Author: Nic Olson

Sitting at work. People walk in. Moms looking for shoes for their sons. Girlfriends searching out hoodies for their boyfriends. Raging teenage shoppers therapeutically looking for a top that looks cute. I see the worst of everyone. No one is their best while shopping. And I get to take the worst of everyone, and lump them into groups that I made up myself.

The Bros. Usually can be seen wearing brand name clothing, vibrant and colourful. Often with well done hair, a nice watch, expensive sunglasses, and ridiculously good looking yet daft girlfriend. Like to talk sports, weightlifting, getting licked, slamming ladies. Listens to Nickelback, Black Eyed Peas, Akon.

The Hipsters. Usually can be seen wearing American Apparel, raggedy vintage thrift shop clothes, cheap sunglasses, leather dress shoes with messy hair and unkempt facial hair. Men and women. Like to talk indie rock, dark beer, Vice magazine. Listens to Phoenix, Death Cab, She and Him.

The Couples/Families. Usually can be seen as crazy people. Whether it is a mother talking to her only friend in her three month old daughter, or a girlfriend talking to her boyfriend on a three year long leash, the conversation is often different and unnatural to outsiders. These people are no longer themselves, they are defined by the other person as well. Like to talk ages of children, length of time dating, families. Listens to the screaming of children, arguing, Fred Penner, and whatever couples listen to.

The Rednecks. Usually can be seen wearing cut off jean shorts and old runners. ’80’s band T-shirts, Riders hats, cowboy boots, tucked in shirts. Like to talk horsepower, RPM, shooting things, getting licked. Listens to anything from Toby Keith, Metallica, Brittney Spears.

The others. Not important enough to have their own group, or I just got lazy. Anywhere from the University devotees, punk kids, metalheads, farmers, the religious, the socially aware…

(Don’t bother trying to figure out where you think I would put you in my category system. Chances are, if I know you, you didn’t make any of them. You are a mix of the worst of them all.)

And then I try to label myself, and I can’t do it. Others could probably easily label me, but to do it to myself is impossible. Then I think about it all. Although I truly don’t use a system this senseless and prejudicial, a lot of the time it is how things are broken down. So when people walk into my store wearing full ’80’s workout gear, sweatpant-shorts and sleeveless black cotton shirt, I don’t think anything. This dude is legit, I think. I think about how circumstance changes how a person dresses, acts, talks about, listens to. And how none of it has any weight, as long as they are living and breathing. Everyone fits into someone’s category, but no one has to care, and no one needs to accept the entire category idea.

But in the end my discrimination breaks the entire world into just two categories. People who like condiments on their hotdogs, and people who like them plain. It’s that simple.

– the line calls in professional tennis are controlled by a robot called ‘Hawkeye’ that is about as accurate as a drunk man’s stream of urine.
– the Black Eyed Peas are popular and Nickelback sold five times platinum
– the movie 2012
– Mary Carillo, Brad Gilbert and Peter Burwash are respected members of sports news teams
– 3D TV
– cheeseburger hotdogs from 7-11
– The Death of Music. Ghosts of Modern Man broke up. The last good/classic Regina band called it quits. Regina’s music scene is slowing to a indie rock halt.
– Serena Williams is a multimillionaire.
– everyone is married
– NHL on TSN
– blogs and bloggers
– people believe in things like the swine flu and gingivitis
– The Death of Tennis Etiquette. New York fans are worse than UFC fans from South Carolina.
– UFC
– therapeutic shoppers
– Twitter
– CFL on TSN
– I heard Federer say ‘shit’ on TV. That was the clincher.

Plan your last two years accordingly.

Dickless Nicholas
Nikolai Khabibulin
The Nic
Neecoli
Niccus
Nickolodeon
Sputnic
Eu-nic
Pic-Nic
Ninevah
Nich
Nymph

This entire blog, Balls of Rice, is about me. I realized that after skimming a few old posts. Maybe not all of it, but most of it. I realize that the purpose of many blogs is to release thoughts and emotions in a public way that wouldn’t usually be possible. Mine has strayed away from my personal thoughts and emotions and has become a channel for my ramblings about myself. I try to come up with ideas that don’t revolve around myself, but it is hard. I don’t like talking about things that no one cares about (i.e. tennis, hockey, politics..), I don’t want to get all highbrow and profound and lose my core of readers that likes down to earth authentic words(?). The only thing I slightly know about, is myself, and I’m still learning a lot about that subject.

This is a short list of nicknames I have had over the years, just the ones I could remember (feel free to add to the list). I have a special quality that allows me to acquire innumerable names that aren’t my own. A special quality, like those people you know that are the punchline of your jokes, the easiest to taunt and mock. They are special character qualities that are commonly overlooked, but are as important as loyalty, honesty and BMI.
People that have known me for only a few hours sometimes already chose a new nickname for me, because I am that guy. It makes sense, considering my name is the original nickname, the one that the word ‘nickname’ was developed around. And considering that my name is Nic, not Nick, making it a double nickname. Occasionally I get the question of why I spell my name the way I do, and I usually use logic, as there is no letter K in my name (then people cite nicknames like Chuck, or Jim). Or I just blame the spelling of my name on my mom.
But doesn’t the name Nick remind you of some old wooly Greek man who owns a sports bar in New York somewhere, shaves rarely, wears a hairnet as he prepares your souvlaki, while his chest hair protrudes out of his stained unbuttoned collared shirt, falling into your meat on a stick. A man who still lives with his parents at the age of 45, his mom calls him Nicky, and his girlfriend is a Greek belly dancing teacher who once worked as a stripper, but realized that she can make more money charging middle class women how to stay fit and move their hips at the same time. A man named Nick, doesn’t fit me. That is why.

But it’s pretty sad that all I can think of to write about is myself. You will likely notice in the next few weeks, my attempts at ideas that revolve around things other than I. Like hockey training camps, political positions, great new technology…
Or I’ll just stick with the arrogance that we all like best.
The original double nickname.

I can never decide how I feel about home. When I say home, I am meaning my hometown. Everyone has a hometown. I wasn’t born here, I didn’t really grow up here, but Regina is it for me. I love home and always will, but each time I return to it, it feels more awkward than before. I feel less attached to the lifestyles, to the places, to the people. So music helps…

This is my prairie, this is my home
And I’ll make a stand here, and I’ll die alone.
They can drill, and they can mine on my smoldering bones
This is my prairie, this is my home
– Corb Lund, This is My Prairie

Nobody cares how much money you have
If you’ve got enough to get in a cab
There’ll be drinks on the house if your house burns down
If you saw my band in the early days
Then you understand why we moved a way
But you’ll hold a grudge any way
There’s a reason that I love this town
– Joel Plaskett, I Love This Town

I am a nomad – a wanderer; I have nowhere to lay my head down.
There’s no point in putting roots too deep when I’m moving on.
I’m not settling for this unsettling town.
My heart is filled with songs of forever –
Of a city that endures, where all is made new.
I know I don’t belong here; I’ll never
Call this place my home, I’m just passing through.
– Thrice, In Exile

Shoplifting is a serious problem. There are people that intentionally steal from a large corporation just to antagonize capitalism. First degree shoplifting. They do it to stick it to the man. The Man.
Play The Man, not the puck.

I worked in a bakery during my grade twelve year, for about six months. Because I went to school, I only worked the closing shift. The nightly tasks included counting every single piece of baking left store wide, marking the amount of each on a graph, and throwing out certain breads, buns and pastries and keeping certain breads, buns and pastries for the Food Bank. Donuts, for example, where thrown out on a daily basis. Flawless, untouched balls of dough covered in sugary toppings were dumped in a garbage bag every night, and that garbage bag was then put in a garbage compactor, to ensure that no single person could enjoy their sweet fillings ever again. Often times I would take single bites out of donuts while I was throwing them out. One night I counted over ninety donuts that needed to be thrown out. I took a bite out of every single one as I dropped them into the garbage. Employees were not allowed to take any home, but I took home about six every evening. Cinnamon buns, strudels, donuts, in paper bags, hid under my father’s old blue winter jacket as I walked out, waving to the boss.

I tried something new yesterday. I’m not especially proud of it, although I am far from ashamed. I was working the night shift. Not the graveyard shift, which has an interesting piece of history behind its name that has to do with the phrase ‘saved by the bell’. The Night Shift. Until nine, selling clothes. Back to school frenzy is over, people have sated their consumerist needs and are shampooing their shoes, hemming their pants and altering their dresses as they cry about the lack of digits in their bank accounts. Therefore, work is slow.

Yesterday, my coworker and I, while playing iPod Touch Price is Right, were craving a croissant, glazed with chocolate icing on it. Lucky for us, the Safeway in our mall baked this very same item. I grabbed some change and left Toby to play games alone. I walked into Safeway via the indoor mall entrance, headed to the bakery which was nearby the entrance. The batch of super croissants had been freed from their glass jailhouse and impending doom in the trash compactor. I took a chocolate dip and honey glaze instead. I bagged them. I walked to the cold drink aisle, grabbed two 99cent Arizona Green Tea Ice Tea with Ginseng and Honey, and headed to the checkout. There were only two checkouts open. And they were both quite full. I waited briefly. I looked to the door, noticing that the regular security guard had vacated his regular position at the mall entrance. I noticed that there was no one working in the deli, right near the doors.
I began walking. I looked around as I pursued the doors, noticing no Safeway employees anywhere nearby. As the exit grew larger, my face got hotter. My chronic heartburn flared up one hundred degrees with each step. Things got hazy, Safeway started spinning, and I was more terrified than I have ever been. I stepped onto the white and black tile of the mall floor, made a straight line for the out doors, and speedily strolled to my store. My face began to drain of its vibrant red criminal colour, and my heartburn stayed the same. I entered my store, shared the story and the goods, ate my food as fast as I could and laughed.

I shoplifted. The total cost of the goods may have been less than four dollars, but I paid nothing. They were going to throw out those donuts in forty five minutes. They weren’t that good. And after eating the sugared ball of dough, my Arizona Green Tea didn’t taste as sweet as it should have.
Or maybe that was the taste of guilt.

I have never done this before. I’ve never had the urge, or the need to do it. The first time I legitimately shoplifted was when I was twenty years old. I felt like it was something I needed to do before I died/before I turned twenty one. Something that I needed to do for myself. I needed to see if I had the character, the audacity, the gallantry to perform a cowardly act.
I did. I learned. I am the same as I was before. Except more badass.
This is my personal development. Thank you for being a part of my personal growth.

I am in the know. I text people constantly to keep up to date about relationships and love lives. I call people daily to find out about upcoming events that I might be able to enjoy or capitalize off of. I e-mail businessmen semi-regularly to see what stocks will rise and when. I check Facebook statuses and Twitter tweets to keep up to date on everyone’s pressing life events. I know things, and I’d like to attribute it to my Blackberry.

Although you may think this is going to be a rag on technology, it is not. Although I hate it all/am jealous of all those who flaunt it.
‘Let me know.’ I find myself using that phrase in each e-mail I send, and hear myself say it when talking to people about plans and the general future. When I catch myself employing this group of words I try to think of a different group of words to use that sounds cooler, more hip or just different. I dislike using the same word or expression more than once in a short period of time, or more than once in a paragraph, as you may or may not have noticed. Therefore, I utilize the thesaurus on a regular basis. My mind is repetitive and my vocabulary is somewhat limited, so to avoid coming off like a repetitious half head I like to diversify my word usage.
Like I when I’m chatting with my bros about a hot piece of lady that I saw earlier that day and I have to describe her attributes, I don’t like using the word ‘cans’ more than once. I like to throw in ‘knockers’ or ‘funbags’.

I think I coined this phrase (Let me know) a few years ago in an e-mail. I know I didn’t actually coin the phrase, but I was writing a semi-formal e-mail to someone and sat for a while trying to come up with a nice way of saying ‘Tell me what I want to know, now.’ I tried to come up with a non-pushy phrase to ask for an answer, but not demand it. When people read things on the internet or in a text message that are written conversationally or otherwise, they oftentimes misinterpret the tone it is written in. I am always afraid of this. Like when you send a girl an e-mail that signs off as
‘Love always,
Nic’

It rarely to never actually means that I actually love you and want to have children with you, but rather a brotherly camaraderie kind of love that I share with most everyone.
Or like how both of those previous italic paragraphs could be read as my actual words, when in fact when I wrote them I was whispering to myself in my, ‘I’m a jackass’ voice.
I am always afraid that my e-mails will sound pushy or controlling, when all I wanted to do was sound businesslike or communicative. So I thought that this phrase did it all. It quietly and passively encouraged the recipient of the phrase to share their knowledge with me when they learned of whatever this knowledge was.

