Monday, July 31, 2006

The Weekend Holy Trinity: Drinking, Yelling and Naked Hottubbing


On an ancient parchment, buried somewhere in the vast caverns of time, it is written in Sanskrit that everybody's working for the weekend, and everybody wants a little romance. After this past weekend, those words could not ring any more true. Well, at least the first part.

The Place: Mitch's Cabin Extraordinaire, about 15 minutes east of Wainwright, Alberta. The Event: The Annual May Long Weekend Party Spectacular, aka Mitch-A-Palooza, July Edition. The Result: A party for the ages. One to write about in ancient Sanskrit, or as our current time era permits, a weblog.

I escaped from the clutches of home and work on Thursday night, having cleared my work plate of anything that might create an unyielding obstacle to my having a great time, and a day off on Friday. The car trip is a scant hour and a half/two hours, if you're going about 140 km/h, slowing down for only the slowest of mini-van drivers, with which the highways seem to be clogged. I don't have a real beef with mini-vans per se, since they seem to be the only viable vehicular cage for most people's brats, but do they have to drive ten kilometres below the speed limit AT ALL TIMES? Get out of the way, and wipe off whatever sticky shit is on your kid's face.

I left town at around 8pm, since it took me awhile to pack and pick up supplies. After collecting the usuals: tent, sleeping bag, clothes that I will probably ruin, etc., I had to get but two things: Beer and Meat. Really, for a weekend to be truly grand in my opinion, it only needs to be meatened and liquored up. Those two things are pretty much a great addition to anything. Having a shitty time at a job interview? You should probably liquor it up. Having a colonoscopy done? Definitely meaten up beforehand (maybe even liquor up, too). To my surprise, when I arrived at 10 pm at the cabin, I was only greeted by three others, Mitch, Greggers, and Party On Garth. No worries, I thought, we'll start this up right. Greg proceeded to show me his great idea for the camping arrangements, which led me to believe that he really doesn't work, but instead comes up with fantastical ideas bordering on pure evil genius. He had taken the riding mower and mowed out "campsites" in the field next to the cabin, which from the air, I'm sure looked like a weak effort at crop circles.

Mitch's cabin site is pure gold. His cabin has all the amenities, save for TV, but we can miss the latest celebrity turd gossip or middle east deaths for a while. Shower's great, running water's great and 3 fridges are really great. There's an outdoor pool table, big fire pit, BBQ, nearby lake, floating trampoline, outdoor games. It's like a summer camp for adults, with a bit more drinking and nakedness then you'd find in a regular summer camp. A game of beer frisbee, or beersbie broke out amongst our meagre group, which is a game surprisingly involving beer and frisbees. It's not who wins, but how stupid you get. I got stupid.

The next day was simply gorgeous, the type of day where you just want to sit outside in your underwear and not move for hours. However, this was interrupted by a few chores, like getting wood for a commandeered empty outhouse, which started out like this. It's demise is an annual tradition, which I will comment on further down. After the chores, my stomach was just flipping, so I had meat and beer to calm it down, which always does the trick. Meat and beer is like slapping a hysterical person. Shocking at first, but ultimately necessary. A little game of croquet erupted, and it seemed to pass the time, but eventually, with every game of croquet, the temptation to misuse the mallets overcomes normal gameplay. After just hitting cans, we invented a croquet mallet-hackeysack game with a beer can as a hackeysack. This entertained us for a while, and we got pretty good at it, but in the end, it was pretty retarded.

Near the end of the evening, most of the other party goers arrived, and they brought the rain with them. Bastards. However, when you're camping at Mitch's, rain has no power. It's pretty much castrated. There's plenty to do!
There's
Bender.
There's
terrible singing. I should never be allowed to attempt "Oh Sherrie", by Steve Perry. That dude has pipes. I have a warbling shitbox.
There's pool table dancing, evidenced
here and here and here.
Weenie roasting.
And of course,
demonic possesion everywhere.

The first night brought out what everybody was expecting in the first place: naked hottubbing. With the characters that this group has, it was a given, and much thanks go to Morghan and Mary for getting the flesh party started. I personally have no problem with shedding it off, and I really don't care about seeing another dudes man-package. I just don't need to see any spread-eagle specials, no offense to you Greg. Not content to just sit and pretend to not notice everyone's naughty bits, the daring tub dwellers decided to take trips back and forth to the lake, complete with mud slinging and trampoline jumping. One problem with all of this: shrinkage. Not too much, and I'm good with what I've got, but with all the hot water to cold water action we were doing, it wasn't helping out mini-Tyler. Bedtime for the hottubbers: 6 am.

