Gonna Make You Sweat

I should have written this out and posted it about two weeks ago.
Disgusting.
It was actually written immediately following the incident.
'Incident' seems like an appropriate adjective.

So, here we go. Written Friday, February 22 (freshly showered):

Forget that it's Friday and fail to pick up your kid from daycare.
It's Friday.

I weigh less than I did this morning.
This is because I shed pounds today by losing great quantities of sweat and dignity.

Like most really engrossing stories, it all began with Wingo
This is bingo, but you can win chicken wings to eat.
Hosted on Wednesdays (probably) at the SMU student bar, their wing night involved free bingo cards.
You dab 'em, you get the Wingo, you yell it out, you get the wings.
Or so we thought.
Andie and I decided that we might as well play, since we could only afford one basket between us.

As we dipped and dabbed, ingrates all around us were winning all the Wingo wings.
Until I won!
"Wingo," I bellowed, drunk on protein.
Swaggering confidently to the DJ booth, I wondered how I'd manage to screw this up.
It's rare that I win when I really want to win.
But I really won. I weally won wingo.
My prize was a free week of hot yoga.

So, donning my Bill Wood (he's a pro), I swung by the local yoga hut this afternoon.

If you look closely, you may recognize that Bill was on TV.
If you look even closer than that, you will recognize that there is much more to Bill than this.
After filling out a form I paid no attention to, I put on my hot yoga outfit.
This consisted of a pair of Andie's booty shorts, and that is all.
"Wear as little as you're comfortable with," they suggested on the phone.
Done.
While I enjoy dressing up

I also enjoy dressing down.

I entered a sweltering room encased in mirrors.
It was full of sexy people lying on yoga mats covered with towels.
I wasn't uncomfortable immediately, necessarily, but I'm certainly warm.
No one is speaking as I wade through the zen to find a spot at the back.
I lie down and wait with everyone else as I try to acclimatize.
Before I continue, it's important to understand what hot yoga is.
Hot yoga is taking normal stretches, complicating them, and then performing these in a sauna for an hour and a half.
I thought I understood this before going, but I guess I didn't.
Our taut instructor soon entered and the lesson began.

Hot yoga is hard for many reasons*:

Hot Reason #1:  Instruction comes quickly.
She didn't speak as quickly as an auctioneer, but she did speak as quickly as an aging preacher who has long since lost the faith.
"Bring your arms straight up, interlock your fingers, release your index fingers, cross your thumbs.
Now, you're going to extend all the way forward, arms pointing straight, leg outstretched, foot planted, parallel with the floor, now you're going to lean forward, hands on the floor..."
And so on.
I'm a visual learner with no spatial reasoning.
Physical instruction is tricky for me at room temperature.
I found myself wanting to say, "Grab my elbows with what? Can we slow down, I can't concentrate. It's 40 Jesus degrees in here."
But I didn't because this seemed to be preventing only myself from doing anything.
During one of my (frequent) breaks, I looked over to see how Bill was doing with a very yoga-esque pose.
Flawless. Balanced on one foot, sinking to the floor while remaining poised. Staring straight ahead.
I was entranced and annoyed to see it.
But I was trying to keep up.
I knew I was doing things incorrectly because I always do things incorrectly in a mirrored room with sexy people, for one.
Two, I knew I was doing it wrong because I heard the name "Paul" at some point.
I guess she was giving me specific instruction, but I was beyond absorbing new information.
By now, sweat was running from the shorts of the guy near me in tendrils and it was disgusting.
I gave up trying to listen and instead tried to watch everyone else.
But I couln't even do that because I was the only one not exercising.
So, I'd just be a dude hanging out in short shorts watching chicks do yoga.
None of this mattered a great deal because, obviously, I was going to give up entirely before the session was over.
If I'm being honest with myself, I knew this ten minutes after the lesson began.
Approaching an hour, the only questions were "When?" and
"How discreet could I be leaving the back of a room?"
After days we were allowed to drink water.
The bottle cap was warm to the touch.
Eventually, we were balancing on one leg and I kept stumbling and I was losing resolve quickly.
Quickly even for me.
She was telling us to focus on our planted leg in the mirror to aid balance.
But for me all this does is remind myself that I hate looking in mirrors.
It also helped me realize that I was paler than everyone else.
My body was now glistening and hideous.
I began taking long "breathing breaks" during which I lay down and tried not to whimper.
Class continued.
The instructor would sometimes cross to the back of the room.
Initially, I assumed she was making her way to me in order to quietly ask me, "Are you okay?"
No such compassion.
Instead, she would adjust the thermostat.
Which cut out the middle man, really, because had she asked "Are you okay," I would have croaked, "Turn the goddamn heat down."
It took her crossing the room a few times to realize she was turning the heat up.
I think. It was sort of impossible to tell by then.
Regardless, I was ready to check out and begin writing this blog post in the change room.
I had stopped yogaing entirely.
Instead, I lay still and drank my water occasionally.
Even that provided no relief because the water was now piss-warm.
"Now, interlock your fingers beneath your heels, chin to chest, pull up and up, and slowly bring your head to your knees."
"Do what? I'm gripping what?!"
I suddenly noticed that a box of tissues could be found at each wall of the room and I assumed they were for nosebleeds.
Eventually, and long after I should have, I gave up.
I gathered my yoga gear and subtly pointed at the door.
Kristen (Christen?) tells me "No no, you're okay. Stay here. You're my prisoner."
Prostrate and panting, I was forced to agree.
By this point the room stinks like sex between two orangutans in the hull of some sort of boat.
I just basked, reptile-like, and waited for her to say that we were allowed to go.
As she concluded, she reminded us to not be embarrassed if we couldn't do the exercises (I'm the only person in this category, really).
She finished by saying, "Just being here is better for you than not being here."
Once again, I had to agree.
Afterwards, there was tea (tea!) and uncomfortable showering.

