A Small Taste Of The Walk For Darfur

" What began as a grassroots movement in MacEwan has grown into a city-wide project. We walk from Calgary to Edmonton on April 22nd. We walk to raise awareness about the atrocities occurring in Darfur and in hopes of cultivating some political action. April 29th we will be joining hundreds of demonstrations around the world calling on international intervention to halt the genocide in Darfur. On April 29th, our walkers will have returned home from a grueling trek and we will greet them in Churchill square. African and local bands, speakers and citizens of Edmonton will gather to protest the neglect shown to the citizens of the Darfur by the International community. This group will provide constant updates on what is occurring with the walk and the region of Darfur itself."

And so goes the description for the Walk For Darfur initiative that I have been blessed to be a part of for the last four months. I volunteered to be the sponsorship coordinator for this effort, and as happy as I am to be a part of it, I am extremely disappointed in the efforts I've produced. Especially after what I've seen and taken part in today.

This afternoon, some of the remaining office members who aren't fully partaking in the eight-day walk from Calgary to Edmonton, drove down to meet up with the walkers in Red Deer. Personally, I anticipated harrowing tales from the road from battle-weary troops struggling to stay focused and removed from their nomadic M.A.S.H. unit. I received that and so much more. I participated in the walk myself, getting a small taste of what the walkers have endured even moreso in the last few days, and what they'll try to overcome in the days ahead. As I walked and talked, and I looked upon the faces, and the worn bodies, it hit me. I might have my face on the website, but have I really helped this team out? Have I done anything for them? I saw their tears. I saw their limps, sores, and gritted teeth bearing the brunt of yet another step. I walked with them for 13 or so kilometres, but I feel like a fraud. I'm sore and tired, but I'm in state that is nowhere near comparable to theirs. I can't believe how disappointed I am in myself.

But I'm so proud of the walkers and the volunteers. I couldn't be more proud to see them accomplishing the goal that they set out to do months ago, when this idea seemed almost impossible. These students, this team, has done so much in preparation, and are doing so much for a cause that they feel so strongly for, it makes me feel privileged to just know them. My utmost respect and admiration to everyone involved in the initiative. I've heard many students talk big about doing something, but many fail to deliver. This team delivered. And I salute them.

Godspeed, stay safe and healthy. We'll see you on Sunday for the big walk to Churchill Square.

Black Monday

As of 4:00 PM MTN, 32 innocent students dead. 1 massive fucking coward also dead. Hell gains one more.

A Funk Retrospective: Curtis Mayfield

Welcome to the funk.

And the soul, and the rhythm and an awesome kung-fu blues sound that has been iconic, influential and legendary.

I don't think I've come across a more versatile artist like Curtis Mayfield. He taught himself the intricate nature of his art, from guitar play, to style and lyricism, to showmanship. And he is the truth. The Truth.

I first came across Curtis via a friend of mine back in 1998. He had made up a mix tape of various artists that I really hadn't heard much of, or didn't know at all. Being a plucky young 17 year-old, what I didn't know filled a fairly large volume. Like 'War And Peace', Extended Edition. Some of the musical treats included Herbie Hancock, Frank Zappa, and Curtis Mayfield. My friend had done me a massive favour by placing Curtis on the tape. To make good matters even better, he put on "Move On Up", from Curtis' eponymous-titled 1970 debut album. That nine-minute opus was my initiation into the true soul sound, the real funk.

That mix tape opened my ears and mind up to a new world, a world that extended past the musical staples of Albertan caucasian suburbia, notably Metallica, AC/DC, and other loud thrashes normally associated with adolescent young men. It was the transition into a new frame of mind, the molting of my juvenile musical coat.

Curtis passed away in 1999, but he'll be remembered forever as a musical visionary, a fervent advocate of social justice and a voice for social consciousness and African-American culture and values. He could effortlessly play the pimp, but seamlessly transition to the voice of reason and rationality. He will be revered for his "black psychedelia", his unique brand of music and vision.

Here's a few of my favourite tracks from Curtis Mayfield. Enjoy!

"Superfly", from the motion picture soundtrack for Superfly (1972)

"Pusherman", also from the motion picture soundtrack for Superfly (1972)

"We Got To Have Peace", from the album Roots (1971)

The Top Eleven Reasons Why I Like Living Alone

Recently, I cast off the shackles of the oppressive family, and moved into my own apartment. After reading that one sentence, I know that you're thinking two things: 1) He moved out now? At 26? What a tool! and 2) 26! Ha! What a man-baby.

