Category: Uncategorized

I watched UFC 100 last night. I don’t love this organized sport, but everyone I know was there watching it, so I joined. There is nothing that brings friends closer together quite like two men from different backgrounds punching, kneeing, elbowing and submitting each other into pools of blood. There is also nothing that shows human kind’s gentle nature quite like this either.
Afterwards a few friends and I went to a midnight movie. X-Men. I haven’t seen all of the previous X-Men movies, but I figured that since it was a prequel, I’d be alright. I was.

I notice small details from movies. The hair colour of the extras. The make and model of the main character’s vehicle. Yesterday I noticed this sticker, that was on the window of the old farming couple that took care of Wolverine for a few days.
It said,

“All who wander are not lost.”

I liked it.

I’m not sure I have ever touched a buoy until this past weekend. And by the way, I do indeed pronounce it BOO-EE, because there doesn’t need to be any confusion when you are talking about touching them. I went camping at the glamourous Echo Lake, and took a quick dip while I was there.

I waded in the water, probably out about fifty yards or so, still on my tippy toes. I looked back and the beach was far away, about fifty yards or so, but it felt like half of a football field… I looked back out towards the water. The hills of the Qu’Appelle valley climbing up at the edges of the lake, and the buoy bobbed out another twenty feet. I never thought I’d be able to touch one of them looking from the beach, but when I got to that twenty feet or so, I said, ‘Screw it, I’m touching the buoy’

I swam. I touched the buoy. I swam back. The buoy had tonnes (metric) of algae on it, as well as tons (not metric) of creamy white bird leavings on it. But I touched it.

I see something in the distance, but I don’t know what it is. (The palm of my hand has a strong destiny line in it, I think I was told, so that means I have one solid destiny. But that’s witchcraft anyways.) When I see this thing in the distance, it looks clean, it looks sharp, it looks inviting, although I don’t know what it is. The first few steps are uncomfortable, cold, with rocks on the bottom of the feet. The next few steps are warmer, but distracting with the green seaweed hair tickling the legs. The middle steps are comfortable: the water isn’t too high or cold, and the whole body is immersed, so you look like you are right into it. The next few steps are more difficult, tippy toes and waves hitting the mouth. You are somewhat committed, but you haven’t taken the full plunge, and you haven’t reached it yet. The last neck of the journey is where it gets hard. Swimming to the buoy, achieving your destiny, and swimming back. Sounds easy, but it ain’t. And the buoy is gonna be covered in crap.

This is my life. I see that I need to be somewhere, but don’t know where it is. That is why I’m doing nothing with my life, I’m buying time until I can clearly see my buoy. And take those steps to reach it. Kick that buoy in the ass. Kick my destiny in the ass.

F trees, I climb buoys. I’m on a boat.

No one has the same friends for life. I was reminded of this when Bob Gainey didn’t invite all of my best friends back for another season with the Montreal Canadiens. No Komisarek. No Higgins. No Kovalev. Not even the captain, Koivu. That is the entire captaincy of my team. And that is not even nearly a complete list. My best friends. The guys I’ve spent hundreds of games with, wrenching my gut and shouting. Gone, because Bob didn’t send the invites. Last week I had a dream that Price got traded. That seems like nothing in comparison. I trust Bob more than I trust myself, so I’m planning on this working out next year. But I do hate Hal Gill.

Last week I lost my iPod, whom I recently named Louis (pronounced Lew-iss, but Lew-ee is cool too). I had a bonfire in my brother’s backyard, with Louis on my lap. He was swallowed by the couch without me noticing. Yeah, a couch by the fire. It is the only way to do it. I have looked at some of my old blogs. I often update the status of my past iPod’s whereabouts and health. Louis has been my other best friend for the past year. I ripped apart the backyard at 10pm for over an hour, grooming the dirt piles, pulling out the four foot grass, and manhandling the couch. Dan 2e helped me search for a while. We talked, but all I could think about is the loss of my friend Louis, and how I might have to replace him with younger, sexier iPhone. Luckily for me, I found Louis in the sunlit morning, hugging closely to the cleavage of the couch. I still have him.