*Maybe it's just hard for the one reason.

Almost Famous

I've decided to become a professional contestant.
That is, a pro contest signer-upper.
The job isn't particularly complicated.
Sure, there's a skill-testing question from time to time.
But I just answer those with a calculator.
The main facets of the job are living in poverty and going on lavish vacations.

I've finally had a successful person to retweet me*.
Twitter annoys me as much as Facefuck does.
Twitter is worse, in a sense.
You can't even look at pictures of ladies at the beach on Twitter (can you?).
The reason why Twitter will eventually come out on top?
Well, for one thing, Facefuck keeps updating the website into something no one would like.
But, more to the social media point, Twitter lets you address famous people (supposedly).
If I want to tweet at Bill Murray and tell him to put some pants on, I can go ahead and do that.
It's a familiarity with the unfamiliar not seen since the Star Map.
Incidentally, I've finally figured Twitter out.
I'm going to ask a celebrity of my choosing the question I have always wanted to ask them.
And I'm going to try to do that anew every day (this won't happen, but maybe we can at least make a go of it).
Until then, I'll practice on less-than-famous people.
First target:
Chuck klosterman.
Those of you who are arts majors over 25, you likely know who this is.
Otherwise, he should be drawing a vacuous blank.
However, I intend to fix that.
A journalist of sorts, he writes essays that I really enjoy reading.
Primarily, they entail touring with Guns 'N Roses cover bands and visiting Val Kilmer at his ranch.
He has managed to establish himself as an authority on sports, rock, and general fame (imagined and otherwise).
This makes him more than some four-eyed journalist dweeb, dodging bullets in Syria.
It makes him a cool four-eyed journalist dweeb, and so he's welcome here.
I've been threatening to write more letters to whom it may concern.
Once more, I'm threatening to write letters, I'm not writing threatening letters.

And ANOTHER thing, Dakota, I know where your live and I know what your cat looks like! 

Andie suggested I write him because "that's how he started out."
He'd write celebrities and ask to interview them.
I suppose he and I would agree that he's not a celebrity.
But he's made eye contact with Bono, and that's not bad.
We'll try to get him on the blog. I'll keep you updated.
(I'm serious. Also, if he agrees to an interview, whether you know him or not, it'll be really impressive that he's willing to go along with it).
He's likely a great guy.
At the very least, maybe I can get him to retweet me. 

*I can't embed the tweet properly because I'm inept.
I was replied to by Klei Entertainment. 

"Now This Is What I Call A Party!"

You get the Procactive. You get the balms.
They give you the skin-clearing wand and you rub that over your face.
Cured!
I had acne.
You want to know what the real cure is?
Aging.
Turning 20.
Or, failing that, you can use Accutane, which is what I did.
It worked incredibly well, but it's not for the pregnant ladies out there.
Then again, if you've got a croquette in the fryer, you probably have more to worry about than your complexion.
My good dear friend had two babies in one day recently.
Me first, though.