I can completely understand those two trains of thought, considering yes, I am 26 (but closer to 27 now), and yes, I have a full-time job. But all of you haters can just shut the fuck up for two seconds and let me explain. First off, I haven't always lived with my family. From 2000-early 2004 I lived either by myself or with roommates. Second, I did move back in with the family because it was easy, and I was still "in school". When I left school, I didn't jump right back out there, because I either didn't feel it was the right time, or I wanted to wait until it was financially feasible. I took a lot of unwarranted shit over that time from people, friends or otherwise, and I didn't care. I don't make decisions based on what people think, I make decisions for me. ME. Get it? Good.

Now that we've come to an understanding, let's get to the meat. The top eleven reasons why living on my own gets big-ups, and living say, in a cardboard box, is shitty. There's eleven points, because this list goes to eleven. It's just that fucking RAD.

11) I buy my own groceries, any time I want. Pizza Pops? Sure. Tater Gems? You bet? Sodalicious? Do they even sell those anymore? Because if they do, you darn well know they're going in the cart.

10) Cleaning is performed based on necessity, not on a regular schedule. Oh, you can see some dust? Well, I can't. Until I can, Mr. Clean stays in his house. Don't worry about him, under the sink is a party, believe me.

9) One plate, one bowl, one set of utensils. Sure, I bought more, but it just seems that I always use just one. Hell, I could actually just eat out of the pot or pan. I just saved myself that plate. No fuss, no muss.

8) If something is missing from the fridge, I know I took it. Where did all the beer and leftover pizza go? Why is there a shoe and a note left in its place? What happened to me last night?

7) The door never has to be closed during any bathroom activities. This is good for showers, because then I don't have to do that stupid towel wave in front of the mirror to clear the fog off. Plus, I love that cold breeze after I get out, it's refreshing!

6) I don't have to hear any family or roommate issues/arguments. I don't have to hear that your dad can't show you affection, or that Grandma is having bowel troubles. In my apartment, try to keep your topics of conversation to pop-culture between 1985-1996.

5) Friends can visit whenever they want. Just bring me some kind of treat.

4) Frolicking, capering, cavorting, sitting and staring. I could never do these things at home.

3) All Tyler's movies, all the time. Oh, you don't like "Kung-Fu Hustle"? Too damn bad. We're watching that, then "Logan's Run", and then just for the hell of it, "Clash Of The Titans".

2) Pants off when I arrive, pants on when I leave. There's no reason to really wear any clothes at all when I'm at home. Who I am supposed to impress? Myself? I've seen what I'm made of and I'm pretty indifferent.

1) The Girls. I can close my bedroom door all the way, and there's never any "checking up" from the folks. It's everything I've ever wanted.

The Politics Of Cybertron

Some of you know of my involvment in the Students' Union executive elections at the U of A during my wacky career there. I have filled the role of campaign manager, volunteer and advisor for a few campaigns, including my own. I have a winning record, but unfortunately, never won myself.

Regular campaigns are fairly pedestrian, and some joke candidates over the years have been interesting, but mostly ill-conceived and poorly executed.

Except for this campaign.

I have to give my first nomination for "Hero Of The Year" award to Sarah Yusuf, who ran the Soundwave for VP External campaign during the SU elections earlier this month. Soundwave. The coolest fucking transformer of them all. SU elections. Face-melting, is what this is. And now there's video of the Myer candidates forum.

Kudos to you Sarah, you have created something legendary, normally reserved for Greek gods and mythical creatures in kids' books, like Peter Pan or Waldo. Bravo, young lass.

The New Yorker Can Actually Be Funny

I know, it seems a far-fetched idea, but hear me out.

Mostly known for their be-monocled cover patron, and comics funny only to those who have subscriptions, and they only laugh because they believe they're paying for it, the New Yorker has been a bastion in the magazine world for being the pre-eminent forum for serious journalism and fiction since 1925. At least that's what Wikipedia says.

A quick check of their site today has produced a most-hilarious little gem. Found in the "Shouts And Mumurs" section, is a piece on the goings on in children and college minds alike. I think you'll agree that the result is quite amusing, and I say that whilst holding my cigar and cocking my head ever so slightly backwards to the right. Quite.

