j

Pattern Recognition

Sometimes I look up from whatever it is I'm doing at that exact moment and I realize how I've been in this exact spot before. Sometimes that's good. Sometimes, like tonight, I feel like an ass.

See, tonight I realized that I was sitting at a table enjoying dinner and a drink with a particularly cute Jewish girl at the very same table that I had done the same thing with a completely different particularly cute Jewish girl. Two weeks ago, on a different date, the same thing happened. I swear, my couch hasn't seen this much action since it was still a cow. This is starting to feel like a rut that I don't want to be in.

I keep asking myself: what's the deal? Is this city that small that there are only a handful of good places to go and I've been to all of them? Or am I turning into the Pet Shop Boys of the dating scene with a magic formula for number one hit after number one hit? I've been on a good run lately and am, as a friend recently said, "saturated with women". A nice feeling after what some might call a long drought. But am I turning into that guy? No one likes that guy. Especially after you find out you were the last in a long line of 'firsts'.

For now, I'm going to go with the small city/few cool places answer. And I'm going to make an effort to strike further afield and put the gin back in original, as we used to say back when drinking gin was what we did when we weren't too busy keepin' it real.

On another note, what's with the "but will your respect me in the morning" question? That's the second time I've recently been asked that. If I wasn't going to respect you in the morning (or later this evening, or whatever), then I wouldn't be able to respect myself. It takes two to make the beast-with-two-backs, no? Maybe I just missed that day of class when they taught us why it was okay to do everything right up to actually ripping off each other's clothes and going for the out of the park home run. Sure, sex is wonderful and, when it's shared between consenting adults, a very intimate and personal moment. But is it really all that? Or am I just another jaded, post-consumerist, over-marketed, cynic?

I'm a TypePadder, You're A TypePadder

Those of you unconcerned with whether or not I legitimately own this blog, can safely ignore this post and go back to pulling wings off flies or whatever it is you do when not reading this.

Those of you concerned, AND WE WON'T MENTION WHY, can check out this image below and feel safe in the knowledge that all is well in Whosville.

The Difference Between drunk and Drunk

Never underestimate how far a Drunk person will run with a stupid idea. Take last night for instance.

Had we merely been drunk, we would have laughed at the sheer idiocy of the idea on our way up to the bar for another drink. We would have remembered our motivation the next morning and laughed again, if only to ourselves, while doing active things like jogging in the park, walking along the lake, or just not still being in bed at 2pm. But we were Drunk.

In the limo on the way back from the airport - the second such ride in three hours, though reversed in direction and intention - we tried to nail down the exact moment when the lunacy began. Sometime between leaving that bar and stumbling into this one? Maybe in line for pizza slices? Before you walked into the lamp post or after? You remember walking into a lamp post, don't you?

The important thing is that we almost did it. We actually packed our bags. We remembered our passports. We phoned ahead, couldn't do it that way - their way - so we did it our way and said to hell with it and shot our vodka back like the young revolutionaries that we truly are and we humped our packs on and, dammit, we went to that 24-hour diner up the street and we dined like kings. And then, realizing that we were standing on the very cusp of the point of no return from which there really was no going back, we hailed a cab with all the gusto and emphasis that can be summoned at 4:30 am when you're holding an umbrella and water bottle full of expensive vodka.

The problem is, their way is their way because they own the planes. I'm all for sticking it to the man and fighting oppression and all that jazz, but you just can't tango with an airline when they don't want to dance. We knew that the ball that had rolled so well since that fateful moment, either pre or post lamp post waltz, would come skidding to a halt if we had to sit and wait and we fought it and begged and pleaded and almost made up a story about needing to be there to propose to a girlfriend who the more sober one of us loved passionately before she got on a flight to europe, but it was all for nought. We had to sit. We had to wait. We thought it wise to sleep for an hour. We awoke in hell.

Airports are angry, bright, cold, inhuman places. When not hustling passengers on to planes or fleecing them into parked cars, they reave souls. The sheer amount of hangover that occupied my head when I opened my eyes was enough to hammer home the utter insanity of what we were doing. Sometimes sunrise shines the giant 'you're an idiot' light onto plans that seemed so well constructed not four drinks ago. So I crawled into that washroom and I rested my head against the cool wall of the stall and I waited for the room to stop spinning and I realized that we weren't going anywhere. And I crawled back out and I grunted at my traveling companion and we stumbled into the bright morning and into the loving arms of a limo driver who brought me home to my bed.

My pack is still packed and lying by the door where I dropped it. The clothes are still strewn in a trail leading to my bed where I passed out face down. I would love to think that we learned a lesson here. At least until the next time. Please.

Oh - and to the random girl in the pizza place who solved the "buy a slice or fly to new york" debate by pushing us out the door and into a cab: go to hell.