Alright, so I missed my own birthday, blog-wise, which I've likely never done before.
Need those calendar days to flesh out that tagged section.
It's only Chinese New Year so often.
Every time I stop writing for huge lulls, I come back trying to explain myself.
But there's no need for that, really.
We all know where I am when I'm not online and writing.
I'm off wasting time somewhere.
I'm grazing at some penny arcade, or I'm looking up women's skirts under the mall's escalator.
Explanation explained.
My birthday was great, from what I recall.
Andie organized a surprise party that everyone gave away.
On the bright side, having your friends squander your party is sort of fun.

Uninformed Buddy: Hey, is your party thing still happening on Saturday?
Me: I'm not aware of anything happening on Saturday, unless there's a surprise party for me that you're ruining right now.

I had this exact conversation a number of times.
The true surprise came as guests began trickling in, when I learned that I was due at a comedy gig somewhere.
Alas, the guests were surprised when they found out I had to "take off for a couple of hours."
It was still fun when I eventually got to enjoy it.
There was a mix of new friends, old friends, and some girlfriend I'd never met before.
They bought me a cake and Bill Wood did magic tricks (because he is magic).

Voila!
Diane (I haven't mentioned Diane. She's sexually active.) picked up my cake.
She instructed them to write, "It's Never Too Late To Start A Gang" in goo.
However, they fucked that because the cake guy always gets your cake wrong.
Instead, buddy handed her this:

Which is funnier in a way, really.
This cake seems like it should be for a recovering alcoholic.
Or maybe for someone who lost a child recently.
Or perhaps it's a great cake for a 30-something pervert recluse.
Andie really wanted the party to be great because "the post you wrote on  your last birthday was so sad."
Anyway, she did it.
I found myself laughing and snacking with people who at least bothered to come out.
Despite the number of times I have not.
It meant more that most of the guests never spend time with me in a one-on-one setting.
Any of them could have been anywhere else the night of the fourth (second).
But there they were. 
And sure, they ate most of my cake when I had planned to do that by myself.
But Aunt Barb baked me a backup.

Oh right.
So, speaking of birthdays, one of these guys has to share his with this other guy.

These are Turpin's new twins.
Their names are Grant (left) and Heartthrob Luke Perry (right).
Besides being a little early and a little tiny, they're healthy and ready to devastate.
Oh, and of course, one of them is evil (medically speaking), but we're not sure which yet. 

Under Pressure OR On the Surface

Wash the road salt from your favourite négligée.
It's Friday.

My buddy Dom Pare (pah-ray) just left town.
Raised in the city and on the farm, Dom is one of those guys who's ready to go back to Toronto.
"Yeah, this place is pretty good, but in Toronto this spot wouldn't be as shitty."
Much like my jaunty movements, his demeanor is alright once you get used to it.
The America of Canada, everyone hates Toronto.
No one truly knows why.
People hate it the same way straight men hate a gay bar.
No, they haven't been there, but they know that they wouldn't like it.
It's not that bad, y'know.
Some people yell at you when you walk past them, but if you hand them change it seems to calm them down.
Dom and I performed in The Homegrown together.
We both lost equally.
Really, he did a better job of losing.
We once ran into a guy outside of the Halifax Yuk's who had been living on a submarine.
For 7 years.
I was glad that he mentioned it because as soon as he did I was able to think to myself:
"Oh, that's what it is."
He looked like a guy who had spent seven years in a submarine, now that he mentioned it.
Wild-eyed.
Anxious.
Frightened of lights and automobiles.
The dude looked thoroughly, thoroughly unbalanced.
I was trying my best not to be frightened, so I only caught snippets of what he was saying.
These referred to making women do things because there was no escaping him in a submarine.
Not like...sex things (though I couldn't say for sure - I wasn't down there).
Lifting heavy stuff and this sort of tripe.
I don't know what he said, but his face was really red when he spoke.
And his voice had this strange, strained quality, sort of like he'd just left his first anger management class and he was angry about it. 
I'm not exaggerating at all.
Like, if he was at The Gap and someone said, "Do you need help with anything?" you could easily picture him wheeling about to strangle the person with their headset cord.
Eventually we managed to disengage him.
More than I could say for his co-workers.
Imagine what that must be like.
Many of you probably already have colleagues who infuriate your psyche.
Now imagine spending several months with those same people on a submarine.
It's like being trapped in an elevator, but there's a washroom and a cafeteria. 
The novelty of being in the vessel probably wears off after about three days.
"Wanna use the periscope again?"
"Nah, fuck that. All I've seen so far is plankton. I guess we'll play crib again."
And again.
And again...
Withstanding elements you have no business finding yourself in, cocooned in a mobile trailer with a couple of propellers strapped to it.
Wandering an otherwise unpopulated universe ("Where the fuck are the whales at?! You said there'd be whales!"), searching for an enemy who was due about fifty years ago. 
All the while hoping that you don't collide with a seahorse that will rupture your hull, ultimately crushing you to pulp before you have the chance to drown.
Sounds awful, doesn't it?
Now, imagine that environment while sharing it with a guy you wouldn't want to speak to for three minutes in a parking lot.