The link:
http://www.newyorker.com/humor/2007/03/26/070326sh_shouts_rich

After you read it, I believe that you'll all agree that we thought like Simon every Halloween, because the money was just there. It's just sitting there!

Hot Dog! Another Personality Test!

As if you all weren't mired in a pit of low self-esteem already, here's another personality test that you'll take, and then tell all your friends how awesomely close it describes you, or really, the person you'd kill to be.

That being said, here's my results! Squee! It's as if they saw right through my computer monitor and into my soul. And my soul is doing some awesome breakdancing moves to Herbie Hancock's "Doin' It". Funkaaaaay.

http://friends.imagini.net/vdna.php?responseUID=73219-97ea&srv=iwebhd6

To waste some time on your own, just follow the link, and try it out for yourself! You'll be breakdancing in no time.

"This Is Blasphemy! This Is Madness!"

Actually, no, it's neither. It's 300, and I was fortunate enough to see it last night.

Is it too early to have it as my favourite film of the year? Fuck that, it's hit that peak with a bullet, or a flying spear, which seems more appropriate.

What can I say about the film? Mortal words cannot describe my admiration for it, and my head pretty much did this after it was done.

It opens with wide release this Friday. Just go see it. If you see it on IMAX, prepare to get your nuts smashed. You've been pleasantly warned.

Long Island Donkey Punch

Heart. Soul. Gone. Maybe just until July 1, I don't know.
In any event, this is fucked.

Be Back In A Week - Maybe

Going to Vegas for a week starting tomorrow. I'll try to come back still single, but no promises. I'll bring pictures, too. What happens in Vegas, should be shown to everyone, no matter the level of embarrassment.

Later.

Johnny Doesn't Let Death Get In The Way

I watch a lot of TV, and it always seems that when you watch quite a bit of the tube, you'll always come across some program, commercial or sports highlight again and again. Some are good, some are vomitous. Johnny Cash is always in the good bin.

Johnny Cash is about as cool as any other dead person out there. Maybe infinitely cooler. Other dead "cool" celebrities and personalities are just sittin' around, doing nothing, either in their graves, or wherever their ashes were dumped. JC puts out the hits, and with the videos released of his songs, he's established a legacy that's already bigger than three moons, and probably also affects the tides. And maybe it blocks out the sun every now and then, and the only way to see his legacy is with a pinhole box viewer.

The latest single from his posthumously 2006-release American Recordings V: A Hundred Highways, entitled "God's Gonna Cut You Down", is about as good as it gets. It is yet again another triumph for Johnny, continuing his octogenarian roll that began with his cover of NIN's "Hurt" (which, by the way, may be one of the only music videos I've cried while watching).

I keep seeing this video on CMT while channel surfing, and only while surfing, because those who know me, know that I would never purposefully watch, or even linger, on a country music channel. However, it seems that I'm always catching the video for "God's", either in part or in whole. And each time I see it, I'm in conflict. I love Cash, and every bit of his music (now, I fully see the hypocrisy in loving Cash, but hating country music - I believe that some country is good, and 90% is God-awful), but this video vexes me. Directed by Tony Kaye (American History X), it features celebrities du jour, individuals of the moment. The question is: why are some of the lamest, attention-whoring, self-important celebs included? Kanye West, Kid Rock (is he still alive?), Kate Moss and Bono? These celebs seem to mock the opening about Johnny wearing black to identify with the poor and the dowtrodden. All of the celebs featured are not poor, nor downtrodden. I'm confused.

The video is a stark contrast to the video for "Hurt", directed by Mark Romanek. Now this guy can direct a music video. He's done Beck's "Devil's Haircut", Lenny Kravitz's "Are You Gonna Go My Way", and NIN's "Closer", just to name a few. Tony Kaye did "Dani California" for the Chili Peppers. Ugh, I hate that song. I wished that Romanek did the directing for "God's", but then I read that he was on the braintrust for the video, along with producer Rick Rubin, Kaye and Justin Timberlake. Why Timberlake is involved is beyond me, but Romanek should probably have taken the helm on this one. A shame, for sure.

I'll let you make your own conclusions. Here's the video for "God's", as well as "Hurt" for good measure. As for the latter, I promise that I won't cry, but I'll probably get emotional.

