Friday, June 30, 2006

Courtesy Flush.

Sometimes people just disgust me.

There's a public bathroom where I work.
We are the only restroom around for at least 2 miles, so it seems to see a lot of action. As busy as it is, we do try to keep it clean and sanitary for those who use it. I have no problem with keeping it stocked and available. It's a courtesy we offer, and as such, the customers are welcome to it.

I just wish they would keep up their end of the deal.

On three separate occasions today I walked into the bathroom to check it out and make sure everything was as it should be.

Sink clean? Check.
Counter clean? Check.
Paper Towels full? Check.
Toilet paper there? Check.
Seat Down? Check. (I'm always looking out for the ladies.)

Aw, hell no.

What does it take for someone to just flush the damn toilet? How hard can it be? Why would you leave that there for someone else to see? Are you so proud of what you've done that you want the next random person who walks in here to share in the wonderment of the creation you have spawned?

I can understand once. Maybe some little tyke, afraid to flush for fear of being sucked down the pipes, leaves it for the next person. Sheer childhood ignorance and shame. But if that's the case, this "kid" must have been about 285 pounds and on a high fibre diet. Anyone that big isn't going to fall in any drain around here.

I think it's just inexcusable. I'd like to hunt these "Mad Bombers" down and force them to watch Maury Povich. (Just because that's about the shittiest thing I can imagine, next to what I've had to deal with.) Then they will have experienced something similar to my level of disgust.


It's amazing how I can go from nothing to toilet humor in just one day. Just wait- architectural humor will be next! Flying buttresses, wainscoting? That shit's hilarious!

Thursday, June 29, 2006

Nothing To Say.

It's been a busy day at work, but that's nothing new.
I came home and got wrapped up in watching a documentary on Superman.
(I still haven't seen it yet, and watching this makes me itch for it even more.)

Believe it or not, I don't have a single coherent thought rambling around in my head right now.
I could post half formed thoughts; but you are all so used to my high quality musings that to do so would be a disservice to you. We can't have that now, can we?

Don't worry, I'll be pissed off or amazed at something else soon, and you'll be the first to hear about it.


Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Viva Vanilla!

Just got back from having Ice Cream at the pier.

Nothing says summer like a Waffle Cone full of frozen goodness.
It's a challenge to eat it all, but I gave it my best shot.
Vanilla is by far and away my favorite Ice Cream, but tonight I changed it up a bit and went with Cookies & Cream. (Any jokes about that will be dealt with swiftly and without prejudice.)

I've always liked Vanilla, be it in Ice Cream or anything else. I think it gets a bad rap as being plain and boring. So as with all things: when you want the truth of the matter, go to the Internet. I checked out this site. (Forget that it's a site for women, it was top of the list for Google, and that's good enough for me.)

My Result?

You scored 66.6% Vanilla
Contrary to what you may expect, Vanilla types aren't bland or boring.
Vanilla is far and away the most popular ice-cream flavour, and the Vanilla type
is gregarious, impulsive, fun loving and expressive. In fact, you probably have
a hard time making up your mind - Vanillas are known for never saying no, even
when they probably should. The Vanilla lover takes a romantic, hopeful view of
life: live for the moment, and everything will work out fine. And Vanilla types
are happiest with their own kind - only someone equally spontaneous and
energetic will do.

Now does that sound bland and boring to you? No fuckin' way!
I think it's time for all the Vanilla people to rise up and kick some ass. And we would too, if we weren't so goddamn gregarious.

So go and eat your Ice Cream - you just may find out something about yourself.


Tuesday, June 27, 2006


As I type this, a crime is being committed.

What type of crime you ask?
Murder? Arson? Somebody buying a Lionel Ritchie album for their daughter?
It's much worse than that.

It turns out that someone is being tortured.
That someone is me.

Right now, four of my "Friends" are in a theater in Victoria watching an advance screening of Superman Returns.
Where am I? Three hours away.
Where's the torture in that, you say?

As if just being there wasn't enough, they phoned me from the theatre.

Not during the movie - they may be assholes, but they aren't retarded. They phoned me to tell me they were just waiting for it to start. So I get to sit here and steam while they get to enjoy what could be the best movie of the summer.

What can I do? Nothing.
Nothing but wait and plot.
Ricardo Montalban as Khan said it best: "Reevenngee eeess a deesshh beesst seeerved coooold."

I hope their popcorn tastes like shit.
(God I'm such a Geek.)


Monday, June 26, 2006

Absence Makes The Heart...

When I listen to music, I don't do it halfway.

I tend to find a band I like and totally immerse myself in that sound, almost to the exclusion of other music. The length of time that I am fascinated by the sound varies from band to band; depending if something else catches my ear or I sense that I'm starting to get tired of them. For a band to really stand out to me, they have to be able to stay on my play-list and not get boring. But even the greatest of bands tires after 24/7 repetition.

For some bands, if I sense that I'm starting to get bored, I'll drop them from the rotation and pick them up at a later date. When? Well sometimes the oddest things trigger it. It may be an old favorite on the radio, background music in a movie, or coming from someones car as they drive by. Whatever it is, something snaps inside my brain and I get the compulsion to hear all those old tunes, and to see if I can find any new stuff since the band has fallen off my radar.

It has not failed me yet.
Going back to that music makes it all seem new again, almost like I'm hearing it for the first time. It's fresh and comforting all at once.

I have to go dust off my old Def Leppard cassettes now, so if you'll excuse me....


Sunday, June 25, 2006

Fount Of Knowledge.