Saturday was the penultimate day. Drinking. Yelling (sometimes at insolent pistachios). General tomfoolery. Many, many shenanigans, and plenty of
movie trailer voices. Also, I believe Jody and I went through every Terminator 2 line of dialogue. "Miles Dyson! She's gonna blow him away!" Oh, and Jody. This guy should have his own sitcom. Seriously, everything he does is pure comedy, even if it's at the expense of his own body, mind, self-respect. Who else would wear this Lucha Libre mask for almost two days straight? Then he found these crutches, which would have been completely offensive, if it wasn't so funny. This guy can really commit to a bit.

A few of us had a little golf at a local "course" about ten minutes walk from the campsite, but even it's sand greens couldn't keep us interested. We wanted to party, and party we did. More bender. More dancing. More of everything. Including (drumroll)...the Annual Burn An Empty Outhouse, this time with a fireworks display! The outhouse that I previously mentioned (don't worry, it didn't have any piss or shit on it) was prepared for its demise. And then it burned. It was smoked with fireworks, and lit up for all to see in a display that spit in the eye of any safety rules or policies.

Just watch this (MPG courtesy of me). Or this (AVI courtesy of Ashley). This is how to make a good time legendary.

The reactions of the group were of wonder, mystery, and courtesy of Jody, longing and this.

After creating the good fire that Prometheus himself stole for us, there was more naked hottubbing! Yeah! Naked bodies! This time with more girls (thanks Allie)! Of course, we couldn't just do the same as Friday night, so what do we do? We add soap! Much thanks to the earlier, non-naked crew for that idea. It added just the right amount of mystery, but by this point, everyone's seen the junk and the tits, so it's a little moot. The mind, which is a bowl of warm tapioca pudding by now, gets into gear. We get some great ideas and some bad ones. The first was to create a naked slip and slide, using some tarps and the hot tub cover. A huge bucket of awesome for this idea, although since we're adults, we go a little too fast and careen well beyond the limit. Grass and sand tend to get into little nooks and crannies, and our bodies have their share of those. Then we decide that everyone should get a view of our grand state of enjoyment. We institute what I dub "Tent Flesh Packing". If you're sleeping off a night of drinking, or not drinking, you don't want 5 or 6 soapy, naked people invading your tent. It's just not good manners.
Sunday was a travel day, and not all that interesting. So there you have it. Mitch-A-Palooza 2006, as much as I can remember it. If anyone who was there is reading this, please add your own memories, and/or picture links (this is where I humour myself into believing that anyone will read this).
Oh, and if you want to see the rest of the pics, dear reader, check this site out: www.ece.ualberta.ca/~marchand/gallery/.

Until next year, in a world, one man, will face adversity like no other. This summer. This summer!

Oh, and one last thing: Next year, the ROCK KICKS will be out again. Full force, full rock and roll! What do you think of that, Mike?

Monday, July 24, 2006

Bring Back Supermarket Sweep!

I need groceries.

Taking stock of what's left around here has produced the following results: The only food items left in my house seem to be 4 kinds of Tabasco sauce, Swiss Chalet Au Jus mix, some free cereal samples (I can't believe that you can get 'Wheetabix' in a sample size), and a package of Premium Plus crackers - and thank God for those. If you don't have saltine crackers, you've truly hit rock bottom on the food supply.

Luckily, I haven't succumbed to that point where I'm eating just random food, believing that I'll manage to stumble into some awesome flavour combination. I'll say 'no' for now to the old mustard-and-soy sauce-on-stoned wheat thins sandwiches (although thinking about it is getting me curious, mostly due to the sodium content). So barring any descent into culinary madness, I'll be fine just waiting until shopping time, but that shopping experience will be so fucking boring.

Shopping for groceries is the height of tedium. I will have to endure hours of trying to get around not-looking senior citizens and out-of-control brats, dodging them in the parking lot, in the aisles, around the checkout lines, and back again in the parking lot. I'll grab a shopping cart, and try to have some fun with it, but it just doesn't have the turning radius and stopping efficiency needed to avoid breaking shit or annoying people. Contrary to popular/idiotic belief, there are never any beautiful women in the store, just moms, with their hell-spawn children, screaming and spanking and trying to corral what little control they have. I never buy what I should, and I always forget to buy the necessities (like milk), instead purchasing poorly thought through impulse items (like a plush kleenex box cover). Pretty shitty deal, but it can be so much more.