I always think about old friends. Daily. I often have dreams about my friends from elementary school; us meeting up and hanging out like we still know each other. I sometimes think about old friends from highschool, ones I haven’t seen in a while, and wonder where they are, what they’re doing and wishing we could share in some time together. Then I realize that my groups of friends change every 5 years or so. Not by choice, but by growth or life changes. I will obviously hold on to all old friends, especially those friends that have always been there, but the group I am with now has even changed considerably from two years ago, and I understand that it might not last much longer. They will always be friends, but the way we hang out now, won’t be the same way we hang out in years to come.

Nic: Cherish it. Love it. Your team of friends won’t get re-signed forever. But at least keep them on the alumni, and invite them back for memories of the Hall of Fame.

The bricks and the hardwood. Those tiles that decorate the pillars. The bar with the stools. The old timey feeling. This building is one that matters. It is a place that is worth something.

My past ten years of life has been highlighted by a few places. My home in White City. I somewhat grew up there, it was pretty big. White City School. I kinda grew up there, it was pretty cool. The Exchange, the venue in Regina. I grew up there.
I don’t remember my first show at this venue, it was probably some local punk bands in the summer of 1999 or 2000. And I’ve seen literally hundreds and hundreds of bands display their talent, or lack there of, on a stage of spit soiled carpet.

I have more memories from this shady underground music establishment than anywhere in Regina. Than anywhere in the world. Like:

I’ve seen 400 people packed in, to see three local bands. The smoke looming in the air like the heavy memories of the past. The past that allowed smoking in venues and bars.
I’ve seen a few legendary bands in front of less than 30 people. The room awkwardly empty, until the bands play and the passion comes through the speakers and into the soul, filtered through earplugs.
I’ve seen some of my favourite bands in the past, play concerts of serious quantity and quality, showing people what real music is all about.
I’ve seen music; local and touring, struggling and well-paid, bands and artists, in the purest form of sound there could ever be.

Tonight I went to a concert. I had no idea this concert was happening until I heard from a friend, about ten minutes before the first act was due up. I drove there quickly, knowing two of the acts well, and the third not at all. The first two reminded me of why I love music and the people around it. The third reminded me of why I love The Exchange. I was planning on leaving after a song of the third band, just to hear what they were like. After one song, I couldn’t leave. I was loving it too much. I couldn’t leave. I had no choice but to stay to the end and buy my second album of the night, one that was a wallet emptying $15.

As I sat, listening to live brand new music, I became somewhat emotional. Thinking of the things I’ve seen there. The affect music has had on me. And soaking in a perfect new band. I can’t properly express the importance of this building to me. The channel for any type of music, keeping independent music important, this building.

Check out:
The Exchange.
Andy Shauf.
The Rural Alberta Advantage.

My brain has been melting lately. I’ve been doing nothing for the past week, which would explain my semi-regular very-mediocre blog list as of late. Doctor’s orders: don’t do anything for a few weeks. Living with mom has really made that a reality. But I can’t say like she’s forcing me to do nothing. I’ve been pretty hard into it lately.
Lots of ESPN coverage of Wimbledon, so you know that’s not making me any smarter. Brad Gilbert is the Pierre McGuire of tennis. I just want someone to hire him so badly, so I can have a few months of peace before he gets fired as his employer realizes his true idiocy. And then there’s Mary Carillo. She has a voice that makes me shake with fear and want to curl up next to a pile of dead and decaying rabbits.

Lots of episodes of Lost, the hit television series. The show pretty accurately describes my life. It makes no sense, is bound in the past and present with no sense of time, and time travel makes sense. It’s also an awful mess of a show. A brain melter.

Lots of video games. PS3 on HD TV. Brainmelter at it’s finest. And most expensive.

But I’ve been reading. It was a poorly written book about a car driver in India, but a book nonetheless. And I’ve been studying Hindi. So my brain isn’t fully melted. But right now it is soft like a wedding night with Mary Carillo.

I’ve been struggling with all those ‘meaning of life’ questions. Where, why, what, especially. And these questions are not very approachable when my brain is half-melted from my past week of living, and half-melted from the culture shock that maybe hit me like a well struck Slazenger. So I figured that I would spare you my usual trying to figure out the world crap, and tell a story of my recent travels. It’s not much of a story, but I’ve thought about it everyday since it happened.