It's Ben Folds twice this week, but I have to include him in this post.
The song is kickass, sure, but I'm only putting it in here because he has a line that goes:
"When you're all workin' in a submariiiiiiiiine."

Chairman of the Board

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt?
Yeah, I know 'em.
In fact, that's my name too.
And whenever I go out, people always shout:
"There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt."
"Na na na na na na na," I say.
"You're thinking of the other guy."
Here's something that the song doesn't mention about ol' John:
Mean drunk.

What's yer game?
I'm not referring to the lies you choose to tell women so as to have sex with them.
I mean your board game.
Those Mormons who have had me over for dinner know that I enjoy Scattegories.
Though, if we're splitting irons and thimbles, Scattegories doesn't involve a board.
I used to play Mouse Trap. Remember that one?
I'd construct the whole mouse trap only to set it off and put the game away again.
Because I had no friends.
Speaking of which, I used to play board games by myself.
Monopoly. I'm not sure what else.
Chess, when I got older.
Our school went through a chess phase in junior high.
Everyone set up boards and played during recess.
This lasted until the adolescent hockey players realized this behaviour wouldn't get them handjobs any sooner, certainly.
Sort of fizzled out after that, leaving only the kids who looked like they should be playing chess playing chess.
Just reread that last sentence. Should make sense this time.
Summers spent on wheels resulted in a lot of board games.
Clue was always a favourite of mine (God knows I'm a sucker for role play ["Oh. What a drag. Miss Scarlett again."]).
Clue's fatal flaw, however, was that its whodunit format necessitated 3 players.
And, as I believe I have mentioned, I used to struggle to find a 2.
Hopelessly romantic and sentimental both, I always wanted to play a game with the whole family.
Just once.
Like the family on the box!

Everyone is laughing, tossing their heads back devil-may-care.
That could be us, right?
Wrong.
If we ever sat to play a board game together, the photo would look like this:
Mom would be rolling the dice with one hand while mashing potatoes with the other.
Dad would be checking his watch (though, in reality, this is something he would never do).
Colin would be complaining that he's bored.
Brian would be stealing fake money from the box.
And Paul?
Well, I'd look the part, actually.
Just like these freaks.
I'd look exactly like the wiener kid in the green polo shirt.
Hand poised, unmoving.
Back then I couldn't understand any of this.
Instead, I'd wonder, "Why can't we sit down together for a nice game of Life?"
It took me so many years to understand the inevitable truth:
No families look like that when they're playing board games together.
No families play board games together (again, Mormons. Mormons are the exception).
That isn't life.
Charlie horses from Brian.
That's life.
Never being able to nap on mom and dad's (motor home) bed because Colin was always asleep on it.
That's life.
Mom and Dad arguing about which exit to take.
That's life.
I couldn't understand that I was in the game already.
Mom and Dad were the blue and pink pegs in the front seat.
The three of us the burdensome blue pegs in the back seat.
It took me years to learn that the game box photo was taken by Santa Clause.
It took me even longer to learn that Life was fun, but life was better.

"The Best Imitation of Myself"

Get loaded, drop your pizza on the ground and then yell at your pizza.
It's Friday.