I ask simply for the triumphant return of Supermarket Sweep to transform grocery shopping into a fun, exciting competitive event. For those of you who cannot remember this show, in either its US or Canadian form, here is an informative video:



Just thinking about whizzing past aisles in my cart, paying no heed to the laws of physics, or the polite ethics of modern western society, and I get all bubbly inside. I just want to run and grab and grab and run, and this show would let me do it! Granted, the show is set on a stage, and according to one contestant, the crowd is non-existant (goodbye to another fantasy), but the thrill of the hunt and chase are still there.

So I'm mentally ready for the Big Sweep. I need to be physically ready, and I need on site knowledge. I am going to start training for the (obvious) eventual return of the show during my next shopping excursion. I am going to visualize my shopping needs, then proceed to attempt to shop for groceries in the least time possible. I will not listen to the cries of protest from the staff nor other shoppers, as that will only distract me from my goal. Of course, any groceries that I collect during my training period won't be paid for, or put back into their original locations, but that's Safeway's problem, not mine. I'm an athlete. I'm a supermarket superstar.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Chapter 4: Signaling (for fuck's sake)


Signaling (From The Basic License Driver's Handbook)

Hey fuckheads. Signals may be irrelevant or an unnecessary hassle to you, but you know, they actually serve a purpose.

Let's review:

Signals actually tell other drivers (i.e., me) what you are going to do. In advance! Some might say that they read your mind!

Certain official government documents state that you MUST signal when:
  • moving from the curb or parking lane
  • turning
  • changing lanes
  • stopping

In case some of you are confused, and I know you are, here are examples of these signals:




Left Turning Signal










Right Turning Signal




Now, is that so hard? No, it isn't. You should all practice once or twice on the driveway before you leave your house or place of business, because if you don't start using it like us intelligent drivers, I will kill you. I'm not fucking lying. I will eat your soul.

Monday, July 17, 2006

Everything I Learned In Life, I Learned From PBS


PBS. The Public Broadcasting System. In 1969, America was strife with protests, demonstrations, and other public displays of autonomic thought. Nixon's government could see that it was losing its control on the thoughts and behaviours of the younger generation. To counteract this, the administration commissioned a private study, known only as "The Nanny Commission". It was found that parenting should be not be up to parents, but instead up to whimsical, educational television programs funded by individual televison stations across the country, secretly run by government agents and "viewers like you". The result: millions of children that have learned proper morals and ethics and ultimately became incredibly boring.

I consider myself one of these children, although the boring element has eluded me (prove me wrong, people!). Although I am a staunch Canadian, this bastion of American television, with it's annual pledge drive (begging), has instilled in me the knowledge and confidence a young man needs in his developmental years. Although at times we disagreed (my fanatical desire to have the letter 'u' in words like 'colour' and 'favour' led to many objects thrown at the screen), I came away with almost no homicidal cravings whatsoever. Let's now look at the highlights of what I learned from the shows and applied to everyday life.


MATH: Square One Television

Square One was comprised of small sketches that introduced and applied concepts like counting, combinatorics, vulgar fractions, and other math shit. What I learned is this:

- If you are wearing a Michigan Wolverines helmet, and make a math mistake, a tornado named "Mr. Glitch" will destroy you. I was great in math because of this until Grade 10, when I lost the helmet.
- Real cops carry calculators.
- If you ever say "oops" while making a math error, the Hindenburg crashes again.
- Harry Blackstone Jr. may be a great magician, but "math magic"? Here's where I learned what "retarded" meant.


GEOGRAPHY: Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego?

I learned more about the world and cheesy acapella music from this show than any other of its kind. Most importantly, I learned that American kids were pretty stupid. Harp on the USA's xenophobic tendencies from time to time, but damn kids, learn something, anything about other countries than your own. While you're at it, learn some things about your own country too. I'm surprised these kids even knew where they slept. Here's what else I took away:

- Monuments can actually be stolen. And
you can retrieve them. I tried to steal Mount Rushmore once, but someone had
found it, and then had a warrant, in that order

- Dying informants never actually die. They just
pretend to die, which puts them in a perfect situation to give more information.