"God's Gonna Cut You Down"

"Hurt"

When Marketing Departments Go All Stupid

Honestly, I feel bad for the Edmonton Oilers.

It's not just because lately, I feel that my undying love for them has seriously waned in the last little while (read: since they started subscribing to the suck), but because they've been subjected to some bad "themed" photo shoots in past years, notably during the heydays.

Inside the Rexall Place box office, there hangs a couple of old team photos from the glory years, which aren't too bad overall (all team members are making attempts at smiling/faking pleasure at being there), but they're just boring in concept. It seems that the Oilers' marketing department, or a part of it known as the "team photo brain trust", which was most likely full of meatbags, decided that the awesomest way to photo the team would be to put them out of their element. In another locale, a very non-hockey environment. Subsequently, our hearts are supposed to be set all-aflutter.

In one, you have the slogan, "My Team, My Town" (so original), and the Oilers are set in some random grassy plateau, with the cityscape somewhat recognizable in the background. Fairly pedestrian, fairly family picnic. The other has the team on a farm (which may fit this year's team, what with the shit-shoveling and all), which again, springs forth no new feelings of respect or admiration. It's just a farm, and a crappy looking one at that.

However, the photo team did put their feeble minds together and came up with this:

For fuck's sake. Poor Paul Coffey. He looks like a bitch. Does anyone look like they want to be there at all? I would guess that someone in the Oilers organization went to Disneyland and had a meteoric epiphany.

Apologies for the quality, but this is a photo of the actual poster, which I believe to be of the 1986-1987 team. Thanks to Marc for the delivery. Who the fuck is Danny Gare?

It Came From The Pantry

Breakfast. I'm not really sure what it means to "break fast", but I know it has everything to do with starting your day right.

After you wake up and shout angry threats of revenge against whatever higher power made you wake up, you proceed to engage in your morning ritual. Then you feel that tinge in your stomach, that special tweak. You're hungry and you've got to do something about it, damn it.

Everyone's daily routine is different, but ask most, and I'm sure that there are elements of the following: showering/cleaning, putting clothing on, creating non-embarrassing hairstyle or the delicate placing of ball cap, then the consumption of breakfast. Unless you're some kind of anorexic, breakfast really is important, and shouldn't be missed. You always have time for a solid meal, just like the ones you see on TV or on elementary school filmstrips. Is it so hard to eat a banana, or a fruit bar? Of course not. The easiest meal by far, of course, is cereal. I believe that there are a good many of us that should probably thank Will Keith Kellogg for creating such a tasty, convenient dish. You add milk, of the cow or soy variety, grasp a spoon (or fork for those who desire a challenge), and shovel that goodness down your gullet. And everyone is happy.

Unless that cereal is pure toxic gruel, wherein one taste of it sends the consumer into fits of rage and threats of revenge, not against some power, but against the guilty: Kellogg's, Post, General Mills, Quaker.

This morning I found myself to be void of bread, or it's more fun, outgoing cousin, the Eggo waffle. I was therefore relegated to buying something at work, or hunkering down with a good ol' bowl of cereal. The answer came naturally, as years of childhood pleasure came back with willful abandon. Especially when I see that my pantry has "Froot Loops". Ah, the 'loops. Stupidly spelled, but ever-iridescent with its bright colours and promise that only 7 essential nutrients are hidden within (I respect a lower nutrient level - shows honesty). I eagerly grasped the box, and received quiet approval from its poster bird, the uber-scented Toucan Sam. I also peered at the side panels and wondered if the "Twistables" or "Winders" would be a good lunchtime addition. I just knew that this breakfast would be 7 essentials of awesome, or at least something to just get by on. As I ascended the spoon, crammed past its natural limits with the "Cheerios on acid", into my mouth, I was overcome with a taste flood of a purely vile nature.

Hey, this stuff is fucking disgusting.

Maybe it's my age showing its wear and tear, or the cereal being past its best-before date, but this was shit. Old shit, like if work on a construction site stopped, and everyone left, but the port-o-potty was still there, uncleaned and untouched. For months. I'm trying to think what was the great draw when I was a kid, because this cereal is worse than Hitler Flakes (I may have made those up, but if they were real, you know they'd be bad. And evil). I can truly appreciate the fact that kids will eat pretty much anything if it's wrapped in colours so offensive it gives people aneurysms. If it also has a commercial during the kid's cartoons, you can guarantee that kid's going to have dreams about the cereal, where if he/she eats enough of it, he gets to fly (or something stupid like that - you know how kids dream).