I've never been one for impersonations.
Much too self-absorbed, I never imitated classic cartoon characters when I was a kid.
I never attempted to hoarse myself like Krusty, or wallow like Milhouse.
Instead, even at a tender age, I had the sense to simply steal George Meyer's jokes.
Most comics have one impersonation under their belts, while others will array a dazzling plethora of them.
In my defense, however, and I've never spoken about this before, I actually do impressions flawlessly.
See, like most hidden talents, mine stems from a rare brain condition. 
Following a snowshovelling mishap, a brain injury causes my ears to interpret everyone's voice as my own.
My mother. My former teachers. The mailman.
Dogs bark and it sounds like me barking.
Therefore, whenever I impersonate someone, I do not alter my tone or cadence whatsoever.
Resulting in perfect-pitch impressions every time.
Of course, no one else realizes how talented I am.
None of you had a snowshovelling incident.
Neither did I, really.
That never happened.
For one thing, to experience a snowshovelling mishap, I'd first have to shovel snow.
I just wanted to include this fabrication for Ben's sake.

The Pauls I Know

I walked my lady's dog into a snow globe the other night.
MaxiPad flakes teeter-tottered onto us while I waited for the dog to do dog things-
Well, mammal things.
There arose such a clatter, and I noticed across the street a man sifting through garbage, looking for empty aluminum nickles.
I watched them as he continued unaware of me.
Flakes of snow dusted his jacket. Shoulders. Home, presumably.
I saw this amidst the tranquility and thought to myself:
"Fuck, that's right. I have to get a job."

I had one and then I lost one.
Barring my usual misemployments, this layoff was legitimate in that I was seasonal and the season ended.
I assumed that my charm would carry my through after the fact, but that didn't happen.
I used to believe that my charm would take care of a lot of things for me.
Explains my current state, I guess.
(My state is fine [solid. carbon-based]).
I used to have a job, as I have mentioned.
One day while half-assing it, I wandered into ladies' wear.
Y'know, in the two months I was there, I barely entered ladies' wear.
Never one for the ladies, I only wandered there when necessary.
On a related note, it's really uncomfortable to transact underwear for old women.
Scrubs are in ladies' wear.
A lot of nurses.
A lot of people being vomited on while they're at their job.
As I'm hanging stuff up in the wrong places, I notice this guy emerge from the change room.
He's trying some scrubs on - pants and a top - and while wearing them he begins...lunging.
Sort of.
He does a slow, deliberate forward motion with his hands and torso.
Picture Tai Chi done incorrectly.
Very low to the carpet, he does this several times.
Foul as usual, I find this really annoying.
"Who's this asshole?" I ask myself.
I do this before asking a co-worker the same question.
"Hey Lydia (not her real name), what's with this guy?"
Turns out it's her roommate, Paul.
He's buying scrubs for work and he's testing whether or not the top is too small.
He's a masseuse.
After that, I realize that his pantomimes were kinda harmless and justified.
I also realize that the real asshole isn't Paul the Masseuse, but Paul the Sales Associate.

Everything rhymes with Paul.
From 'ball' to 'y'all', and a surprising number of grunts and sounds besides.
First a disciple. Then a Beetle. Finally a judgy blogger.
I've never referred to myself by that term before.
I'm only doing so now because I'm trying to attract advertisers.
I was searching some person or another on the Internet the other day (there are plenty of them).
Pretend it was Billy Joel.
So, I typed in the 'Billy' and then the 'J'.
Then, of course, Google predicted I was looking for the Pianoman, and brought his name to the top of the list.
And I thought about what a technological honour this would be.
Your popularity is so great that the first letter of your surname begets the rest of it.
Thought I'd give it a try.
I was floored to see that Paul Warford was the first to pop up.
I realized that it was because I was using my phone, and so that was the most popular Paul on my phone.
As if that matters.
On another computer, I did the trick and the first Paul W was this guy.
Some vampire movie asshole.
Some upstart.
However, there are few names in the running for this competition.
All I have to do is bide my time.
Wait until Paul Walker runs out of Fast Car Movies to do.
Hope this Wesley kid ODs sooner than later.
Then it's just a matter of people continuing to not know who Paul Williams is, and I'm in!
Until then, I'll be several letters, and one career, short.