- 9 out of 10 kids will always choose Disneyland or Disneyworld after winning a free trip anywhere in North America. The 1 out of 10 kid? He/she chooses Bangkor, Maine. I will never understand why.
- The guy in your acapella group with the mullet? Gay.


Art/Painting: The Joy Of Painting With Bob Ross

No explanation necessary. I learned that every living thing, and even some inanimate objects need a little friend. Right about there. Anywhere you want it. That's nice.




Miscellaneous: Zoobilee Zoo


Easy. Don't do drugs.


Thursday, July 13, 2006

I Heard Her Pray The Night The Slurpee Machine Died

My name is Tyler, and I am an addict. Oh, it's not something taboo, or risky, or even worthy of societal scorn. You won't see 15 year-old runaways strung out on it in some seedy, dilapidated shack behind the abandoned auto-parts store. You won't see it peddled by washed-up Hollywood stars and starlets, still clinging pathetically to a small glimmer of hope that one day the public and casting directors alike will fall in love with them all over again, but in the meantime, they're too fucked up to notice that they're wearing sandwich bags for shoes. Nobody is going to get caught in the bathroom at a party with some guy who's been up for 96 hours, and all he wants to talk about is how stellar of a car salesman he is, only to have him break down crying by the time he gets to how much his kids hate him.

They're just Slurpees. And I love them. My friends, especially those who had the pleasure of working with me at the Students' Union, know of my seemingly unnatural love of the cold, semi-solid beverage. At the time, I didn't think that it was too much to have two or three in a 7 hour period while "working", especially since I was getting them for free at the SUBmart, using extra volunteer coupons for myself. But four months straight? Seems excessive now as I look back, but my Slurpee-addled mind can only become extremely jealous of the Tyler two years ago, and try to think of ways to travel back in time. I tried to cut down on my slurpee intake while at Ticketmaster, and the roughly two excruciatingly long blocks to the nearest slurpee slinger did help the cause. It would not last however, despite my blood sugar's insistent cries that it must.

Working once again for a student association, I find myself as close as ever to a slurpee pusher - the MacEwan convenience store. The slurpees are plentiful, and cheap on Tuesdays! I have reached Valhalla, and it has spoon straws. Now, you can only imagine my horror today, as I saw that the machine that time and time again brought me so much joy, alleviated so much pain, and got me away from work for those few precious minutes a day, was broken.

Out of order. No service. Nothing. I was thunderstruck.

The silver box hummed and swirled, but the slurpees themselves had been reduced to nothing more than a twisted sugary liquid, too dark for consumption, too painful to look at, too much for this grown man to bear. "WHY?", I cried. "Who's to blame for this injustice, this travesty of confectionery delights? The worker who guarded over the refrigerated wonder machine could only muster a slow, sad glance of forced acknowledgement, and a trite apology. Confusion and anger waged a war of attrition in my emotional core, and I was unable to decipher which one I wanted to win. It was all I could do to not simply give in to raw, unbridled anguish and fall to the floor in a quivering pile of humiliated human being.

So I left, empty-handed and somewhat tired. I walked the slow path back to my office, a trek comparable in suffering to the Bataan Death March or Dr. Zhivago. I sat back at my desk and had what some addicts call a moment of clarity in that small sliver of lucid thought between hits. An epiphany. I would stop having slurpees everyday. I could not bear to go through this maddening event once again, to feel amounts of disappointment that could make the Grand Canyon an easy walkover. I would be born again.

My detox lasted 3 hours. Damn you 7-Eleven. Damn you to hell.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Coming Next Summer: Calaway Park, The Movie


Even the most basic of film watcher, the type that finds Legally Blonde to be highly engrossing entertainment, knows that The Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest, out last Friday, is the continuation of the franchise trilogy. The current movie has once again thrust viewers into a fantasy pirate world, and has also added yet another notch to this series' claim on the longest, most pointless movie titles possible. Pirates is basically neck-and-neck with Tomb Raider, both movie franchises built upon entities of great fanfare, but differ in their relative focus on female memories. Seriously though, do we need eight or nine words in the title? Couldn't they just have titled it "Depp's Eyeliner" or something?