Lately The Boy's been asking questions.

Not those kind of questions; he's still a bit young for "The Talk".
He just seems to ask questions about anything he sees and everything he encounters. I think it's great that he is so observant and asks questions, it's just that he won't take a simple answer for anything.

"What's that, Daddy?"
"It's a bag, son."
"What's a bag for, Daddy?"
"To make it easier to carry stuff."
"Why they call it a bag, Daddy?"
"---- Because they do, son."

Any other child, that conversation would end right there. But mine looks for the deeper meanings, and isn't satisfied until he finds them. Or at least what he believes the correct answer could be. As long as I give a long and complicated enough response, it doesn't matter what I'm actually saying.

"Why they call it a bag, Daddy?"
"Because in ancient times, before you were born, Superman and Batman had trouble coming up with a way for Robin to carry all his makeup. So they borrowed some of Wonder Woman's old uniforms and cut holes in the brassiere for handles. She was so upset that she got really angry and had a tantrum. They thought she was acting like a snotty bag, and to insult her, that's what they called their new creation."
"Oh, okay Daddy, that's why."

See what I mean?
I figure he learns enough just watching what I do. All the real complicated answers? I'm leaving them for his teachers.


Saturday, June 24, 2006


Favorite Thing about driving home after work:

On days like today- when the sun is just starting to sneak behind the mountains and there's a nice breeze coming off the ocean, it's just great to roll the window down, hang your arm out and crank up the tunes.

Least Favorite Thing about driving home after work:

When I hang my arm out like that, the wind rushes up my sleeve, inflates my shirt, and makes it look like I have tits. How am I supposed to concentrate on the road? I'll have trouble keeping my hands off myself.


Friday, June 23, 2006


Is anybody ever truly happy with a haircut?

You pretty much are stuck with what you are dealt. It's not like they can stick it back on if you don't think it looks good. I believe the trick is to have them stop just before it's the way you want it. That way it's at least close to what you were looking for. You could shoot for cutting it a little shorter, but I won't advise that unless you can stay inside all week or wear a hat everyday. They say close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, but it's bang on when it comes to haircuts.

I would not be a good hair-cutter.
I know how I hate it when people fuck with my hair, and would transfer that on to everyone else. The average haircut would take about seven hours because I would be verifying how it's going every step of the way.
"How's it looking so far?"
"Oh, great, really good."
"How about now?"
See? That's no good for anyone.

There must be some kind of hidden conspiracy between hair stylists and the Gel Companies. I think they get kickbacks on the volume rate of product dispensed. When you ask me if I'd like some gel in my hair, I take the word some to mean a small amount, not enough to shellac my hair into a fucking helmet capable of protecting me from repeated blows to the head.

But I can't complain. How do you complain to a woman who has scissors right by your ear? I have visions of angry stylists stabbing me with cutting instruments and pouring that blue shit into the wounds. (If I tip a little extra the nightmares stop.)

So for now I'll just smile, nod and say it looks great.

Has anyone seen my hat?


Thursday, June 22, 2006

Cluster Fuck.

Once I got to work today, anything that could go wrong did go wrong - and in a big way.

It was mostly equipment type problems, but the type of stuff that just puts you behind. Add to that the fact that I was coming back from my days off (Always a catch-up day) and that when I walked in the place looked like it was organized by mildly retarded chimps. ( I say mildly retarded only because fully retarded chimps would have left shit on the walls.) And although the equipment was dealt with, it did stress out some of my coworkers immensely. It's funny how some people let a couple of hiccups ruin their whole day.

Ended up taking a later lunch trying to get caught up, but all that meant was that when I got back I was even farther behind on my afternoon stuff. I guess I should have skipped lunch and just lived off my hump. By this time I was so far behind it's like I was living in the past.

I did eventually get caught up. How you ask? Well I did bust my ass for the rest of the afternoon, and if you combine that with the fact that I'm damn good at my job, the answer is self explanatory.

Thank God tomorrow is another day.
If it's anything like this one, I think I just might stab someone in the eye.


Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Thin Is In.

Oh my God.

I can't believe how fucking huge this monitor is.

When I turned it on, it was like the lights of heaven were streaming out, bathing me and the rest of the room in it's cool glow. The picture is so sharp I think I can cut myself on one of Firefox's tabs. I know what 19" looks like - I see it everyday in the mirror- and yet the sheer size still impresses me.
(Could I sound any geekier? I don't think so.)

You have to understand, I've had the same monitor for about seven years. When I purchased it, 17" CRT Monitors were pretty much state of the art. It served me well and I've never complained about it - it's just that it took up so much space. It was a great piece of equipment, and from my original computer that it came with, was the only piece that was still in use. Everything else had been changed or upgraded. Color-wise, it was the only beige thing left. At last my slide to the dark side is complete. (Ah yes, I can sound even geekier.)

I think the time in which I removed the old monitor and set this one up must have broken several land speed records. Where before there was no room , there are now wide spaces on my desk. I could even place an item in front of the monitor now. Unheard of in the old days.

I may even watch movies on my computer. Compared to the old monitor, this one is like a fucking IMAX. If I just had stadium seating around the desk I could charge admission.

But that's enough gloating for now. I think I can work on my Farmer Tan just sitting in front of this, so I'll get some sunbloack and a coffee and take this baby for a spin.



What's better, the waiting or the getting?

When I'm waiting for something I'm a bundle of nerves - my obsessive compulsive nature takes over and I can hardly focus on anything else.