I just don't know how this poison is still being produced. It should have to be removed from the house by a HAZMAT team and quarantined as an imminent danger to human survival. Along with Cap'n Crunch, Reese's Puffs, Grape Nuts and Marshmallow Alpha-Bits, they should be put in a ship and shot at the sun, if only to save the planet from their collective plague.

Are there any vomit-inducing cereals out there you hate, dear reader? Maybe you'd like to come to the defence of the rainbow diarrea I've mentioned? Regular Cheerios should probably be on that list because of it's purposeful lack of taste and subsequent insult to the population, but it's healthy, so I guess that evens it out.

"But Why Will You Say That I'm Mad?"

As I was perusing the Acadamy Award nominations, I couldn't help but see the year 2001-created "best animated feature" category and feel nothing but empty sadness. The films nominated may be sufficient in the areas of storytelling or artwork, but honestly, the only people who'll find those films "sufficient" are 10 year-olds. And members of the Academy, who unfortunately, due to some of their nominations and picked winners over the years, I will place at the same intelligence, knowledge and maturity level as said grade schoolers.

It is unfortunate that to find the very best in the past year regarding animation, one has to look at the "animated short" category. Here, you'll find the most original and creative works ever to be drawn into cellular form. Honestly, I can say that the only truly original film to be nominated for "best animated feature" recently, would have to be "The Triplets Of Belleville" in 2003. That wonderful film unfortunately lost to "Finding Nemo", which demonstrates the Academy's lack of vision and love for Ellen Degeneres. This year's nominees, save for "Monster House", are basically naseautingly brightly-coloured, celebrity-voiced, computer-imaged, multi-bazillion dollar bags of of sick baby diarrhea.

Quite sad.

Fortunately, to save you from the inane banalities of so-called "acclaimed" animation, I have an excellent little piece from 1953, based on the "Tell-Tale Heart" by Edgar Allen Poe. Originally published in 1843, it still elicits goosebumps and fear from me today. Turn off the lights, turn up the sound, and enjoy storytelling at it's absolute best.

She's Gonna Be Alright

My girl is finally getting the help she needs.

After more than two months, my truck is in the shop, getting the "extreme makeover" that she most desperately needs. I could still drive it and all after the "incident" (see post November 14), but I owe it to her to keep her looking sleek, sexy and ready for anything. I kind of roughed her up a bit back in November, and frankly, I got tired of getting those looks from people. You know, that look of reserved disgust, saved for wife-beaters and people who throw garbage in recycle containers. I might be able to withstand the common sneer from some meathead, or the turned-up nose from the old bluehair at the grocery store, but she should have never had to endure the pain I caused.

I'm sorry again, Ranger. You're a good girl. Yeah, you are.

All will be forgiven soon, but I have a message to those of you who might not respect our winter season up here in Sledmonton: Don't think that because you've lived here for a couple of years, or maybe your whole life, that you can pull a fast one on the Winter. Oh sure, you'll drive slow here and there, or you may sandbag up your car's ass, but eventually, you'll see some apparently dry road, or it might be +5 out there. And then you go and put your stupid suit on. You know that suit. Usually, it's a full-bodied pantsuit with accompanying jacket. And it's bright green. Also, it's covered in stupid.

Just take it easy out there. Be alert, take precautions, don't drive when you don't need to, and for fuck's sakes, put down the fucking phone. Keep the stupid suit in the closet, and bring it out when you need it the most. Like at stag parties, family reunions, and your kid's 7th birthday party.

Just don't be like these folks, and learn a lesson in futility.

Gimme Some Beats, Baby

As you know, I'm always on the lookout for the nostalgic, the awesome, and most often, the awesomely nostalgic. I'm quite happy to have stumbled upon this mastery of the mash-up, this excellence of the edit.

The background: Monkey Farm Frankenstein are an American industrial hip hop band signed to British label Some Bizzare, home of some of the best synth pop, experimental and industrial music the world has ever heard. The MFF's chemical breakbeats and VHS-trash sound bites are crumpled shreds of sincerity afloat a vast sea of media punishment.