I was in Cochin, Kerala, India. I was staying in a nearby town called Irinjalakuda (it doesn’t prounce phonetically, so don’t even try) and went to Cochin by train with a new friend that I was staying with. We went to Cochin to see the sights, as it is a classic tourist town. We took a boat ride, went to a shopping centre, ate some eats, drank some tea. We were only there for a few hours, because there was a city wide half-strike, meaning that the majority of the city was closed down, excluding a few buses, autos, and some shops, because of some political party that was angry for some reason and decided to make the world more difficult for everyone. We headed back to the train station for our hour long journey back home. We were early for the train’s departure, so we sat in some empty seats on the northbound train waiting for the engine to start hauling the thousands.
A little girl came up to me. She couldn’t speak English but was wearing rags, and with the tears in her eyes and with an outstretched hand, I knew what she was looking for. I had no cash with me. My friend had cash with him, as he bought he and I a deep fried banana and shoed her away at the same time. Before I thought of giving her the fried banana that he bought me, she was shooed away to the next train compartment. The fried banana was delicious.
We arrived back at his place, spent the night and another day at his place before I took off again alone. I took the same train to Cochin again, and spent the day and the night there on my way to another tourist town. I stayed in a hotel nearby the train station, because my train departed around 6am. I spent a night eating expensive fresh seafood, watching Indian busboys fight over customers and taking the bus with Malasian army men. I woke up around 5am, went to the train station to wait for my three hour train ride to begin. I sat on a bench near the outer wall of the station, reading the newspaper, drinking a tea. I looked up from my newspaper when I heard someone approaching me. It was a little girl. She looked at me. I looked at her, making a motion for my wallet. She looked at me harder and began to giggle quietly. She was the same little girl that I saw a few days before. I remembered because of her eyes. Full of tears and dancing with colour. She remembered me too. I gave her a few rupee notes for her unbelievable smile and her huge eyes. And for the fact that she was shooed away She laughed again and ran to her friend, waiting nearby. I waved her and her friend over, gave her friend some rupees, and they ran away laughing, staying within sight, so they could keep looking at me and giggling. I smiled. And couldn’t think of anything else for the rest of my trip. And still can’t.
I don’t know what this means at all. But I liked it.

I wrote this in March. I haven’t posted it until now, I don’t know why. Probably because it doesn’t make sense.

The ultimate crappy scifi plot. I was at a house for tea and the TV was on in the background. The Matrix 2 or 3 was on. Some spaghetti robots were chasing a super space plane, eating electronics and killing people. My Indian friend asked me if this movie was a joke, I didn’t really
know the answer. Then I remembered, of course it is, it’s Keanu Reeves.

Every person I meet, I label them. Not on their sex, language, colour, education or otherwise. But by my system of Robot to Real Person. There is no real scale to this system, you are either a robot, real person, or somewhere in between.

My scale works this way: if you swear, smoke/drink/chew the betel etc, think church is boring, work a job you hate, have passion for something, think about and question the things you are told, love somethings; you may be a real person. Now this may not make sense to you, and that’s OK. It doesn’t even make sense to me. It is just how my brain works sometimes. You can be a real person without these, but they help solidify the fact. You can be a real people and do all the opposites of these things, but those are rare cases. And if you are a real person it doesn’t automatically mean you are worth anything. You could still be a crappy real person. A really crappy person.
A real person of worth has a purpose. A real purpose.

If you only talk in small talk, only laugh in the same amount of syllables everytime, text more than 100 texts in a 24 hour span, do the exact same thing everyday, love everything, think the Leafs are a legitimate organization, work for only money, you might be a robot. But just because you are a robot doesn’t mean you are a monster. Monster movies and robot movies are obviously
very different things. There are decent robots out there. Like that one owl robot, HootBot, from RadioShack in the ’80s, or the Jetsons maid robot, Rosie, also possibly from around the 80’s. But you’re not part of the majority.

Real people are refreshing. They live a life that is real, obviously. They are fluid, they struggle, they have personality. They may be personable, they may not.
Robots are awkwardly mechanical, up tight, without personality. They may be personable, they may not.