Here's one for ya - I switched to Telus a while ago, and one of the perks of said switch was that they give me a shiny new LCD Monitor. This would be a great boon because real estate on my desk is at a premium. ( I could say "corner workstation", but lets just leave it at desk, shall we?) It's a Dell monitor, but I don't care what it is as long as it's skinny and shiny and bright. After waiting the required amount of time I went through the sign up process and was linked to Dell's site to be able to track the progress of my order.

(On a side note, I think that people had it better in the old days. When you sent away for something- be it from Sears, L.L. Bean, or even from an ad on the back page of your favorite comic book, you were told it would be "four to six weeks for delivery". You shrugged your shoulders, put it in the hands of the post office, and went on with your life until your package arrived.)

Since day one I have tracked this parcel like I was a Safari Hunter and it was The Great White Ape. Each morning I logged onto Dell's site, punched in my order number, and saw what was going on with it. I watched it go through order processing, manufacturing, delivery preparation and shipment. They must have sensed my constant presence, because all of that didn't take too long. For the last couple of days now I've been tracking it's movement through Purolator, watching it cross the country on it's way to my home. I check their site so much that they probably think they are under a Denial of Service attack.

I just can't seem to let it go and just be content to wait.

I'm like that with mail as well. Be it e-mail or snail mail, I just can't help myself from checking it over and over again. I'm waiting for my Brother to e-mail me some pictures from when we were down in Parksville, and I've checked my inbox about 5 times already today.

But once I receive the pictures and the monitor? What happens? Will I sit back and enjoy them, glad that the wait is finally over?

Probably not.

I think I'm addicted to anticipation. The craving for that next fix. I'd be impatient for a donut if you told me I'd have to wait two days to have one. (But that's understandable, c'mon, it's a donut.)

Is there is a cure? I don't know. And if there was? I would probably be going mad waiting to get my hands on it.


(Update: What's really funny is that about 20 minutes after I typed this, Purolater showed up at my door with the monitor. I swear I almost hugged the guy.)

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Mixed Emotions.

I know I'm a day late, but I'd like to talk about my feelings.

(Holy shit, I surprised most of ya there for a second, huh? No need to worry, this won't get too deep.)

I'm talking about how it felt to watch a Canadian team miss out on Lord Stanley's Cup for what amounts to the second year in a row. Like Calgary before it, Edmonton was unable to capitalize on the momentum of their comeback and bring the Cup back to Canada.

Was I disappointed? Yes, but there were some mitigating factors that made the loss somewhat easier to deal with.
  • 11 of the 25 players on the Hurricanes are from Canada.
  • One of them - Rod Brind'Amour - is from the Hometown.
  • Each player gets a day with the Cup - it's tradition. If each player takes the Cup to their respective hometowns, that means that the Cup will be in Canada almost 45% of the time.
  • In the off season, the Cup stays at the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto, so it's in Canada. Yes, it's in Toronto, but we can't hold that against it.
  • At least my favorite team didn't lose out in Game Seven of the Finals. My team was booted out long before that, and I've had time to deal with the loss.
  • Hockey in general had a great year, and hopefully can make a big comeback in the next few years.
  • Any series that's decided by a game seven is a great series. It would have blown if it was a four game sweep.

It still cracks me up to think that, at least technically, The Hartford Whalers beat a WHL team to claim the Cup. If you would have asked me this in 1982, my ten year old self would have told you that you were fucking crazy. (I was a mouthy ten year old, can you believe it?) Even that early I knew the Whalers sucked.

Who'da thunk it, right?


Sunday, June 18, 2006

Honor Thy Father.

Do Deadbeat Dads feel guilt on Fathers Day?

I mean, they must know what day it is. If they have a T.V. or read a newspaper, it's hard to miss the advertising. They must feel a twinge of shame when they wake up in the morning and there's no card, phone call or gift.

It takes more than just depositing sperm to be a Dad.
You have to be there for them, you have to coach them, protect them, comfort them, and above all, teach them all the stupid little tricks that you think are funny. (Seriously? I've taught The Boy "Wonder Twin Powers! Activate!" Nobody else will have a clue what the hell he's talking about if he does that outside of the house.)

My Dad hung around.
He was the provider, the breadwinner, and the enforcer. He worked long hours so that we could have all the things that he never had as a child. Was I spoiled growing up? Not really. I'm amazed at the work ethic my parents instilled in me, and I wish I'm able to pass it on to my kids. I'll always remember Dad taking over the coaching reins of the T-Ball team that my brother and I were on. He made it fun, but he also made us winners. It was like the Bad News Bears, except that our coach had more of a beer gut.

It's not easy being a Dad.
Mom's get all the glory, the fame, and the rewards. Sure they carried you around for nine months and gave birth to you in pain and blood, but who was the one that cut the cord? If it wasn't for Dads ,we'd all still be stuck to our mothers. Think about that for a second. Cold Shiver? Me too.

I hope everyone called their Dads today. I called mine. Mine didn't call me, one was in the bed, and the other was standing beside it when I woke up. It was great. (If they are still doing it when they are eighteen, not so great.)


Saturday, June 17, 2006

Strange Wheels.

I'm not a big fan of driving someone else's car.

It starts even before I get in the vehicle. I worry about smacking it up, getting a scratch, or even just someone keying it while it's in my possession.

Once I get in the car, it's a whole other type of hate.
First thing is the seats - which have to be adjusted, the mirrors - switch them too. Then after everything is moved so I can sit in the car, I have to take a couple of minutes to figure out where stuff is located. I hate it when I go to turn the lights on, habitually go for the lever where it is in my car, and the next thing I know, it looks like the windshield wipers are having an orgasm all over the glass.

