very nice man;
I'd hate to kill you."

The first is a man who will never shut up.  He's the type of person who makes yours truly look like the strong, silent type.  This gentleman, in his early twenties, is so riddled with ADHD that, with nothing else to do, will actually try speaking in morse code... just to be different.  And he'll flip his lid at the slightest provocation.  He actually informed me that the Princess Bride is a movie fit "only for homos", a fact he based solely on the fact that it had "a fruity title". 

The second man is an aging hippie who plays folk music for tiny crowds and spends much of his work time calling third-rate record companies and internet press folks, speaking for all the world like he's about to make it big on the folk music scene.  More power to him... except for the fact that his music sucks.  When a few co-workers started quoting this movie, his response was more or less to the effect of "anything made after 1973 is garbage".  Which explains his wardrobe. 

Both of these people are bitter, angry men, who see absolutely no joy in life.  And I think it's because they've never experienced the joy that is the Princess Bride.

They've obviously never spent an hour sitting on a couch with a friend, quoting obscure lines from the film before dissolving into fits of laughter.  "Anybody have a peanut?" one of them should say, and the other one, in between chortles, could respond with "you keep on using that word;  I do not think it means what you think it means". 

"You seem like a very nice man...
I'd hate to die."

These two have never considered the possibility of "twoo wuve", or felt loved when their partner said "As you wish".  They've never faced their demons in a climactic showdown with a six-fingered man, or bonded with their grandfather over a shared story. 

They've most certainly never tried to figure out what the hell Andre the Giant was saying during his monologue.

And for that, they're dead to me.

Well, mostly dead.  I mean, Miracle Max could always intervene.

It's not a pacifier!

Oh, yeah.

This?

Probably the cutest thing in the world.

Just thought I'd let you know. 

Going back to the crack pipe...

It's been one of those weeks.

I've had absolutely no desire to write;  not in the least.  Everytime I've even looked at blogger, it's been with a lump in my throat, followed quickly by "one more day... I'll write then."  Of course, I am a master procrastinator.  My mom was in labour for 23 hours, most likely because every half hour or so I'd say "I'll come out after I'm finished playing patty-cake with this ovary".  This habit of mine that precedes my birth means that once I start to delay something, it tends to stay delayed. 

Everyone needs a break, right?  Even crack addicts, people extremely devoted and dedicated to their craft, occasionally decide they need to take a break.  This is, after all, why we have "Urban Art Shows" isn't it? 

Or did I miss a public service announcement, somewhere?

So, there it is.  I haven't had much of an urge to write.  I'm sure people close to me (both of them!) might think it has something to do with some of the recent events of the last week or so, but they'd be off.  The desire to not write is just one of those phases that occasionally grips me - like a herpes outbreak.  Only with less of a rash.

Wait, what events of the last week, you ask?  I guess I haven't been keeping my dedicated fans informed.  Allow me to fill you in on the sordid details:

1. The "Special Lady" came to my place, and she had great news.  She had gotten into her education program, which is the big goal in her life.  I was very happy, and told her we need to celebrate.  This was immediately followed by "we need to talk", in which I was basically told that she doesn't have time for a relationship, now.  It sort of sucks to realize that you're just a placeholder boyfriend, on retainer until something important happens.  However, it wasn't like we'd been together for that long, so I pretty much showed her the door, wished her the best, and went on with my life.  No biggie. 
2. Work has been a BITCH.  As in, there are rumblings that our entire division could be dismantled and moved to the U.S.  The admin department (myself and another guy) are doing the work of five people.  Tuesday, we were given a job that requires at least forty man-hours of labour, and had an eight hour deadline.  We wound up both staying hours late, trying to get it done... and failing.  It was one of the more stressful moments in my life... and I've had to sit through a live John Mayer concert.
3. Migraines.  As in, apparently men can get migraines, and it's a lot more common that you'd think.  I did not know this.  And I would have been perfectly fine to have kept it this way.  But when you're curled up at your desk, whimpering into your knee about "The goddamned lights", you know there's a problem.  A problem  alcohol cannot solve.

So, yeah, kind of a shitty week.  But I'll manage... because I'm busily planning a weekend fit for the ages!

Seriously.  After such a crappy week, I think I'm due for some absolute craziness.  This craziness includes meeting up with the King of Swing himself, and getting into some - dare I say it? - shenanigans.  Also on the list:  hitting the club, drooling over guitars, flirting with the girl at Cascadia Bakery who makes the world's best Ginger Snaps, introducing some co-workers to the wonderful bar that is Heckler's, and - if I have time - fighting crime like nobody's bizness. 

Updates to follow.