So what does that mean? It means that The Evil Dead trilogy, one of my most favourite film trifectas, gets the sample treatment, and only with Evil Dead audio and video. Nothing else, nothing more. Result: More awesome than you can shake ten awesome sticks at.

2006: More New Business Cards

Alrighty. Now that the holiday hangover is officially over, and I'm all ready to enjoy a new year, I thought it best to review the year gone by. Also, because it will be fun, sobering, and perhaps depressing, each month will be getting a review, mostly based on whether or not I bought a new t-shirt. Yep, it should be depressing. What a fun time we'll have! Let's dive head first!

JANUARY: The highlight has to be my trip to Mexico, in the Mayan Riviera. Free drinks, gorgeous half-naked ladies, and fantastic weather. I came home riding a high, which was short-lived. Lowlight: My girlfriend of a personal-best 4.5 months asks to get out of her contract with me and requests a trade four days after I get back from Mexico, and two days after I give her gifts. Funny how I would feel worse about a certain defenceman dumping the Oilers in June than her dumping me.

Rating: C - Mexico and being dumped even each other out, leaving a mediocre month.

FEBRUARY/MARCH: Did these months even exist? I honestly can't think of anyhing that made these months memorable. February was only 28 days, so I guess there's that.

Rating: D - Low rating for me not believing that these months existed.

APRIL: I come to the realization that I cannot work at Ticketmaster any more, and that feels great, like being on fire, and someone throws a crapload of baking soda on you, because they know that it's an oil-based fire, and water would only make it worse. Also, I buy every Oilers playoff home game, making some people question my sanity. Oh, the hindsight! I also purchase a vehicle for the first time, boosting my top speed from needy to autonomous. Killer.

Rating: B+ - For shaking off a huge employment weight and starting a hockey memory for the ages.

MAY: I started a new job which was a return to a post-secondary institution, which has a 70% female population. That's groin-grabbingly awesome, and so was the staff retreat to Banff. But more awesome were the Oilers. Greatest month of the year candidate, due to the Oilers instilling in me feelings I haven't felt in many years with this team. Unyielding pride.

Rating: A+ - New job and playoff series' wins. I have a metaphorical erection when thinking about May.

JUNE: I can only really remember the 19th, mostly because I have never cried so hard, and with so much passion and emotion. The day they lost Game 7. Some of my friends know that I don't show much emotion, pretty much ever. I'm sort of emotionally barren, but that seems harsh to say. However, when that empty net goal went in, I lost it. Every sad moment from the last decade plus that I never cried or showed emotion at came roaring back into one torrential tidal wave of tears. Thank goodness I had some support that day, or I may have taken a place on the High Level bridge.

Rating: A until June 19th. F for every day after. Obviously.

JULY: Went on a pubcrawl in Calgary during the Stampede, which in turn sparked this vessel of creativity and pop-culture worshipping known as this blog, which I think is pretty neat. Late in the month, the cabin party at Mitch's created some of the most memorable moments while drinking. The outhouse fire, movie quoting, the naked hottubbing. This weeked had it all, and it wins the award for the best summer moment.

Rating: A- - A great month, bookended by two fantastically fun weekends of drinking debauchery.

AUGUST: Birthday number 26. I made the turn past the quarter-century, and I spent it as best I could. Mostly drinking with friends. Not too shabby. Besides that, I only remember being hot and sweaty. All the time.

Rating: B- - Nothing crazy, however the 1989 Playboy from Greg may be the best gift I've received since turning old enough to see naked breasts.

SEPTEMBER: There's just something about the start of school and being there to appreciate it. MacEwan is basically a fashion show. It's Laguna Beach: Edmonton. Do I protest? Fuck, no. I'm crazy, not stupid. The highlights of September are the Spiked Punch Tour Pubcrawl, and my chauffering of both Pilot Speed and the Trews for the school concert. I can now drive a 15-person van with aplomb. I can also now use 'aplomb' in a sentence. Also, congratulations to my friends Jay and Josie for finally getting around to getting married. The amount of time they dated was starting to compete with my time at the University.

Rating: B+ - A high rating for the amount of beautiful women in a concentrated area known as my workplace. My eyes have never seen so much eye candy, and now I think they have diabetes.

OCTOBER: I made my own blood for Halloween. That's pretty much it.