In any event, I have just come home from viewing said middle child of the trilogy, and I can honestly say that I did enjoy it. Seriously! Me! Enjoyed it! It had action, adventure, romance, big scary things (as far as Disney goes), and huge blowey-up stuff. Everything that gives Jerry Bruckheimer horny feelings, to which he promptly blows up (you should hear stories about when he and Michael Bay get together for lunch. Oh you haven't? That's because those stories have been blown up). There's just something irritating about middle stories though, because you can't just waltz in without seeing the first, and nothing really gets resolved. However, it does lead to imaginative plot developments. Mine has Capt. Jack Sparrow opening up a bunch of Joey's Only Fish & Chips. But these ones are awesome.

I can't help one feeling, though, and it's an obvious one. This multi-bajillion dollar franchise is still just based on a fucking Disneyland ride. A ride. Made into a movie. That's grossed a box-office total equal to Oprah-like proportions. I remember the ride fairly well, even though I was only six when I went to Dizneeland. I was scared shitless, especially when I witnessed the pour soul being lowered into the well. I have issues with that, alright? Now, at that tender age, would I believe that almost exactly twenty years later, we'd have TWO films and awaiting a third, based solely on a boat ride consisting of animatronic pirates? Hell no, but I was six. I believed that my hand-puppet dog played with my toys when I was out of the room.

My point is this: If someone out there can make a film out of that, what's to stop anyone from making a movie along the same lines? Therefore, I give you Calaway Park: Secret Of The Log Ride. For those of you who don't know or care, Calaway Park is a Hanna-Barbara theme park just west of Calgary. Also, it kicks major ass! At least, it did when I was five. The Flintstones are here in all their glory, and some other minor characters (points if you can name one other than Snagglepuss or Yogi Bear). So many great memories are made and kept regarding this park, and it's so odd, because really, it's not the most awe-inspiring theme park out there. Therefore, making a movie about it should be a pants-wettingly spectacular idea! Here's the plot: an archeologist (who may or may not be swashbuckling, but is definitely dark and mysterious)has always been interested in clues left behind over time regarding some kind of treasure or something. Since childhood, he has been told of treasure left behind since the beginning of time! He has come across a map to a new, mysterious land called "Calaway" to retrieve an ancient, powerful artifact: The Flint Stone.

The Flint Stone is part of a great legend that supposedly enables the bearer to connect with aliens, or control the thoughts of man, or propel a car with his/her feet. Of course, he is not alone. He has a sexy assistant (who eventually will have an agenda of her own), to which he once dated, but it didn't work out. On their journey, they fight evil doers, come across ancient magic, reveal truths about themselves and make out a little bit, but stop due to some jarring event (like a bad guy popping out of the background yelling "Arrgh!"). There's also some stupid tie-in with Burger King or something, with a new product revealed (the Dinoburger, or equally as retarded). Some people die, some are believed to die, but return, and there's a twist, like John Goodman comes out and threatens to sue.

As for the climax and conclusion, I leave that up to anyone. How will this tale end? Am I only talking to myself? If anyone does come up with an ending, one caveat. No Rick Moranis. Not one bit. And no Rosie O'Donnell either. I want this movie to be as far away from The Flintstone movies as possible. Which means it won't be a colossal embarrassment! Ha!

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Cowboy Hat Convention

Ah, yes. The Calgary Stampede. A whole week-plus of drinking, yelling and generally being an asshole. And those are just the girls. I only get a little bit of holidays this summer due to a new job, so I have to choose carefully. I chose Calgary for my first little jaunt, and it seemed like a fair choice, as it allowed me to break in the new truck on the highways, and give me that special sense of self-autonomy, which feels great and tastes great, too. Like a phantom popsicle. I must thank my friend Gavin for this excursion, since his idea to go on the Stampede Club Crawl was a sound one. And now for the day-by-day summary, and the hilarity that ensued.

Thursday: I drive almost right from work, stopping only at Bang-On on Whyte to pick up a new custom t-shirt and some new shades. The shirt says "Tonight's the night!", which what myself and Warren C overheard one chick say at O'Byrnes (and by the looks of her, good luck with that). I figured the shirt would fit the theme of the club crawl quite nicely. Warren and I hit the Stampede that night, which has a curious entry fee. Pay $12, or pay $6 for a "sneak peek". Oh, tough choice. We stroll into the Nashville North tent to meet up with some Calgary/Edmonton types, and see Great Big Sea playing their last few songs. After they finished, it began. For the rest of the weekend, save for times in the car, and a few precious moments at the bars, it was country music as far as the ear could hear. Now, for those of you who know my position on country music, this is just about hell for me. I realize it's the Stampede, but damn it all if country music isn't just the worst fucking music on the planet. Every song sounds the same, and all the line dances are absolutely retarded. Nobody looks sexy dancing a line dance. Two-stepping, when done by people who are "good" at it, looks like a writhing mass of flesh having a seizure. With cowboy hats on.