Not Like Fine Wine and Cheese

Some things definitely get better with age - typically fine wines and cheese, but also including some books, vinyl, exotic sport cars, and Justin Timberlake. Bucking the trend: George Clinton. Sure, he's Dr. Funkenstein. Sure, he has multi-colour dreads. Sure, sure. But look - the man must be at least 60 of our earth years and I think, just maybe, it's time for him to retire. His voice has become so gravely and drugged and aged that he can't really perform any of the classics and watching the Funky One clap off beat to a song defined by the baseline is embarassing, really. George: we love you, you're perfect, now git outta here.

In other news - maybe Jewish girls aren't so bad after all? Who knew. Well, aside from other Jews, of course. And my grandmother. It's been a busy week for the Amour category around here. I'm not sure I'm entirely comfortable with the dating multiple women thing yet and sometimes this city feels a little too small when every new date is confined and demarcated by the locales and events of past dates with other women. The 'ole internal eight ball is murmuring about the end of the shortlived Irish era (and something about answers being fuzzy, but that might be the booze), and I can't say I disagree. Time to move on to new geographies? I think so.

The Movies: They Lie

Here's the thing about stone terraces: they're made of stone. No amount of blankets, towels, padding, wine, delicious dinners cooked just for you, or even - EVEN - shedding of clothes by candle light, can make them any softer.

Sometimes, you just gots to go inside. And again. And once more with feeling!

Putting the Punc in Punctuality

I used to be one tardy muthafucka.

My regular (and much derided) arrival time was always in the 'annoyingly late' zone of ten to fifteen minutes, rarely the ridiculous thirty minutes plus. It was never my fault - waiting for the damn bus, stuck in that damn traffic, held up at the damn bank. Eventually, after yet another damn conversation with my damn punctual friends, someone finally yanked off my blinders and let loose with the blinding spotlight of truth: being late to meet someone isn't about poor time planning or correctly anticipating the effect of butterflies in China on the traffic around you. It's all about respect.

When you're consistently late to meet someone, it broadcasts the message that you don't respect the time they spend waiting for you. Sometimes it's impossible to avoid being late and, yes, even puncs like me occasionally slip up. That's what cellphones, pay phones, smoke signals, and carrier pigeons are for. So, without further ado:

j's Big Life Lesson for the Day: How to Put the Punc in Punctuality

This one's real easy kids so pay attention. Bottom line: it's better to lie like a cheap rug than to be routinely late. You know that horrible sinking feeling when you know that you're going to be late because you needed - NEEDED - to play one more game of minesweeper before leaving the office and now you're waiting for that damn elevator and it just won't damn well come? Here's what you do. While you're playing the second-last-game-unless-I-get-a-highscore, pick up your phone and call your fiancé at the Church. Explain that you'll be there really, really soon, but your boss has just called an emergency meeting and you have to be there or you could lose your job. It won't be more than ten, maybe fifteen minutes at the maximum but, helpless sigh, there's nothing you can do. Tell her you love her too - I hear women like that. Then hang up the phone and get your minesweeper on guilt free! You deserve at least three more games!

Note: if any of you ever leave me standing at the altar to play another round of minesweeper, I'll be on to you like white on rice. You got that?

The End is Nigh

You know that scene in the disaster movie when everyone is walking down the street and minding their own business - walking the dog, checking their watch, sipping a latte, etc. - and they all suddenly look up at the sky in abject terror as the MENACE slowly advances? The ominous shadow that creeps across the face of the city and up the side of buildings and over parks as the sun is slowly blocked out completely and you know, deep down inside, that this is the end (this is right before the witty hero, who despite the seemingly impossible odds, has [learned to pilot the alien craft/master nuclear physics/decipher the hieroglyphics] and [appears as a single bright point against the incredible darkness/bursts from the top secret underground government research lab/practically falls from the sky right near the desolate ruins] and saves all of humanity by [destroying the mother ship at the single, but incredibly poorly designed, weak point/restarting the earth's rotation by, obviously, detonating a massive nuclear charge in the very core of mother earth (was it good for you?)/unlocking the elements with the LAST MATCH IN THE UNIVERSE]. Oh - and he gets the girl.).

Continue reading "The End is Nigh"

Welcome weary traveller...

This is an experiment in weblogging, creativity, humiliation, honesty, love, life, passion, hatred, creation, destruction, and trucker hats (see hatred, stupid fashion trends). I am a consumate consumer of blogs and it's time that I turned around and gave back to those who have so tirelessly given to me. Come and get it....

I make no promises about frequency, quality, humour, or calorie count. Yer on yer own folks - come and go as you please. Comment if you'd like - I'll even respond sometimes. Link to me, tell your friends, write giant, fluffy banners in the sky or despise me like you've never despised anything before. This sidewalk preacher doesn't care if you don't stop to listen but will praise you eternally if you do.