Rating: C+ - For the homemade blood, the month salvaged itself from mediocrity.

NOVEMBER: I'm just glad that my airbag doesn't release when I slam into the centre wall on Groat Road. I see from my driver's side visor that airbags can kill. I probably don't want that. I was feeling pretty cocky before that accident, and now I drive like my grandmother.

Rating: D- - "Boo-hiss" for the truck accident, and a louder "boo-hiss" for the insurance company dragging their feet.

DECEMBER: A fine month to end the year, as working for a college again leads to some awesome holiday time. The Christmas holidays are again a lesson in familial gluttony, but I'm happy to have gone to Lethbridge, if only to berate my cousin about the unfortunate possible consequences of a one-night stand. New Year's Eve yielded some cool memories, some scary douchebag memories. So nothing new there.

Rating: B+ - Not too cold, not too shitty. Just the way I like it.

So there you have it. Some highlights of the year that was, 2006. And now that I look back, I realize that I had an extremely boring year, save for the Edmonton Oilers. Sorry that you had to read all this. I'll try to do better in 2007.

I'm Stocking Up For Next Christmas!

This past Christmas has come and gone, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to showcase my favourite entrepeneur, bringing about his fantastical deals never before seen outside of the Garden State.

And if the video doesn't work - Winter Wonderland

Also: 50th Post! Wheee!

The Divine New Year's Eve Comedy

And so it has come and gone. The last day of the past year, and the first of the present.

As I begin to embark on yet another year of new t-shirts, and other banalities, I find it intriguing to look upon the past year, and see certain areas of growth, change, enlightenment, and all other kinds of humanist bullshit. But that's for the next post. I so rarely produce journal-type posts, but I feel that for certain occasions, like New Year's Eve, it warrants a small amount of reminiscence, if not for my own remembrance later down the road. Therefore, since no-one has asked for it, here's my homework writing assignment: What I Did For New Year's Eve. Spine tingling!

Since my inception into the legal drinking club, I've spent five New Year's Eve's out of eight at a house party. In fact, the last five years in a row were at those house parties (for the actual New Year's Eve - any "New Year's Eve After New Year's Eve party that I created for the U of A doesn't count). For this year, the ninth, I was happily given the task of finding some activity that exceeded beyond the comforts and boredom of mine or a friend's abode. My dear friend Morghan, who had endowed me with the search of a great party, trusted me so much that she would veto each suggestion I came up with. That's trust. Eventually, it was decided that since some members of the female gender would be wearing heels, the party at Dante's Bistro would serve well. Also, it had a "Casino Royale" theme, and James Bond is fucking cool. Dinner would have to be had elsewhere, as Dante's had dinner tickets for only the cost of a kidney. No dice. Dinner, I suggested should be close, and should fit the theme of the evening. The answer was almost instant to me, i.e., a couple days before New Year's. Julio's Barrio. So simple. So delicious. A evening was born.

Now I'll have to stop here and give absolute credit and respect to Morghan for getting the tickets to Dante's, and doing a gargantuan amount of the leg work, and to Mary B for the dinner reso's. That being said, I do have to give credit where credit's due, so I give myself thanks for the ideas, as it wasn't easy to find an itinerary that everyone could get excited over. Backslaps and high praise for everyone!

Since the party was Bond-themed, I took it upon myself to obtain a tuxedo, which I haven't worn in it's traditional look since...1987. My Aunt Sandra's wedding. I was a page, or something. I looked awesome then, and I looked damn awesome two days ago. Look at that picture to the left. Spellbindingly awesome. And thanks to Daniel Craig and his incomparable performance, I can finally be the blond Bond I've always wanted. There's just something about putting on the penguin suit that makes you feel almost invincible. The constant checking in the mirror, the incessant pulling and straightening of various suit pieces, it all comes together into one amazing package. Granted, it has to be tailored, and certain pieces have to be used, and some need to be omitted. Take the suspenders, for example. I've never worn suspenders, mostly because my pants have never needed that "extra help" to stay up. The ten minutes it took me to put them on was frustrating enough, but when you don't wear suspenders, they cause you to imagine things. Like your pants are too short. Imagining something like that does not help someone so paranoid as myself.