Rise Up

I'm cold and contrary right now.
I'm in the restaurant that INVENTED PIZZA, and some yokels are installing new lotto machines.
First, they had to disconnect the gamblers from the machines, then the machines from the wall.
They have left the door open for over half an hour, either to remove them easily, or to get on my fucking nerves.
Whichever it is, they've succeeded in both.
What's your elevator brand?
I'm an Otis man, myself.
I know that some of you diehards will say that ThyssenKrupp is the only way to go.
Misguided!
Isn't it weird that soon we'll have little to no need for grocery clerks, bank tellers, and librarians, but we still need the guy who fixes the escalator?
Ever walk on an escalator that wasn't operating?
Mitch Hedberg once famously said (paraphrased), "Escalators can never become broken; they can only become stairs." 
However, broken escalators are more a sort of optical illusion than anything else.
Having grown up in the middle classes that we did, we expect them to move.
"Circulate, steps! I command this!"
That's what your brain is saying while you try to ascend the descend.
"You dare refuse me, glorified conveyor belt?!
Very well, then. I'll continue to walk on you as though you are moving, and come very near to falling."
A broken escalator is an Escher sketch.
A fellow childhood chum had a father who repaired the elevators.
As much a crisis negotiator as anything else, when you think about it.
That is, when you're the sardine in the tin when it decides to stop doing its up and down.
You're claustrophobic. Your ice cream is melting. Your water is about to break.
You have to get out of this death trap.
When you pick up the emergency phone, who is it that picks it up at the other end?
That's right, some switchboard person.
But! Who comes to jimmy you out of there?
Exactly.
When I dwell on the occupation, it makes me sad, somehow.
I suppose I envision a guy in a tool belt, sitting by the phone, waiting for people to plummet to their deaths.
However, this is a society of luxury suites and Super 8s.
Elevator guys are likely kept busy and unionized.
It just seems like a forgotten job.
Even while fixing a lift in front of a group of people.
Even after lowering the rope into the well, where your twitching grasp awaits.
Despite this, I get the impression that it doesn't really occur to people that there are elevator repairmen.
And that's sad.
Ditto for the lotto machine guys.
Even when they joke loudly near your table in both English and French.
Even when they distract you from writing a post about something as mundane as elevator repairmen.
Even then. I don't really realize these guys do this every day.

Starvation for the Senses: A Review

Well, the egg nog has curdled, the cat has digested and passed the tinsel, and your boss is still alive.
The holidays are legitimately over with.
Though most of us would prefer to get hooked on codeine and wait it out 'til Easter, we should resist that urge.
None of us want to be like Lil' Wayne.

For those of you who are literate, you've likely seen the awards.
End of the year, you want a spread's worth of additional advertising in your publication.
In order to buy more Macs and fax/printer/copiers that you'll never use.
So, you put out a Best Of edition for your paper.
Best Tire Rotation.
Best Homeless Male/Female.
All of that.
Below I have included a suggested article for one such 'best'.
A Halifax-based venue, I encourage The Coast or those Metro people to pick up this article and not pay me for it.

Ahem:

Best Worst Place in the Entire City To Go and Sit:
Winner: BUBBA RAY'S
Honourable Nod: (though I've never been there) THE TOOTHY MOOSE

Bubba Ray's: A Stumbling Hall of Mirrors

If you're sick of trying to seem pretentious in that place that sells cake, why not slum it, off the sidewalk, in Halifax's premiere testosterone trough, Bubba Ray's. Located in the Heart of Spring Garden's Area of Bums and People Who Yell At You, Bubba Ray's provides a chaotic, deafening atmosphere for anyone who wishes to be ostracised by a large group of men who possess one shared, common consciousness. Strain to hear dinner conversation over this dull-witted herd of erections as they dwell in their natural habitat, just inches from your table! Hear impassioned whoops and hollers from dozens and dozens of men, in unison, whenever your favourite team scores a touchdown or secures an end. Look on in unfettered bafflement as patrons high-five at their tables and bark (actually bark) at the panopticon of LCD displays that haunt your every turn and lurk in every corner. Mesmerize yourself on Bubba's sports display, which boasts some four-times-ten televisions. During the most grisly UFC rackets, resist in futility to watch them unfold in remarkable gore as you find yourself transfixed on the action, regardless of the direction you face. Receive excellent service (provided you have a square head and jaw) from terrified bar wenches, each boasting a fantastic ass, sported in mandatory yoga exercise pants. Flirt in vain with the self-entitled staff as they provide a façade of job satisfaction while unabashedly handing you 9-dollar onion rings. Pay cover to watch televised events that you legally cannot be charged for, so that you can enjoy Don Cherry's quality food at slightly more exorbitant prices. This cacophonic din of an eating experience is nestled (not unlike a tick) into the centre of Halifax, and it is no wonder that this establishment enjoys continued success from a niche market of individuals who are clinically obsolete so far as the human race is concerned. Bubba Ray's: as viable a waste of money as a tattoo of your mother's asshole on your forearm. Don't miss it!