Beers: $5.50 for a can. Not stupid, but affordable.
Late night food: A shwarma (sp?), that Warren wanted me to try. Looks like a donair, but misses the little things. Like having a good taste, and the desire to have another one.

Friday: Warren and I spend the day traipsing up and down 17th, which, quite frankly, puts Whyte Ave to shame for the amount of great looking women. If I was wearing sweatpants... Of course, being that it was such a nice, hot day, some of the fellers decided that it was their constitutional right to not wear sleeves, short or otherwise. Does any lady out there just titter with excitement by the sight of some sweaty guy in a wife-beater, or worse, a shirt with the sleeves torn off? Oh, right. He's got a cowboy hat on. He's exempt.

The evening started early at Coyotes at about 8:00, although we got to the line at 7:30pm. We had bought $15 no line/no cover tickets, thanks to the ever-dependable Morghan. I thought that was expensive, but during the Stampede, expensive is the theme. More like absolutely ri-damn-diculous. $20 cover at Coyotes? $50 cover at Cowboys? That's beyond stupid into some realm where stupid beats Conan The Barbarian and Red Sonja. Nevertheless, the bar had just about the most scattered ass a warm-blooded heterosexual could want. Assless chaps on the beer tub girls? I think I signed a petition a while ago for that. Overall, pretty decent night.

Beers: $6.50 for a bottle. Of Bud. It had better taste like piss from a Royal family member. But not QEII. Gross.
Late night food: Gerry's, which used to be Husky House. Worst fucking double-burger I've ever had. The rat burger in Demolition Man? I'm sure a delicacy next to this pile of shit. I don't need Stallone to tell me that.

Saturday/Sunday: Ah, the Stampede Crawl. Started at the crack of noon (roughly), and for my ticket, at the Ranchman's Party Tent. It was a tent, but the party was somehwhat lacking. I've never seen a crawl this immense before, and it was certainly something to behold. I've planned many an event before, but the guys who plan this must have a death wish or something. Or, they're Superman. I bet Supe would plan an awesome party, but would probably evolve into everyone just kicking him in the groin repeatedly while he laughed. Food consumed consisted of one smokie hot dog by this point. After about two hours, we were ready to board the Bus Of Laughing Morons. Ah, nothing like a bunch of goons trying to get girls to flash, or sticking their asses out the window constantly. With cowboy hats on. My source of comedy was calling two guys "Toby Keith", simply because they looked like Toby Keith "Present" (fat and bloated) and Toby Keith "Five Years From Now" (fat and bloated).

Beers at Ranchman's: $4.25. No more crying!

First place was (incorrectly) Tequila's, which was pretty dirty, and smelled like an open sewer in some places. It's 2 in the afternoon, why is it dirty? Fairly unremarkable. Second place was Tantra, which was a little more memorable, but about as memorable as it could be. Nothing against it, as it seemed fairly nice. Seemed like a smaller Rum for clientele, so therefore I hate it and would never go again. Third and final bar: Coyotes. Ah, fuck me.

The crawl people had to stay in this outside patio/tent area, which was fine by me, given that I had already seen what the inside had to offer, and was in no hurry for the sequel. Plus, as a bonus, there's no bathroom attendant in a port-o-potty! That means I don't have to pay a buck for the hand sanitizer. After a few hours, Miss Morghan informs me that I should head over to Cowboys (bile rising), because if I'm staying at hers and Mike's place, it makes sense to get together. So I leave. Without asking what the line is like. "Huge", she says. Fuck me two times. I reverse it, but take the wrong path, leading me into some Calgary transit garage, which leads me to have to hop a barbed wire fence to avoid an embarrassing turnaround (Hey, I don't know the guys working at the garage, but I certainly don't want them to think I don't know what I'm doing).

I try to weasel my way back in, but the mongoloid at the door says wait in line. So I do. I get to the front, and then he says that I have to pay the cover - $20. Are you kidding me? I paid $35 for the ticket? I relent, and get let in, but I can't get outside, because the mouthbreathers at two doors aren't letting anyone outside. This could not be going any better. I say fuck it, and leave. I get in a cab, and head to Morghan's, with the idea that I can sleep in my truck and wait for them. However, my phone is dead at this point, so I'm on a wing and a prayer. Good thing I remember where they lived. Mike wakes me up about an hour later, and the following conversation ensues (as I can remember it):

Mike: "Tyler, you can come up now".
Tyler: "No, I have to go to Warren's and get my truck."
Mike: "Dude, you're in your truck."
Tyler: (Confused) "Huh?"