And we can't forget the music.
I can appreciate that different people have different musical tastes, but when the only selections in the car are ZZ Top and some country, what are your options? Do you sneak in a good CD of yours, and hope they don't notice? I think blatantly throwing in a stack of disks and saying it's "Because your music sucks." is a bit rude considering they are letting you use their car. Changing any preset radio stations crosses the line as well. (God help me, is there any reason to listen to AM radio anymore? Sports radio notwithstanding?) People can be sensitive about stuff like that.

After you are driving for a bit, and sometimes even before you turn the key, the smell suddenly hits you. What possesses someone to scent their car like it's a whorehouse on payday? If I have to open the window because my eyes are watering, that means the air freshener is a bit overpowering. My main question would be what smell are you trying to conceal by filling the air with fumes from the labs at Glade?

I can't say that this applies to all cars, but it does apply to most. Some are better than others, some are worse.

Getting back in your own car is a welcome relief. Everything is where it should be, the music is the right kind, and any smells can be directly attributed to you. In my slightly obsessive compulsive world, that's a good thing.


Friday, June 16, 2006

Hot Pepperoni.

It looked so delicious, sitting there on the shelf.

I pondered the act of buying and consuming this foodstuff, but my hunger made the decision for me. The next thing I can recall is holding on to the package tightly and grinning like a madman.

As I sat upstairs on my lunch break, chewing stick after stick of spicy hot goodness, I wondered to myself why it had been so long since I had enjoyed this particular treat. It's flavorful, zesty, meaty, and portable. It's a snack lovers dream food. Why on earth would I avoid eating this incredible piece of ground meat in synthetic casing? I must have been foolish to deny myself such a pleasure.

What harm could one or two sticks do?

As I sit here now, six hours later, I am in the throes of gastric distress. (I know you all wanted to hear that.) I feel like a special effects stand-in on Alien. I expect that eventually the sticks will combine into some sort of Voltronesque horror and come ripping through my abdomen. I will be powerless to stop them as they go on their rampage, quite possibly leading to the end of civilization as we know it. Buildings will burn, cites will fall, and mankind will never be the same.

Or maybe I'll just take some antacid and call it a night.


(P.S.- That's right Joe - I fucking referenced Voltron. Top that, bitch.)

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Mid-Life Alzheimer’s

Did you ever have that nagging suspicion that you forgot something?

It always hits me at about the same time on the road either to or from work.

If I'm on my way to work, I give a slight lurch and scramble for my work keys, frantically patting my pockets until I locate them. Anyone driving by will think I'm either putting out a fire or jerking off. (And I'm not sure if I'd like to know which one they choose.) After I locate them, I feel like a fool for even questioning it. Then the fact that I had to think about it bothers me, and I start to wonder what I was really worried about. (Did I shut the coffee pot off? Did I turn off the stove? God help me, did I flush?)

Leaving work is even worse. I'll be on my way home, feeling content about another days work carried out to perfection, when some small item will pop into my mind. (Did I lock the safe? Did I lock the door? Did I remember to complete that paperwork? God, help me, did I flush?) Some of these items have made me actually turn back and check. Some of them I leave until the next day, but check first thing in the morning, or wait and see if anyone says anything if I work the later shift.

I have noticed this trend increasing as I get older, but I'm not sure if it is a symptom of a larger problem, something associated with age, or that fact that sometimes I'm just a fucking moron.

I know I'm not the only one who does this, and that may be the only consolation. Or I think I know I am. I could be. I don't know. I forget.


Wednesday, June 14, 2006


I've talked before about Spellchecking.

I'm not going to go into that mess again, because I've come to realize that there are just people out there who don't realize how horribly they spell. I'm not a bad speller per say, it's more my offbeat style of typing that seems to add the extra consonant to any random word. Since I know this, I Spellcheck religiously, and preach the wonders of it anytime I'm on- or offline. (Ask the Sidekick, he should know.)

But the thing that frustrates me even more than having to plow through someones unintelligable mire on the Internet is to try and understand the way some people talk.

I'm not talking about regional dialects or anything. I understand that in the south it's "Soda", not "Pop", and that some areas of the States and even Canada the use of the word "aiight" is acceptable. (Thank the Lord the closest I ever come to these areas is walking by a crowd of gangsta wannabes.)

The affliction I'm referring to is the inability of some people to properly form words and pronounce them when speaking to any other person. They slur, mumble, change volume, stop halfway through a sentence, or generally make it almost impossible to understand and communicate with them. How they even order food at the Drive-Thru is beyond me.

Being in customer service, I find it very frustrating when I can't understand what someone is trying to say. Having to ask them to repeat themselves (sometimes more than once,) is embarrassing. Nine out of ten times the accent has nothing to do with it, it's just that they sound like they are talking through a paper bag, to someone other than me, possibly in another room, who only understands The Language That Time Forgot. Then they get upset with me because I have no clue as to what they are saying.

How can we help these people? You can't hire a Professor Henry Higgins for everyone. (That's right people, I just referenced My Fair Lady. How's that for obscure?) Positive reinforcement? It'll take too long. I think that if you can't understand what they are saying, you should be able to just slap them once, really hard. Sure, eventually everyone will get slapped, especially drunks, but the repeat offenders would soon get the hint. On a plus side, drunks wouldn't bother you as much.

The only negative would be the instinctual bob-and-weave when initiating any conversation.


Tuesday, June 13, 2006

Sweaty Palms.

I like to read magazines when I'm on my break or lunch at work. I don't have to pay for them, and it's easy no-thought required reading to pass the time before I have to go back to the grind.

The magazines I normally read are Maxim, FHM, Blender & Rolling Stone if they are in stock. ( I also read the newspaper everyday, I just like a bit of entertainment with my news. Gotta have balance, right?)

I enjoy those magazines because they have a lighthearted approach to life, some of the articles are quite informative, and the ones that aren't are usually funny enough to amuse me for the fifteen or twenty minutes it takes for me to read the magazine.

With the exception of Rolling Stone, I feel almost embarrassed to be seen reading these magazines in mixed company. (Rolling Stone I'm ashamed of for completely different reasons.)

The main issue I have is that there is so much borderline porn in each magazine, that at first glance, it looks like that might be the only reason I picked it up to begin with. You can't turn two pages with out a picture of some half naked chick staring you in the face.

Don't misunderstand me, I'm all in favor of half naked chicks. Anyone who has been around me for at least a half hour or hell, even spoken to me for five minutes knows that I'm not a prude. The problem I have is that in order to get some jokes or read about cool gadgets, I have to pick up a pseudo skin rag. In these days when perception is so important, it is a bit awkward to have someone ask why I'm looking at that particular magazine. (The fact I'm covering my lap brings disbelief to almost any answer I could give.)

With the ready availability of pornography to anyone with half a brain and an Internet connection, I see no reason for that gratuitous amount of cheesecake they spread throughout these magazines. If you don't have the balls to go out and get real porn, don't meet halfway and buy one of these; suck it up and by a Hustler.

I know that there are many reasons for them to have that amount of pretend porn in the magazine; Sex sells and everyone is buying. Just tone the amount down a bit and go with more content than filler.

You guys don't come here for the porn, right? Right?


Monday, June 12, 2006

Back To The Grind.

Last Day of my holidays.

I didn't go anywhere and I didn't do much, but it's still a bit of a downer to have to go back to work. Don't get me wrong, I like my job, but I could get used to having time to do what I want anytime I want to do it. (It's not unlimited time though, I do have kids.)

The funny thing about these holidays was that once they started, I had a hard time getting off my ass and doing anything. But as the days ran into one another and things started to happen, I found myself moving at a breakneck speed and all of a sudden I'm multitasking four different things yesterday. ( Cleaned Garage, Fertilized Lawn, Ran Garage Sale, & Dropped stuff off at the Thrift Store.) That's all well and good, but it means that I'm operating at peak efficiency just in time to go back to work. Is that the way it's supposed to happen? Just doesn't seem right to me.

Going back to work after holidays is always a frustrating experience, and it doesn't matter who you are or what line of work you are in. The person who covers for you while you are gone isn't you, and there is no way in hell they are going to have everything just the way you like it. I've been in management almost as long as I've been working, and there hasn't been a time yet that it's been perfect. (The Sidekick really tried when I worked with him, he's about the closest it ever got. At least he was smart and would have a Timmy's coffee waiting on my first day back.)

So as I go to work tomorrow I will be glad to be back into my routine, apprehensive about what I'm going back to, and just a bit sad that I'm going to miss my afternoon nap every day. ( I was quite enjoying those.) I can't begrudge my holidays, things got accomplished, I got to golf, I started my base tan, (God, it burns! I'm as red as a baboon's ass.) and when it peels I get all those lovely questions from customers.

It'll be great.


Sunday, June 11, 2006

Geek History.

Everything old is new again.

So I was looking for stuff to sell at the Garage Sale, and came across my old N64. I still had it all, cables and controllers and even some of the games. I was thinking of selling it, but was persuaded not to. I thought it would be great to hook up to the other television, that way I get to play more X-Box on the big T.V. in the living room. (You must remember, X-Box is the more manly of the gaming systems, and I'm all man for sure.)

So I hooked it up, and gave it a test run. I plugged in Mario-Kart 64 and the next thing I knew, 3 races and 15 minutes had gone by. It's like it was 1996 all over again. I forgot just how fun some of those older games were. And Jesus, it's just Mario, it's not like it has to be graphically superior or anything. (It must be hard for game programmers to make a swarthy Italian look good.) And the fact that this guy is always chasing Peach around? (Tell me that's not hinting at something more.) It's not a game, it's a metaphor for life.

You know, I would type more, but I think I have to go win the Mushroom Cup one more time....


Saturday, June 10, 2006

Sale Of The Century.

So the big Garage Sale went down today.

It worked out alright, we sold about half of what we had. It went so well that I'll do it again tomorrow, just to see if I can get rid of anymore stuff. What doesn't sell is only going to be donated or given away, so I'll try to get what I can for it.

I've never ran a Garage Sale before, so it was an interesting experience. Never has "One man's trash is another man's treasure" rung so true before. The stuff that I thought would sell right away either didn't or sat there for ages. The stuff we put out that I figured would never sell flew off the tables so fast I couldn't believe it. (Who would have known that 80's hair metal cassette tapes would be scooped up so quickly?)

I expected people to stop by and take a look. I didn't expect them to paw through almost every item and bicker and haggle on the price. I knew they would haggle, but sometimes it was almost insulting what they would try to offer. The worst of the bunch are the ones who scrounge through it all, expecting to come up with the next centre piece on the Antiques Roadshow, and then just walk off empty handed. I almost wanted to chase after them and ask "What about my garbage isn't good enough for you?" But I think that would be breaking some sort of unspoken Garage Sale etiquette.