Absolutely disgusting.
Bubba Ray's was actually a disgusting event in my life.
Toeing the line with Kyle, Peter White (of Peter White comedy), Bryant Thomson, and the rest, I spent an agonizing hour and some in this place last week.
Five dollars on the door. Some UFC bullshit.
The guy on the door, with his almond-shaped head, was trying to act like he belonged on the door.
Arms extended from his sides, chest in my face, Jim the Anvil Neidhart facial hair, I could actually see the fear in this guy's eyes.
Not of me.
He was just repeating, "I'm not cool enough to work at Bubba Ray's. I'm not tough enough. I'm not getting enough protein. I'm not cool enough to work at Bubba Ray's..." in his head so loudly that I could plainly hear it with my ears.
Some skipper behind me was finishing up his cigarette and tried to walk back in.
This is what almond seed does:
Hand out, he stops him, "Ah, you have to get behind this guy (me). That's how lines work."
I wanted to say, "This isn't how a line works.
Generally, lines don't have an asshole berating you at the end of it."
But I didn't say that. Not that I was fearful of his reaction; he was more gutless than myself.
I just never say what I want to. That's my own folly.
I wheel about to see if Kyle is nearby (for protection), and notice a small TV above the exit.
Thinking, "That's weird," I turn to see the rest of them.
There were over 30 screens in there. I refuse to believe there were less than that.
This is how they were laid out.
Giant screen flanked by four small screens.
So:

 screen          screen

 GIANT SCREEN

 screen          screen

This layout was repeated around the bar's perimeter at least...five times? Seven?
Sports bars are supposed to have a lot of screens, but let's stay within reason.
We're watching a fucking football game, we're not managing the security of a casino. 
God knows how this is possible, but the UFC has let itself go.
I watched some fuck bleed out his head for a full 15 minutes.
Like, open wounds on his skull, blood pouring from them.
Actually pouring.
The referees wouldn't stop the fight, and so I had to watch this shit for the entire match.
I tried to look away, but I couldn't because there were fucking screens everywhere.
It was repulsive. The fight was repulsive - and I've had to sit through UFC fights before.
Bear in mind that this is coming from someone who has been playing Mortal Kombat since its inception.
They showed interview footage of one of the UFC mules before his fight. 
He was on so many screens all around me that I thought, "This is what it would be like if this guy created a doomsday device and took over the world."
I went to the bathroom.
I hated that, too.
Burger (Thomson) was inside when I got there...peeing.
And he commented later to the other guys on how "Warford just stood in the bathroom and didn't do anything."
This is because...well, I didn't want to stand next to the guy at the urinal.
Only once have I not used a urinal before. Following Nine Inch Nails at the Saddledome.
This was different.
I think I just wasn't in a rush.
Besides, while I was in there - this is true - Almond busted into the pisser, slapped open the stall door, saw no one was being stabbed or raped, and left again.
Some guy was in the stall at the time.
He turned (while urinating) with a muted, "What the fuck?"
Almond did this very purposefully, as though he had been doing it every half hour or so that night.
I just felt compelled to have as much privacy as possible while I was in there.
I'll never set foot in this place again (the bar itself, not just the bathroom).
If I was being inducted by ZZ Top into the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame at Bubba Ray's, I'd tell them to mail the prize. 
Guess I should have known better; the place has 'Bubba' in the title.

For follow-up on the Miller/Lauzon match.
Up for Fight of the Year (what do I know?).

What You Give Is What You Net

Written in a stuffed Tim Horton's on December 21, 2012ish

Max out your MasterCard to pay off your VISA.
It's the Friday before Christmas.