But now I’m not so sure. I am starting to feel like ‘Let me know.’ has become pushy and domineering as well. Especially when I use it more than once in a minute or two. And I don’t think it is because I always want to be in the know, I just like to have a grasp on things.

Or I’m being obsessive compulsive and getting caught up in meaningless semantics. Yeah, that’s probably it. Just let me know if I am or not. Thanks. Talk to you soon! Take care!

Love always,
Nic

Three years ago to the day, I birthed a giant. An ever-changing, twice named, 278 post, giant. When my great child ripped out of my womb and entered the interwebbed world, I named him ‘Partying Since 1988’. I was young when I had my first child, and the name was not appropriate for the type of child it was. I later renamed him ‘Balls of Rice’, like that one 3 Inches of Blood song (running through your veins). When it all began, I didn’t expect it to be like it has been. I didn’t expect that this one poorly laid out blogger page would be the only thing I could actually count on. I didn’t think that it would start as a joke and eventually become a facet of my life that I take quite seriously.

It all began on a once popular networking site, before it was eclipsed by a ‘book of faces’, and before it became a treasury of spam advertisements. I used that as my channel for internet speech, and someone proposed that I get my own blog. I never saw the need, as Myspace was the be all and end all of the internet, but I birthed my giant anyways. And I haven’t looked back. My three year streak of perceptive analysis could have died with Tom Anderson years before it started.

Many people start their own personal blog, where briefly thought out ideas are poorly written and shown with photos and/or anecdotes. A large percentage of these blogs are soon abandoned and left in the desert of un-updated web pages. I nearly discontinued my own a few short months after I began and several times after that. I have always found the blog phenomenon quite peculiar. Whether it is a family blog where memories of dirty faced children dominate each post, or whether it is a travel blog in which sightseers give a day by day update of sights seen and foods eaten, just to make their grounded friends jealous, or whether it is some young halfhead who opines constantly for three years, it has never made sense to me. Because of that, a lack of interest, and the idea that I was not meant to be a writer, I nearly threw in the metaphorical towel. But I didn’t, and I’m still alive. Every time I write a new post, I question whether it is worth my time to continue, citing the fact that I truly know nothing about writing and that the only people that have complimented my writing are good friends or drunk people. But I felt that I have found something special. A relationship I never thought I would get, and found a love for the pen, or the keyboard, or the iPod touch screen.

Happy Birthday Mom!
Happy Birthday Jerms! (new house, new job, now all you need is a wife with broad hips to birth your own legacy)
Happy Birthday Balls of Rice!

I’ve never seen Nacho Libre. I’ve told everyone I had seen it. I know all about the stretchy pants and hating orphans and eating salad and numerous other quotable scenes from the movie, but I’ve never seen it. Chances are if you’ve seen it and quoted it around me, I likely laughed exaggeratedly as if I’d seen the movie and made some sort of allusion to the movie that I actually don’t know about, or said that I simply could not remember my favourite part because I loved it all so much. I haven’t seen it, and I needed to admit it. It removes a world of weight from my mind to tell you this. I really did want to see it. I love Jack Black and when I saw previews for the movie I said to my friends, “We gotta see that!” in my semi-jock excited movie theatre preview voice. So yeah, I wanted to see it.

Everyone is worried that they are missing out. On a once in a lifetime opportunity, on a once in a lifetime event, on a once in a lifetime sale.

I have a problem with this. Movies, TV shows, commercials, YouTube videos. If it was hilarious and people are in a group chuckling about it, chances are that I pretended that I saw it and laughed a forced laugh along. I know it is awkward, everyone has done it to a certain extent, but I catch myself doing it often. The insecurity of not knowing what people are talking about tears me up like an inside joke.

I cannot miss out on events without feeling a monumental void. If memories are made and I’m not part of them, hearing about them leaves me dry and dismal. If good times are being shared based on previously seen media or previously shared memories, I would rather risk myself looking like an utter fool by acting as if I know what you are talking about and being humiliated, than missing out on a communal time of merriment. It must be the late bloomer in me. It is a somewhat childish thing to do, but since I catch myself doing it often I can more easily spot when others are lying to me in the same way, and in other ways. It goes together well. A useful skill.

If I ever missed an important concert or event, I slept one thousand pounds heavier knowing that one of my friends was absent as well. I don’t know. I should truly be happy for them for being able to partake in any kind of event big or small, but it puts me at slight ease to know that I was not the only one in the world that missed the tightest concert ever, the wildest party ever, the tastiest meal ever. I just can’t deal.

But I am training myself to be different. I try to be entirely honest when people ask me if I’ve seen the new YouTube video of Kimbo Slice knocking out some other giant man in some backyard with his bare hands (I haven’t). I am training myself to be honest, and I’m training myself to care less about this nonsensical seen-it-all status that once worried me so much. I am working on it, but at the same time, I have been missing out on less lately. I saw tennis, I have seen all the shows. I have been a part of most all summer hangouts, and I’ve seen all the blockbusters. I am part of the media talk, I’m part of the up to date crowd. I’ve watched my YouTube, I’m not behind in anything. But the feeling of missing out still remains. I’m missing out on something that everyone else has witnessed, and I’m just forcing laughs next to them. I am still oblivious to everyone’s common knowledge and see that either I need to keep an eye out for what others are seeing, or just pop out my eyes and worry about it no more.

Everyone is worried that they are missing out. But missing out on what occupies most people’s conversation is usually for the best. And missing out on those intangible things that are rarely talked about, is what you actually don’t want to miss.

I’ve never seen Gladiator either.

Today is for the living.
These songs that we’re singing are more than moving on,
They’re the only ways we’re making sense of a world that’s small enough to shake,
But it’s still strong enough to break us down, break us down.
-With Honor – 20 Strong

Will we fight to take the reigns of our lives and find our owns truths?
Will we die to darker days and break ties with the hells we’ve walked through?
It’s not too late.
-With Honor – In A Bottle

I have been a rover
I have walked alone
Hiked a hundred highways
Never found a home
Still in all I’m happy
The reason is, you see
Once in a while along the way
Love’s been good to me
-Johnny Cash – Love’s Been Good To Me

A city is only as great as its sleaziest men and only as healthy as its public transportation system. Knowing this you now know that Montreal is one of the greatest worldwide. Men like Westley and public transportation systems like the Montmorency/Côte Vertu Orange Line subway will teach you that if you live by this rule, you will never go wrong in choosing a city to love.

Side note: My small town mind is pleased easily by skyscrapers, subway systems, ethnically diverse restaurants, buildings that aren’t stucco and cheap beer.

Riding on Public transportation, reading transit publications. That is a dream in my mind. Kolkata, Seoul, Montreal subways. Delhi, Vancouver, Rangoon buses. Sitting next to souls I will never see again, as we all float off into the shady tunnels of the metropolis underground. It is the circulatory system of any city, the blood flowing between major arteries and organs. An unhealthy system is an unhealthy city. Montreal seems to have healthy blood flow. We were riding to the finals of the Rogers Cup. Place St-Henri to Snowdon, transfer at Snowdon to the Blue Line and ride to De Castelnau. But before we could transfer, as the doors opened to pick up more commuting souls at Villa Maria station, a lady’s scream was heard. The train powered down and everyone got out to see what was going on. A lady had fallen onto the tracks and couldn’t get up. Thankfully all the Orange Line trains stopped so no one was decapitated. We walked to Snowdon station to arrive at Uniprix Stadium seven games late.

A friend of mine works in a small pub called Primetime. She gets paid cash and serves Moosehead to old Francophones. We went in there a few nights to keep her company amidst the drunkards and the coke dealers. We met a man named Paul, a steel worker that enjoyed telling jokes and drinking at Primetime and he gave me the best advice I have ever heard. “Hit like a truck, come back with the puck.” As well as, “Open the window and fuck the world.” this was after he told us the real meaning of Juan Martin Del Potro’s last name. It had to do with sodomy.

I usually rate a new place on three things. Girls, food and the intangibles, but in finding a new home, or to fairly judge a city, I may have to include its dingiest men, its dirtiest station or a combination of both. Although it may not have seemed like a wholesome week, it was. Live tennis is one of the worlds greatest pleasures, along with other French delights such as mustaches and poutines.

Montreal
Girls- 4/5
Food- Awesome
Intangibles- French