After a couple drinks at our fellow partier Angelina's house, we traveled west to Julio's, where six of us initiated the 7pm reservation with style: Jugs of sangria. Oh, and jugs of margaritas. And lots of edible edibles. Now, I don't begin to believe that I'm the bastion of good manners and such, but I guess Angelina does. A mere 2.5 seconds after arriving at our table, our waiter is subjected to "HOW OLD ARE YOU?!" from Angelina. Taken aback, but not missing a beat, he replies, "not old enough to serve you", which I thought was either the product of a quick wit, or a conditioned response to a oft-repeated question. Really though, the dude looked like he was 14. He also looked like me when I was 14. Oh, and his name was Tyler. Just fucking priceless. Since he was a Tyler, I will give him the benefit of a clever wit. It's a namesake standard. We continue to eat, save for me. I ordered a dish, but didn't really eat it. Waiter Tyler declared last call for food, and pressured me into it. Well played, sir. This happened at 8pm, which also happened to be the last call for alcohol, since Julio's closed at 9pm. Our merry band of six decide that the other three of our group will come soon, so we decide to order 4 more pitchers divided equally into sangria and margaritas, bringing the total order by us to 8. In the end, my utmost reverence and respect to the Original Six for demolishing 90% of those pitchers. Well done, everyone!

"Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate" ("Abandon all hope, ye who enter here")
- Possible sign outside Dante's Bistro.

Alright, so Dante's probably isn't Hell. It's just that the evening ended so disgustingly, that one might wonder. Starting off, though, things were excellent. The bar was decorated wonderfully, the Sky Bar was exceptionally cool, and I recommend anyone to head up there if open, whenever they find themselves in the area. My thanks and a big high-five to my great buddy Dean (aka Poppa McGursky) for being my Virgil of the main bar. Thanks brother.

Let me run down some of the highlights:

- Upon seeing many people in suits, or just shirts and ties, and one fucking stupid looking asshole dressed as Austin Powers, I thought that I had the edge in a tux. The only other dudes dressed in tuxes were old guys, and I thought that during the contest for "Best Bond Look-a-like", I would be a contender. I never saw a sniff of the contest, thus cementing my belief that only douchebags win contests at bars. Except for Morghan winning Oiler tickets last year. That was awesome.

- The main bar was spinning regular top-40 tunes, but the restaurant next door had a live reggae band, and they were neat...for the one song I heard of them. Then some DJ played older tunes (for the older people mainly organized there), including a nine-song Beach Boys remix. The highlight was the conga line that Olivia started. That was hella fun, and we showed those oldies how to really have a good time. Take that, old people.

- Midnight and subsequent embraces. I'm running a nice streak, with each year having it's own special meaning and backstory.

- You can always sense when a fight is coming. The air seems to crackle with some intensity, the mood among the patrons tenses a little, and then it happens. It always starts with two idiots, with one intelligent person trying to stop it. I watched this time as two morons started jawing, then with the help of another, the moment passed. Then, like a massive meatball-asshole-douchebag avalanche, the fight gains momentum and hits an enormous level. My friends and I are getting our coats, when all hell breaks loose. The Seventh Circle of hell, Outer Ring, more exact. Swarms of security guards, who previously looked like anyone else (good move Dante's) rush to the area where my friends and I were loitering not three minutes earlier. Then we see the glasses being thrown. I saw some chairs take flight. The fighting mass grows to what I can see as about 10-15 people, with some 10 more around the edges. It's a disgusting sight, and quite frankly, frightening as well. We gather our jackets quickly, and decide to exit out a rear entrance. Despite one female servers plea that we go out the front, she lets us through when we point out that the front entrance is a "little busy right now". We are fortunate to have a sober driver with us (thanks Nicole!), so six of us pack into a small car, and flee the scene. The bar has become a cop convention by this point, with cruisers numbering in the 6-7 range. This is our travel through Purgatory.

Finally, Paradiso. Some of us are dropped off at Angelina's (those who didn't go home sick), and we regale with tales of the evening past. Dante's may never seem my shadow again, but I'll admit that it did provide me with one of the most interesing NYE's in a long time.

So until next year, when another night will move the sun in heav'n and all the stars.

Merry Christmas, Everyone!

Luke 2:8-14 (King James Version)

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

Tomorrow, I hope all of you have a Merry Christmas. And happy end of Hanukkah, as well (I hope you saved me some latkes).