In this technological time, the world needs less robots. It needs more real people with real purpose. And less robots with purpose, because robots with a purpose will ruin the world. Just ask Keanu Reeves. He would respond with a raspy, “I love it when you call me big papa. Ahhaah.”

1. I was laying in bed listening to the patients around me. One was a 65 year old carnie, worked the games for 20 years. Another was a 15 year old mom getting gallbladder sugery. Her mother said, “Next time I get surgery I’m bringing a bag of my own blood. Do you know how long it takes to recover from someone else’s dirty blood? Plus, God doesn’t like it.” She might have been a Jehov…

2. When I first woke up, I woke up in the Recovery room, 100% high. I thought I was in Yellowknife. Then I think I started speaking Hindi and asked about my possibly Indian anestesiologist. He got to wear a disposable belaclava to cover his beard. Cool guy.

3. I snorted cocaine in front of my father. They brought me a little plastic bag full of Columbia’s finest and offered a key, the back of my hand or to line one up for me. I chose all three. But actually, before anything else they gave me a nasal mist of cocaine, it was labelled. I was high, I’m sure of it.

4. After I spoke Hindi for a while, I tried to roll on my side for comfort, but I couldn’t roll over my mostly dead body. It was like someone was laying dead weight on me. Cool.

5. While getting naked presurgery, I didn’t tie me gown up so well, but it all stayed in there. The nurse later informed me that I could wear my undershorts. Had I known this I would have wore the Lucky Reds to add a “Successful Septum Renovation” to the list. I guess the Maruti Macromans performed well. Yeah, that’s what they’re actually called.

6. I only saw one cute nurse.

7. I now look like Owen Wilson, as planned.

As some have pointed out, my nose has the same birthday as Kris. Happy Birthday, may you both never break again, although I think it was probably you that did this to me. Thanks.

The only thing I feel comfortable wearing over my shoulders and under my backpacks is T-shirts. Button-up long-sleeves are alright, but the boob support that a slightly elastical cotton T-shirt offers is unmatchable. I once had two or three dress shirts, but the last month has seen me lose my only non T-shirt shirts. One has a hole burnt in it.

I started to collect old T-shirts a little while back, noting how many deadly ones I have. World Junior Gold Medal year number one XS tee. Good Clean Fun sleeveless maroon shirt from grade 5. Good Riddance shirt, Canada tour 2001. Only Crime/CHL hybrid. Rider Grey Cup champ longsleeve. My first pingpong Start with Bronze turqouise beauty from grade 3 or something. Old Means stuff. An I Heart India shirt from Delhi in ’08. The best days of my life represented by paint spread on cotton.

I bought a shirt at a show last year. The back of it read, ” SEE, FEEL, THINK, DO”. When I read this at the show, it just felt good. I liked it because it made sense, so I bought it, and think about those words everytime I peel it off the floor and throw it over my head. Good thoughts.

The day after I returned home from India I saw a show and bought another shirt, since I left most of my old ones around the world, and also had no more clean ones left. I bought this one, and didn’t realize the small words hiding in the bigger font, that said “Avoid Success.” Depending on what your of idea is success is, this could be good advice. You can think whatever you would like about it, but to me the word means a compilation of all the crappiest things out there, and usually summed up with an eye full of money. I know these days people say that success can be obtained in many different ways, but I say that success is a place that none of us really want to be at.

So my advice, to avoid success and go to heaven wear more T-shirts. And even wear them to church.

I don’t want to take credit for the Penguins Stanley Cup, but…
My lucky reds. They’ve won me a Grey Cup, French Open and Stanley Cup. The power is in the package.

Hossa. That 10 million isn’t so sweet anymore.

A week ago I literally had a vision of Crosby lifting the cup.

When I was about eight years of age I was a Penguins fan with Kris, while Jeremy was a Habs fan. They played a regular season game and I told them both that whomever won that game would be my new favourite team. Montreal won, but Pitts has since had a small place in my heart.

Although I didn’t think it would happen (how could both Soderling and the unofficial Swedish national team lose?) but either way Pittsburgh, you’re welcome.

Pictures soon.