Like I said, it's quite the experience and you see quite the range of people who show up. There were young families, old people (the largest percentage), refugees from the trailer park standing right beside a lady with $500 sunglasses. Go figure, it takes all kinds. I'm not going to really complain, as all their money was legal tender, and spends just the same. (I was secretly worried some guy would try to barter with me; trying to trade 3 chickens for my Coverdale/Page CD.)

I also had the feeling that I was being judged by some of these people. They are scrounging through my stuff, and sometimes I could tell they were wondering why I had an item or why I was getting rid of an item. ("Why does this guy even own Ren & Stimpy videocassettes? What is he, 12 or something?") That's right, judge me while you stand there with your 2 year old, smoking a cigarette, drinking a Slurpee and dressed to the nines in a shirt that reads "Michael Bolton Rules". Fuck You.

But I said it before, I'll do it again tomorrow. The monetary rewards far outweigh putting up with 3 or 4 hours of dealing with the public.

So if you are out in your neighborhood and happen to see a house surrounded by rusty cars and shiny SUV's - stop in. It just might be our Garage Sale. And I can sell you a piece of shit I don't want anymore.


Friday, June 09, 2006

Burn Baby, Burn.

So I went golfing today.

Now I could go on about how the whole day was, from the incredible service and fantastic surroundings of the golf course (Crown Isle, for those who care.) to how much beer I was able to drink, but that would be relevant stuff and I know you aren't here for that.

I'd like to tell you a story.

This story involves a guy about my age, who looks like me, who also went golfing. Now this young gentleman was exceptionally bright and witty, and his charming good looks were the envy of everyone else on the course.

This individual was having a fantastic time golfing, his shots were sailing though the air, almost right on target, and his day was going great. The beer was flowing freely, and although the sun was not bursting through the clouds, it was nice and warm and a great day to be outside.

Unfortunately this young man forgot that even with cloud cover, one can burn fairly quickly out in the open. He did think about it at one point, as he's not a total idiot, but he disregarded it almost immediately, thinking sunscreen was for pussies. And with a fair complexion as his, he would surely be in dire need of whatever sun he was going to get.

He didn't notice the redness as it touched his cheeks. He ignored the way his freckles seemed to soak up the sun like sponges, and how they almost swelled with contained radiation. It wasn't until he went home and got out of the sun that he noticed the color of his arms and the ruddy glow that suffused his face. (Part of this was the booze, but we can't blame it all on that.)

Now he's in a slight bit of discomfort. He feels warm, and he knows he is going to be unable to sleep tonight because of the painful burning and fear of melanoma. On top of that it looks like a farmer tan, just neck and arms, which means that as well as the discomfort, he has to deal with looking like a retard.

We must all feel bad for this man. For when one such as he is struck by such an affliction, we can only hope and pray that it passes as soon as is possible.

I'm sorry to burden you all with the horror of this story, but the tale must be told so that others do not suffer the same fate.

(Okay, it is me. I got a burn from not wearing sunblock when I was golfing today. But if I just told you that, it would be the shortest blog on record. Also the booze hasn't faded yet, and I always tend to ramble when I'm drunk. It's really more fun this way don't you think?)


Thursday, June 08, 2006

Touch Me.

The sense of touch is a wonderful thing.

Aside from all the sexual stuff, (I know you are expecting me to go into great detail here, but I'll change it up a bit and try and keep it clean.) there are many amazing things about it. The whisper of the wind on your face, being able to feel the sun warm you on an otherwise chilly day, and even the shock of cold water when you plunge into the pool.

I'm not going to talk about any of that.

You see, just a couple of minutes ago I had to open a bottle of pills. Now that in itself is not too challenging, as I mastered the child-proof cap at the age of 26.
What gets me is that piece of nastiness which resides inside.

Yes, I'm talking about cotton balls.

Now for some reason, the sensation of reaching in and pulling out a piece of cotton fluff (or the Devil's Belly Lint, as I call it,) just makes the hair on my arms stand up. It makes my teeth itch. I would rather chew aluminium foil than have to do that again.

I, who have conquered the Huggies diaper (Fully Loaded), faced down week-old Cottage Cheese, and even hand cleaned the grease trap at The Arches, felt like throwing up as I grasped the frizzy ball of evil.

Now does that make any sense?

I know I can't be the only one. There have to be more like me. Everyone hates to touch something, be it the floor of a movie theatre, the receiver on a pay phone, a Celine Dion album, or having to shake a fat man's hand.

What makes you cringe? What are you loathe to touch?


Wednesday, June 07, 2006


“I went to the park and saw this kid flying a kite. The kid was really excited. I don't know why, that's what they're supposed to do. Now if he had had a chair on the other end of that string, I would have been impressed.” - Mitch Hedberg

When was the last time you flew a kite?

Before tonight, I can't recall the last time I held on to a string and gazed up at the sky. It's been so long that the memories of it have faded into nothing but blurry fondness in my mind. (Similar to when I was drinking alot in high school, but without the regret.) I remember owning thousands of kites in the past; mostly just because I was better at running them into the ground than I was at keeping them in the air.

But something made me want to try it with The Boy. So we picked up a cheap Zellers kite, (Batman, cool looking, plastic, came with string.) and after dinner headed for the park to give it a whirl. The Boy was excited about the prospect- he's only seen kite flying once, and he wasn't involved, so the minute he found out that he was going to be an integral part of the flight crew, he ramped the enthusiasm up to maximum. We hoped the wind would be at our backs and I hoped I'd be able to keep the damn thing out of a tree.

At first the wind was not co-operating. It kind of blew for a bit, then changed it's mind and stopped. Started up again, but didn't really have any force behind it. Not enough to get the job done anyway. (This also reminded me of high school, but mostly of drinking with the girls in high school.) I thought that it was going to be a disappointing evening.

And then the wind kicked up. It happened at just the right time too. The kite had came crashing down from an earlier attempt, and The Boy was holding on to it while we wound the string back up. As I felt the wind increase I told him to throw it in the air, and the kite leaped from his hand and arced smoothly into the sky.

As I let the string out to greater distances, The Boy came running over. "Let me try Daddy, Let me." I passed him the string, cautioned him to hold on tight, and stood back and watched him.

When I fly a kite, I think about wind, lift, drag, stability, and altitude. He didn't think of any of this. For him it was magic that kept it up there, and the wonder and excitement on his face was incredible to behold. He could have kept that thing up there for hours.

Best $2.97 I ever spent.


Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Consumer Guilt.

I have some of the worst buyers remorse known to exist.

When I have any extra cash to spend on myself, I have a horrible time trying to pick out what to purchase, and afterwards I over-analyse and question my decision non-stop.

What the hell am I talking about you say? Well, let me tell you.

I received some late birthday money. It's not big time cash or anything, only about $100, but it was enough to warrant a trip down to Future Shop to see what's available. I'm the type of nerd that checks out stuff online to get some ideas before I go to the store, so I already had an inkling of what I was going to buy.

I didn't go crazy, but they did have a deal that caught my eye. Two Fox T.V. box sets for the price of one. I had seen it online so I checked it out in-store and they did have what I wanted. I picked up Firefly: The Complete Series and Futurama Vol 3. I got both for $50, and that's a pretty good deal. I even tried to get them to price-match Wal-Mart, (I can be a cheap fucker too,) but no-go on the two for one. So I got what I came for right?


After shelling out half my cash, I suddenly start thinking uber-cheap. I see some more items that I'd like, but I put off getting them. Why? I start to question what I bought already. - Do I need to get these DVD's? Did I really want them that badly? Did I get a good deal?

I know the answer to all of those questions is yes, but it still doesn't help.

You know, ever since I had kids I question every purchase I make for myself. I guess that's the hunter-gatherer in me. Always looking out for the tribe before the individual. But those early ancestors didn't have to deal with well-lit temples of electronic worship, they never had to face a wall of new releases, never had to come face-to-face with the whirling lights and sounds that emanate from within the concrete and steel earthly domain of heaven.

Lucky bastards only had to worry about food, shelter, and which woman they were dragging back to the cave that night.

They had it easy.


Monday, June 05, 2006


"I can wipe my own ass!"

Outside of the movie Big Daddy, these are the greatest words any parent can hear.
People talk about potty training & how great it is that the kid's out of diapers, but until you hear this phrase, you are still a slave to the child. Your title only mutates from Changer to Wiper, and trust me, it's not a promotion.

The Boy has made me a proud parent today.

Sure, he didn't use the profanity like in the above statement, but that's a good thing. The fact is now he can take care of himself in almost every bathroom circumstance, and therefore, I don't have to.
You have now idea how much time it takes out of your day. (Imagine how much time it takes you to shave. Now imagine shaving four or five times a day.) Of course I'm including Number One in the equation when I mention that. No way anyone should shit 5 times a day.

But I digress. The main thing is he's growing up.

Some parents will remember the first day of school, some will remember the first race won, others will look back fondly to the time the little one hits their first baseball.


Greatest day is when he wiped his own ass.


Sunday, June 04, 2006


Now I'm not a bad driver, and I believe in the rules of the road.

That being said, I'm really starting to get pissed with two distinct groups in this town. Walkers and Cyclists. Now I think it's great that they are out exercising, enjoying the sights and trying to better them selves physically. I'm not going to fault them for that.

I'll fault them for being retarded pricks is what I'll fault them for. At least about 92.7% of them that is. (My own statistic, I have no factual data to back it up.) Not a day goes by that one of these groups doesn't break a major rule of the road.

Why do most pedestrians feel that they have the right to just step out into any area, marked or unmarked, and it is my responsibility to ensure they don't end up on the hood of my car? I understand that there is a crosswalk there. But if you don't stop and look up to see if there is traffic coming, don't scowl at me when you try to step out into traffic. I have no idea if you are going to cross or if you are just turning the corner and going on your merry way. Post a fucking sign if you need to, but make it obvious what you are going to do.

And Cyclists. I'm not going to make fun of the outfits, or the shorts, or the crazy fucking helmets you guys wear. I'll pick on the fact that the only group that swerves out into traffic more than you are suicidal alcoholics with inner-ear infections. Jesus, even I remember from the Grade Three Bike Rodeo that you should do a shoulder check before moving into traffic. I know your Ten Thousand Dollar bike didn't come with mirrors, but maybe you can pick up a set at Canadian Tire. And really, do the shorts have to be so tight? I know you're a guy, but I don't need to know if you have your "little helmet" or not. ( I know I said I wasn't going to pick on the shorts, but c'mon...)

Until these groups find some sort of way to co-exist with the rest of us, there's not much we can do. I'll try to drive a little more defensively, but just in case I think I'll get a cow-catcher put on the front of the car.


Saturday, June 03, 2006

Rabid Fanboy.