For most people, resumes are stacks of potential you can file.
For me they tend to be future scraps of paper.
And so, here we are.
Some guy on Gottingen Street asked me specifically to help him get back on his feet.
He just got out of jail today.
I felt like saying, "Just in time for Christmas!"
But he seemed to have other things in mind.
Now, he said that one of those things was not drugs.
He didn't need my money for anything like that.
But I still think he wanted drugs.
And why not?
It's the holidays. Nothing wrong with a little crystal in your nog.
Nothin' wrong with it!
Having spent the past while on the till, I wrestle with the question of whether or not Christmas brings out he best or worst in people.
I suppose I still don't have a concrete answer.
However, a good guideline would be:

• Navigating a parking lot: Worst
• Finding a sweater in the desired size: Best 

Many have displayed kindness when they need not have bothered.
Others, their impetous.
You can only take both with a sighed, "'Tis the season."
As a tapestry, Christmas seems to be bringing out the people in people.
And I guess that's alright.
Christmas has mutated, really.
The concept of giving what we are able to give has been reindeer'd into giving all we've got (plus interest).
I myself have been worrying that my lover's gifts aren't 'good enough.'
Which is retarded.
There's no joy in giving if you look at it that way.
And of course they'll be good enough.
Who wouldn't want the Lego X-Wing and Tie Fighter?
Though, at it's core, the holidays as we celebrate them foster an idea of giving to make others happy, I still think that there's a unified concern they'll be happy enough.
Perhaps it has always been this way.
Perhaps it has been this way since the Cabbage Patch Dolls.
And though free of the moniker, maybe those 20-years ago Fridays were just as Black.
Yet, if each year is a benchmark - a memory to be outdone - then we'll never really have the Christmas Spirit.
Imagine what it must have been like in the days when you were happy to receive a fucking apple and a fine-toothed comb.
Were those folks jollier?
Probably.
Regardless, I think that they all received the bonus gift of perspective. 
Don't ask me what my point is.
Well, if I were to give a holiday message...
You know me. Keep it simple.
Get drunk on the tree water and fuck.
And keep your receipts.
You never know what might be going back.

Quaintity, Not Quantity

I'm sitting in church now, and I'm early.
Better than being in a church late, I suppose.
Strapped for loved ones, my Aunt Barb picked me up today and brought me to her home.
It's off the beaten GPS, but it's around here:

View Larger Map
There are herons sometimes. It's a lovely place to visit.
Sipping beer and espying faraway seals with the telescope, I can pretend to be rich.
Pretending to be rich is great.
All of us have been there before (except the welfare crowd).
Be it a weekend of house sitting for the neighbor who owns Wendy's, or staying in a dying uncle's haunted mansion, we've all wandered into hot tubs that are not ours.
It's great. The ease and comfort, though temporary, can elucidate us to the benefits of hard work or a (suspiciously) timely inheritance.

Being Christmas Eve, I'm supposed to talk about Jesus and the donkeys and the angel swarms.
Overdone.
I'm not making the same jokes about frankincense and mermaids for the sake of a calendar date.
Really, I can't wax Christmastime because it feels very little like the holiday.
Perhaps because I've already given my gifts.
Maybe it's because I was too busy during the days leading up and I didn't have a paper chain.

I probably just miss my mom.
I may have said this already, but if I ever had to go to jail, I'd make a paper chain that would count down to my release date.
All mothers in a church smell the same.

I went to PEI for a few days in order to try and charm a family.
Not sure it worked.
Nevertheless! I spent some quality time with some toddler-esque girls, listened to some Dora, enjoyed a meal with 30 strangers in 90-degree heat, and learned some more about the woman I love.
Mostly, where she gets her cheekbones and explosively violent temper.
It's a nice enough province,  but that frigging red clay gets over everything.
You feel a little Ochre by the time you're ready to leave.
The girl in the pew behind me has to go poop.
Andie's nieces were really charming, even when they were making lots of noise at what must have been 6 a.m.
One of them was clothed in front of me, and then she was suddenly nude.
The freedom.
This church is too cold.
I'm not sure The Book of Common Prayer is relevant, but it makes a fine table.
The little piece of paper with reader responses ("And also with you") is also useful, at least as scrap paper.
The sheet is almost out of room, but I'll say this:
I think PEI is too quaint.
No place should be so wholesome.
It's charming and beautiful - to a point.
But every shop front is old timey.
Every turned corner reveals more flawless rolling hills.
The province's facade is a Stepford Wife.
It's very tough to trust.
You feel like you must be getting duped somehow.
Time will tell on that one.
Either way, put out the carrots and Starbucks gift cards.
Santa's coming.
And to you and yours, have a great Christmas, free of malice and vomiting.

My pick for 2012's Hymn of the Year:
Good King Wenceslas.
Very well-written.
I know that Away in a Manger was a contender - maybe even your pick.
But, really, that hymn is only popular because it's adorable when a group of five-year olds sing it.