I slept in a room that seemed only two miles from the sun, and in a cat condo which, due my allergies, made death seem like a viable option. I decided to book out early, and head to my Grandma's, where my parents are. Lo, and behold, what comes next? I LOCKED MY FUCKING KEYS IN THE TRUCK. Again. So a call to the parents (local call, Morghs, seriously), and AMA's on the way. But I'm not an AMA member yet, so it'll cost me. Oh, and I notice a parking ticket from the night before on my windshield. Fuck. Me. Running.

Overall Experience: I will absolutely, positively do this again next year! I can't wait to mercilessly make fun of country yet again. Stupid country. It all sucks. Except for Johnny Cash. He's a legend, and I've said it before, but JC transcends time, and space and denim.

And Now, Starting In Last Place, This Kid


Yep, that's me to the left. Either someone just punched my eyebrow, or I'm intoxicated. Witnesses say the latter, and they weren't as intoxicated as I was apparently, so I'll give them the benefit of the doubt. But damn, look at those sideburns!
So here it is. Standard Tyler procedure. Getting to the party just a bit late, but making a concentrated effort to make the most of it, and eventually, entertaining (mostly) everyone. Sure, blogs have been around since what, the phonograph? Who cares? If I want to write one of these, then damn it, I will. I feel that this will give me the outlet I need for my wordsmithing, wordplay and my fanatical desire for wordsex, which is probably as gross as it sounds.

So, what will I write about? Most likely what other people are writing about, which are ramblings of an almost inchoherent nature, and would be absolutely incoherent, if not for idiot-proof writing software (read: nothing that is of any interest to anyone). I will be writing, mostly during non-work times, and even during work, when things are "slowed down a tad" (which is most of the time--work is like that).

So there you have it. I have thrown my hat into the ring of the great world of the blogosphere. Eventually, I will get my hat back, because it was an awesome hat, I'm sure of it.
And now, what you've all been waiting for: Mind-numbing minutiae!



Mind-Melting Mayhem: NBC's Treasure Hunters

"Oh, for fuck's sake!", you exclaim. His first post, his cherry-popping entry into the world of sitting, snacking and generally complaining, is about a fucking reality show. Yeah, it is. Go fornicate with yourself.
I have been watching this show, and was fairly excited about the premise, being a devoted fan of "The Amazing Race". There's just something about having to use intelligence to win a game, and that just gives me an erection. A smart erection, you can be assured.

If you haven't watched an episode, the premise is fairly simple: Use noggin, aided by senses (especially sight). Be first to solve elementary-level clues. Win $$$. It seems almost too easy, but you do have to discern between dumbing yourself down, or smartening yourself up for some puzzles. Unfortunately, this is only for Americans, and thus, the basis for a high entertainment factor. I'm not an Canuck-elitist or anything, but solving puzzles? Americans? Granted, there are extremely bright Americans out there, but do the producers get them? Not really, as there's only one team of three, the "Geniuses", which is quite the awesome moiniker. You just know those fuckers will get license plates celebrating this. The whole nickname nonsense is getting out of hand with all reality shows, but with our attention span now in the nanoseconds, remembering people and stuff is hard. However, in two hilarious coincidences (I'm sure), I've now seen two African-American teams in two different shows named the Brown family, and the Black family. Are you kidding me? I wonder how we're supposed to remember them...

Now 4 episodes in, I have almost displaced my original contempt for it being an AR/National Treasure rip-off, and a blatant one at that. Hmm. Solving a treasure mystery based on clues left by America's forefathers? I assume that the four people who saw that film are writing strongly worded letters. I'm just surprised that TH didn't use an accented host. Everyone else almost is. I'm faily sure that this guy is naked from the waist down on all the videos sent to the treasure hunters. "Teams: Your next clue is hidden somewhere on my body. Now if the camera justs pans down a bit..."

Long story longer, it has the possibility of being a good show, but only if the hot Grad Students get back into bikinis, or have to put on shirts, and wet them to
see the next clue. It's what the forefathers would have wanted.

And now, a random picture of me: