A series of Sneaks

I started this piece April 4th, 2011, after an epic weekend in Toronto. 2 months later I typed the remaining 30 words and here we are. Enjoy yo self!

A series of Sneaks: 3 thoughts from a bleak Monday, or what I like to think of as my 808's and heartbreaks of blogs.

1) R.I.P. The weekend

Every once in a while we have a weekend so great, it basically leaves me saddened by its swift and immediate departure. Not full-on depressed or anything remotely legit, just pining for the days of...Saturday. I know, it doesn't make all that much sense, but last weekend was so effing good it basically made my Monday feel bleak. And not just in the "somebody’s got a case of the Monday's" type of sadness either, more just me moping around in my track pants. Maybe I'm just a sucker for nostalgia, or maybe I’m just exhausted from staying up all night drinking. Regardless, Monday morning I found myself listening to Exile on Main Street (have you heard about this new band? They're are little aged but...) and put together the finishing touches on a soon to be epic Facebook album while feeling less than spectacular. Or maybe I just really didn't feel like doing my taxes.

PS: This is why North Americans are falling behind and widely resented by the rest of the world. We spend the weekend getting our rocks off then spend they next day bitching about our better than most - current state of affairs.

2) All my Friends or Everything is Illuminated

Would it make sense if I had too many good friends? What if I had too many great friends? Didn't Hitler have the same problem? Because of my work situation I spend fourth months out of the country, then I'm back for two. Its the shot gun approach (hobo with a shot gun?) to making money and making friends. Its all or nothing, and I'm all in all of the time. I leave, and leave everything behind, only to return to an orgy of keg parties, Caesar breakfasts and Girl Talk themed dance nights. I’ve been close to being thrown out a window to 2 of those events (true story!). My two months is spent traveling from city to city, catching up with old friends in order to make new memories we’ll speak fondly about in 4 months time. I’m like a troubadour with a time machine and a Cesar kit. “This feels vaguely familiar…so are you making Cesar’s?”


3) One great city
I'm making a push for all my friends to someday come back to Ottawa. I know I'm the least likely candidate seeing as I'm rarely around, but sometime in the not so distant future I'd like to see all my friends back in our original habitats; like bears slowly venturing back to their own neck of the woods. I know its a stretch, and to be fair a bit of compromise, but this is our home, and this is where we're from. Montreal has the culture, Vancouver the Mountains, and Ottawa? Well it has the memories. We grew up here, so lets grow old here.

Editor’s Note: Before I could even think about finishing third thought a friend in Toronto (and half my reader base) started a similar campaign to move back to Ottawa. One great city indeed.

Adventures in Exercising

To the ladies on the bike path

I apologize for eye-humping as you jog by in spandex.

Sincerely,

Bike Perv

Notes from the Underground: 11 hours in the Singapore Airport

1:31 pm: I’ve got 11 hours to kill in the Singapore airport before my flight to Paris. About 3 minutes in I realize I’ve got to take a squelching dump. Lets the great race begin!

1:33 pm: I try to pinpoint the source of my stomach ailment; perhaps cannon-balling that jumbo pack of M&M’s wasn’t the best idea.

1:34 pm: It was far from the best idea.

1:37 pm: I see two guys coming out of the men’s room, shaking their heads in disgust, this should be good.

1:38 pm: As I walk in, a man spits in the urinal then (with great gusto) proceeds to whip out his dick; this ladies and gentlemen, is a classy individual.

1:38 pm: My thought process of how its illegal to spit on the street in Singapore but socially acceptable to spit to your hearts content in a urinal is interrupted by a guy cutting me line for the last available stall; what did he think I was doing, just hanging out in the men’s room? Too be fair, that’s exactly what I was doing.

1:39 pm: I publicly chastise the man with a curt “ I was clearly going in there.” The guy is shocked, and almost hurt by my tone. He backs up and apologizes; victory, the world is mine.

1:40 pm: I walk into the stall, its effin filthy. I walk out in hopes of finding a better bathroom. I see the two guys from before walking into another rest room, this could be promising.

1:53 pm: I walk in; it is clearly the Rolls Royce of handicapped bathrooms. I park my luggage cart outside the stall and go to town. I consider dumping with door wide open so that I can keep an eye on my stuff. I eventually reject this idea and chalk it up as a “societal” thing.

1:57 pm: I almost positive I can hear kids rifling through my luggage. I contemplate yelling for help.

2:00 pm: As I’m washing my hands; the security guard beside me spends a good 5 minutes carefully sculpting his gelled hair. I’m not sure who’s he planning on meeting in the airport but good lord does he have something special planned. I am instantly nervous.

2:12 pm: I’m remarkably relaxed considering I have a bag filled with 2 months worth of American cash. Its people like me who are usually the best to beat up for their money.

2:14 pm: I give a casual onlooker my best “don’t jump me look.” They look away. Mission accomplished.

2:26 pm: I peruse the aisles in Watson’s in sheer boredom. I wonder how long it will take them to kick me out. I see a new line of men’s products called “Gatsby.” If only F.Scott Fitzgerald was alive to see this; his finest creation used to hock hair gel and face cream. Maybe they’ll name a brand of “for her” condoms “Mona Lisa’s Choice.”

2:28 pm: I see a pencil thin 40ish-Singaporean man reading a guide to 6 pack abs; mothers, lock up your daughters.

2:30 pm: I decide to see what’s new in the condom aisle; it doesn’t take long before people start to wonder why I’m just standing there ogling the KY; I try to gracefully retreat and almost take out the entire shelf of Dong tea with my luggage cart. Still single.

3:01 pm: I walk by the display case of securities prohibited items; there is a hand axe, nun-chucks and a set of brass knuckles that they refer to as “knuckle dusters.” I don’t know who they confiscated these from, but they were clearly planning one hell of a party.

3:14 pm: They’re wearing Santa hats at pizza hut; nothing says Merry Christmas like pizza in the Singapore airport. This does not depress me in the slightest.

3:23 pm: I desperately need a place to sit down. I spot an urban chique café with nice couches. Jack pot. I order a $7 latte, this better be good.

3:28 pm: $7 later, it is not good.

3:29 pm: I see this over-priced latte as a tax for all but squatting in their classy establishment for the next 9 hours. I paid, I sit. A deals a deal. Plus I don’t see a sign anywhere about “no vagrant” policy. Home free.

3:31 pm: I drink my latte way too quick; it was supposed to last me a good 7 hours. I silently curse my hydration system.

3:36 pm: I saddle up with my Mac book for some quality wifi, I’ve got 3.3 hours worth of battery life. I plan on milking every last second of it. Step it up Steve Jobs, step it up.

3:48 pm: I silently wonder why no one is on facebook or skype, I then realize it is 3:48 am in Canada. I stuff my wonders in a sack.

3:53 pm: I flip through Facebook news posts. My friend’s profile pictures are of their weddings or significant others. I have a picture of Kanye West with the words “I’m a nice guy” scribbled beside his shit eating grin. Telling.

4:53 pm: 1 full hour later and plenty of juice left in the Mac, suck it B. Gates. SUCK IT.

4:55 pm: I consider taking a bath in the bathroom sink. Birds do it.

4:58: The Asian family beside me has their picture taken with their cups of coffee; there’s one for the scrapbook.

4:59 pm: If I were an outsider reading this I would think that the writer is a bit of dick. At the current moment I have no problem with that.

5:01 pm: I catch someone in line reading this over my shoulder as I type. All things being equal, she wouldn’t be wrong to judge me.

5:31 pm: I decline a friendship request on facebook. It is oddly satisfying.

5:34 pm: I read this blog from top to bottom; the only part I erase is regarding a roofy joke. I proudly stick to my guns on my new found “no-roofy-joke” policy. Remind me to tell you the story regarding the “roofy joke incident.”

5:58 pm: An attractive blond comes in to order a latte; I give her a look that’s screams “all I do is party” and do my best direct her gaze to my crotch. She shoots a look back that says “my boyfriend is in the bathroom and is going to stomp your crotch into the Stone Age.”

6:36 pm: Cute: two small Asian kids doing a choreographed dance with their umbrellas

6:37 pm: Less Cute: Realizing that they are pretending to shoot the white tourists.

7:02 pm: I see an attractive indie-chick in Tina Fey glasses and a Bart Simpson t-shirt. I can’t help but think of us having awkward nerd sex while yelling “Cowabunga.”

7:43 pm: Because I’ve over-packed I have to stuff a collection of my meager possessions into the pockets of my cargo shorts. Electric tooth brush, photo album, 3 AC adapters?, several (several!) books, its all fair games. I have to wear my headphones around my neck even though I’m not listening to music. If someone were to describe my look in one word I’m convinced it would be “douche.”

7:56 pm: I waddle through security. My pockets look like over stuffed chip-monk cheeks.

Young Millionaire

March 2010

Two years ago I wrote a criminally under-appreciated piece about the merits of alcohol after losing myself to a year long relationship. After a seemingly endless battle of late- night-fights, public blow outs, and beach side temper tantrums, I broke up with my girl friend as I inevitably lost who I was; (apparently at the time I was a pretty shitty boy friend). However, coming home to friends and an endless array of jack’n cokes, roofy colatas and Jagger bombs, I found myself, dignity intact, in the bottom of a pint glass. And shit did it feel good to be home.

Fast-forward to 2010 and I again find myself touting my absolute love of God’s urine. True, the circumstances have changed; last night I found myself calmly cruising home in my parents ’99 Suburu with a lovely king can of Honey Brown coursing through my veins. The weapon of choice (lager) was carefully selected to match my Thailand tanned skin; I hope my buddy and his girl friend appreciated the complimentary contrast between my skin tone and the aforementioned amber ale; (alas, they did not). Regardless, driving home with a slight buzz, the hockey game on the radio and the heat seaters set to toasty was the best I’d felt all day. Its no wonder most drunks are so happy! With just enough alcohol in the system, life tends to take on a certain clarity. Matters which were once complicated seem less complex; originally clouded visions seems to part with a new found simplicity. I equate it to finally cleaning a smudged pair of glasses with a vodka soaked rag; one can simply see things a little more clearly, and feel good about themselves in the process.

Now in contrast to finding myself (who am I, what I think etc) through drinking, what would it say if I found my significant other through drinking? What would it say if I really connected with someone through a series of parties, escapades, and general tomfoolery? Have I met my soul mate, or just someone that likes to get as fucked up as me? Moreover, what does it say if I kind of dig that?

With that being said, is it cause to sound the alarm when one beer starts to make me feel better than a days worth of aimless distraction? When you start drinking to feel good isn’t that when it is time to stop? Isn’t that really when one starts to develop a dependency? However, is depending on a drink to make you feel good worse than depending on anything else? People depend on variety of vices to get them through their crummy lives; how is ending the day with a glass of scotch worse than escaping through hours of TV or inane conversations in chat rooms. Don’t we all have our crutches to help us limp through the finish line? Is spending 2 hours on Facebook any worse than 2 hours of bird watching (side note: I fucking hate Canaries!)? Is it simply because some of these dependencies are more socially acceptable than others? What would receive more judgement; clearing my head by going for a jog, or by sitting back and watching an episode of Gossip Girl. What if I did both? (for the record I do watch GG because is awesome and is along the same lines as mid 90’s Spice girls and late 80’s Cocaine; everyone’s doing it, no one is admitting it). Aren’t these dependencies simply judged by the adverse health effects involved with their participation? Does this boil down to tax dollars vs personal freedoms? This creates a problem, which inevitably needs an answer. As it seems to difficult to solve on my own, I’m going to need a drink. Dependency indeed.

Editors Note:

While there is a lack of creativity in again professing my love for liquor, I will make this point; ask any grade 10 English teacher for advice and they will tell you 1) not to become an English teacher (zing!) 2) write what you know about. Believe me, I know about booze. I’d re-write the alphabet D-U-I if it made any sense. It does not matter if I’m 16 or 26, the majority of my weekends have started with booze and ended with an absolute litany of apologies. Even my first time drinking at my friend Toby’s barmitzvah did not end well (hence a long over due apology to the Friedman’s; there I said it, I’m sorry).

Ironically, the longer it took me to write this the more the buzz wore off, consequently decreasing my enthusiasm and energy for the project. By the end I was just another lazy cynical blogger ripe for parody and my own Doonsbury cartoon (zing again!)

Civil twilight and Drunken Liturgies

Through out the last month I’ve developed neat little habit of going out with my friends and getting roaring drunk. “I liked to get fucked up, when I’m krunked up” can be heard echoing across Elgin as we wallow in a pool of our own crapulence. Dance bars, pool bars, cougar bars, it doesn’t really matter what the venue has to offer; we don’t discriminate. We’re like the United Nations of boozehounds. Every establishment is equal in our eyes (except Qatar). Of course in this rum-fueled utopia everything is somehow magically enhanced. Its like going from your grand parents crummy black and white TV to a 60-inch flat screen. HD Muthafucka!!! Stories get better, dancing is easier, and yes you guessed it, girls get way better looking (don’t act insulted, it goes both ways and you know it). I’m way funnier; and even if I’m not, I think I am and that’s what really matters.

Anybody who’s ever been to a high school dance or drank 40’s in a park can tell you, it seems that the more booze you drink, the more fun you have. How many times have you heard someone say, “oh it was a great party, I was sooooo wasted!” For that matter, how many times have you heard me say that? But was the party itself even that great, or did you just have a fantastic buzz on? I may have a shit time on a dry date but give me a jack and coke and even your lil’bros piano rehearsal can become entertaining. Jagger Bombs? Bombs away! Even après-bar activities have become more enjoyable. If you think Harry Potter is a good read when you’re sober, you should try it when you’re soused at 3 in the morning; I’ve never loathed Snape so much! Moreover, next time you stumble your way to bed, try putting on the ol’ head phones for a song or two. Sure, I may only be conscious for the first 30 seconds of 12:51, but for those 30 seconds The Strokes have never sounded so good.

Now some of you my say that I sound like a grade 9 discovering his parents liquor cabinet for the first time. Quite the contrary; I’m actually re-discovering my fondness for alcohol. For the last year I was dating a girl who had zero interest in drinking. She didn’t like it or understand it, and had little desire to do so. To her Captain Morgan was just some jack-ass who somehow had the power to bring grown men to their knees, and turn women into sex crazed savages. So I’m like “How can you not like that?” Of course being the good boyfriend I sided with her, and spent the better part of the year abstaining from Gold Schlager’s fiery touch. I chose booty over the bottle; forget tapping the keg, I’ll just tap that ass. Instead of boozing and brawling with the girl friend, I’d just stay sober and enjoy my just-desserts. However, this conversely presents a fun little scenario to consider (and I don’t think I’m alone on this one). Majority of my hook-ups are direct result of an alcohol-induced atmosphere; I get it on because I’ve been getting my drink on. An idle conversation usually provides little reason to fornicate, but throw in some Schnapps and some Nelly and suddenly we’re taking off all our clothes! So in theory, instead of a year of sobriety and guaranteed sex I could have drank, kept up my party time antics, and as a result could have till been banging butts on the dance floor (too crude?).

Regardless, this is all just hypothetical. However it does brings us to the point of whether or not I need to drink to have fun. Of course not; I can have fun doing just about anything. Scrabble, Twister, long walks on the beach, I can do all these things with a smile on my face. But if I drink while doing these things I’ll have an even better time. So lets raise a glass and toast to events we probably won’t even remember. For as long we’re drinking, our stories will be entertaining if nothing else.

The Denial Twist

With the advent of tai-bo, feminism, Title IX and the Spice girls, the entire female race has never been stronger. Conversely, the entire male race has never felt more useless. After spending a month travelling with my girlfriend, I came to the unsettling conclusion that she really didn't need me for all that much. Sure one could make the argument that I'm needed for that whole "love and companionship" thing, but as soon as she tires of my good night kiss I'm out of a job (and Homey's gotta get paid!) However, there is one corner of the market in which man still reigns supreme, and it is opening jars. For one reason or another, girls always seem to struggle with opening jars. Maybe it is just a secret ploy on their part to make us guys feel good about ourselves (and if it is, keep it up), or maybe they just have weak wrists. Either way, as soon as a jar needed to be opened, I was ready to put on a show. Pickles, tomato sauce, onion dip, it didn't matter, I had to get that sucker open. What else do they need us for, our oh-so clever tongue in cheek "take" on the new Avril Levine song? Our cutting edge off the cuff comments? With the Sex and the City playing round the clock, the male species are hardly needed for their entertainment value anymore. Who needs another witty rant when you can watch that Kerri chick rip her current beau for his own inadequacies. If I didn't get that jar open what would I say, "well it looks like we're not eating tonight, but do you want to here my rousing dig on Brandon Flowers?" You want proof that God's a guy, look to our wrists; just the G-mans way of keeping us dudes in the game. Believe me, the girls aren't going to stick around for the ambiance.

Carlos D rocks the bass, ladies and moustache like a vandal, does not call back the next day

Interpol's latest tour, accessible only to indie hot spots such as Kitchener and London Ontario, made its first stop in our nations capital, good old Ottawa. True, NYC has better venues, consistently better bands, and way cooler people; but every once in a while the Sens win big, pitchers are two for one, and Interpol comes swaggering down our slushy streets. Only in Ottawa can you see a band of this magnitude in a crowd of no more than 600. Since Canadians are impossibly polite we made our to very front without the slightest problem. The night then pretty much played out like we hoped it would; we grabbed some beers, took our spots beside some girls in heroin chic motife, and watched as Carlos D showed us what a real man looked like. I want, nay, need a moustache. Interpol threw down an absolutely blistering set which reaffirmed my belief that they are head and shoulders above almost any other band on the planet. The new material is awesome, Carlos D blew a kiss our way (I'm guessing at our skinny pale friends) and I scored some sweet merch. Only in Ottawa can you score that type of night without having to knife someone in McDonalds parking lot. I guess the next logical question is when does Radiohead come to town?