I've been avoiding this like the plague for the last little while.
The Sidekick sends me updates all the time. I don't check them out.
I've stayed away from everything about this movie except seeing the posters, which is pretty damn good considering the subject matter and the fact that I have an Internet connection.


Because if there is one movie I don't want to see screwed up by Hollywood it's Superman.
They've fucked me over too many times to just accept that they are going to do even a decent job. I can take a mediocre Daredevil, or a sub-par Hulk, and I've even come to almost forgive Schumacher for the atrocity of Batman & Robin. ( Almost, I said, I'd still like to poke his fucking eyes out.) Just don't fuck around with Superman.

See, the original Superman came out in 1978. I was six years old. The tagline for the movie was "You'll believe a man can fly!" - and I did. I accepted each character for what they were, and I didn't question anything except for why Luthor had hair for most of the film. I think one of the first erections I can recall was seeing Ms. Teschmacher in that red dress. ( Sadly she looks horrible now. I checked IMDb on a whim.) Next to Star Wars, this is one of the most fondly recalled movies of my childhood.

Only to be shit on five years later.

Hey, Superman 2 came out in 1980, and it was good. I was a sophisticated eight year old, and I really liked the fact that they included the Phantom Zone, and gave Supes some people he could really pound on. Revealing himself to Lois, only to give her selective amnesia later? Brilliant. However, Empire Strikes Back also came out that year, so I was more saddened by the perceived end of a saga then I was engrossed by the Big Blue Boy Scout. Besides, Hollywood had done right by ol' Supes, they wouldn't mess that up would they?

And then came Superman 3.
Richard Lester should be shot. Richard Pryor should be (and I believe was,) ashamed. This movie fucked over what could have been a great trilogy, but instead stopped it dead in it's tracks. Synthetic Kryptonite? Laced with tobacco tar? The only good scene in the movie was Drunk Superman in the bar. That must have been the day they ran out of mescaline on the set.

I was eleven years old. This movie practically made me want to throw up. I was at the pinnacle of my comic book fanboyism, and to have this atrocity out there really bothered me. I drowned my sorrows in Slushies and pilfered Playboys, and any cracks in my moral character can stem from this time.

Superman 4? I refuse to admit this movie even exists, except that it may be used to torture International terrorists and people who don't shut off their turn signal while driving.

So you can see my hesitation in checking out anything in regards to the upcoming Superman Returns. I can't take anymore disappointment. If it sucks really bad, I just might go on a rampage and kick some ass in Tinseltown.

But I did check out a trailer. I'll admit it, I was weak. All the pressure from the Sidekick, the constant barrage of "Did you check that link I sent you?", I finally broke. I went to the movie site and looked.

Fuck You, Joe.
Now I'm excited.
It looks great and seems to have a semblance of a story.
Here's to hoping they don't fuck it up again.


Friday, June 02, 2006

Hooligan's Holiday.

For those of you who don't know, that's the title of a Motley Crue song, but I'd be veering way off track if I went on about that. (And 95% of you would stop reading as well, which defeats the purpose of coming here.)

So I'm on holidays now. Finished up at work today and strolled out the doors for ten days of what-ever-the-hell-I-want. What are my plans? Who knows. There is the aforementioned Garage Sale that I somehow keep bringing up in my posts, but next to some general housework and yard stuff to take care of, I'm not really doing a hell of a lot.

I know that there are people out in the world who cram every minute of their time off with activities and tasks, but I'm not one of them. I think I've lined up about 12-14 hours worth of stuff to do in the next 240 hours. The rest of it is going to be spontaneous activities, like lying on the couch or reading. Oh Yeah, I'm a fucking animal, don't ya know.

It seems like I have a ton of time off, but I know as I get into it, what seems like an eternity until I go back to work will only really be the blink of an eye.

Two weeks from now I'll be bitching that I need a vacation, mark my words.


Thursday, June 01, 2006

Tin Ear.

Like most other projects in life, moving the desk became the starting point for about seven other minor jobs. Having to clean off the desk to move it meant going through the stack of disks that were laying around, (Tell the Sidekick they were in their cases; he foams at the mouth about that shit) sorting them and putting them away.

Now some of them were actual disks, not just burned compilation disks, ( I'll get to those later) so I started sorting them into "keep" piles and "garage sale" piles. Figured I might as well make back some of the money I sunk into these things, even if it's only a small percentage.

Let me tell you, the "keep" pile was very small. I can't believe that I used to listen to some of this shit. What was I smoking when I picked up The Moffats? Why do I have a Sky album in my house? Sure, it's balanced out by the Foo Fighters and Stone Temple Pilots, and the Nine Inch Nails disk trumps the fact that I had something made by Colin James.

But that's not all.

I started looking through the burned disks in my collection. You know, the CD-R's you write "work tunes Jan '01" on? Oh-my-fucking-God. Someone should have given me a slap. Limp Bizkit? Linkin Park? My eardrums should be penalized on general principle. I can't understand why I wasted bandwidth on some of this garbage. Don't get me completely wrong, some of it was OK. Not much, but some. Why did I find Kid Rock so fascinating at one time? I guess I figured he was the spokesman for my generation. That is if my generation is hillbilly rednecks.

I chalk it up to immaturity. I know, I 'm over Thirty, but guys are allowed to claim immaturity as a defense until we're over Fifty. It's in the books. Look it up.

I wonder if I'll look back again in five years and wonder why the hell I was listening to the crap I am now, all while downloading the album from American Idol season 12. God I hope not.

If I am, do me a favor and end it quickly.