Get A Lil' Action In...

Hmmm... it's Saturday evening and I'm kinda stumped on what to do. Bozzys, one of Rocky's famous hot spots, is closing its doors after one final hurrah tonight. Should I go? Would I be doing a disservice to my many "fond" memories if I didn't? Could the disrepect demonstrated by not going be considered an act of treason against Rocky Mountain House? Well, if it was an issue of that, then Fuck No; I'd be staying home. Besides, Bozzys is merely in the midst of a change in ownership. It'll be re-opened as The Fish Bowl at a later date. No, the issue at hand is a lot different than civic pride or a lack therof. Tonight will be a big occasion. A big occasion means lots of people. Lots of people means lots of girls. That's good! But lots of people also means lots of guys, and lots of guys means lots of bullshit. That's bad. What it boils down to is a case of eye candy versus rampant cases of testosterone poisoning. It's a very complicated decision, as you can see.

And lest you think I'm some sex-crazed buffoon whose whole-hearted belief in the Law of Averages will lead him to harass every person within fifty feet that has a vagina, perhaps I should explain myself better. No more do I go to the clubs/bars to annoy women with my pathetic advances. Now... I Come To Watch. My approach is best summed up by the song I Like to Watch by Canada's own Prozzak:

I like to watch
I like the way you bounce bounce
I like to watch
Ya ya groove 'n' move it
I like to watch
Shake it if you've got it lady
Here's my confession
I like to watch your hot box

Uh... except for that last line. I don't know what the fuck that's about. Hey, hold on a second. What are the benefits of insisting that I'm a staring, drooling pervert instead of a sex-crazed buffoon? Oh man, why do I keep painting myself into these corners?

The Post With No Point

Sigh. Summer always seems to devolve into a rut once it hits August. The pleasure centre of our collective brain is suffering an overdose of sunshine, lollipops and rainbows. The people who were looking so forward to warm temperatures are lost in a zombie haze. The burst of energy that came in May is over; we're now coming down off our summer injection, and it's turned out to be one bad hit.

"Oh, look. The sun is shining again. Perhaps we should go outside."
"Yes, I agree. Let's."
"And we should also visit the beach. I suppose that's what people do on days like this."
"Boy, I can hardly contain myself, the glee is just too much."
"Hey, look at the water. There are kids and dogs in it. They are splashing about."
"Huh. What a delightful picture."
"What perfect weather for another barbeque."
"More hamburgers? Yay."

And on and on and on. No wonder people are more energized when autumn comes. Just one big rut. Rut rut rut rut rut rut. Hey, isn't the English language swell? Apparently "rut" can mean "A settled and monotonous routine that is hard to escape" or "to be in a state of sexual excitement." This post just takes on a whole different meaning if you use the latter definition. A sensual meaning. Growl. Yay for the protean nature of the English language!

As you can see, my list of topics to post about has grown slim; rather slim, indeed.

Does Whatever A Human Can...

Hours of tedious research have turned up possibly the greatest find in human history. Heard of the new Batman movie, Batman Begins? Yeah? Haven't cared one way or another? I must admit I didn't really give a shit either when I first heard the news some time ago. But a shot of the new Bat-Suit has surfaced and now I'm all giddy with glee. Partake in my happiness by clicking the links below.

Follow the trail of ones and zeroes - Suit Picture!

Follow the trail of ones and zeroes - Teaser Trailer!

Bravo, Monsieur!

It was a dark and stormy night. The wind howled menacingly in the little town of Rocky Mountain House. Lightning flashed. Thunder crashed. On that fateful evening fourteen years ago, the rain... hold on a sec. What's that, brain? Oh. Turns out it was actually a balmy summer afternoon. Well, so much for the imagery, then! Stupid brain. Anyway, I wasn't outside frivolously frolicking about like children are supposed to do during the days of their summer vacation. No, I was inside playing The Adventures of Bayou Billy for the NES. This was an ambitious game for its time; combining brawling, driving, and shooting sections. It was really hard, and it really sucked. As can be expected, this suckage extended to the game's music, as well.

Digression:

To be fair, this wasn't something unique to this particular game back then. Horrible video game soundtracks were one of the hallmarks of the NES area, caused by a combination of poor technology and apathy on the part of the game developers. There were few exceptions to the Nintendo Audio Curse, and the situation didn't improve until the advent of the Super NES. That really made no difference to me, however; I was still stuck in the era of tinny booping and beeping.

It doesn't take long for a video game soundtrack to grate. I usually play other music to save my sanity. Back then, the tape of choice was MC Hammer, but that was beginning to grate as well. So what to do? I rifled through the household selection of tapes and chanced upon Highlights from Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera. I remembered that my mother and her friends wouldn't stop gassing about it. Deciding that I should hear for myself what the fuss was all about, I popped it in the stereo. Apart from the interesting contrast that arose from listening to Prima Donna while pounding the crap out of digital villains, I wasn't that impressed. Little did I realize that fourteen years later I'd still be listening to it.

It came to pass that I salvaged the tape from the back of our storage closet a few years later, while I was looking for decent music to listen to while I played The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past. I put it in the stereo of the swanky game room I had "convinced" my parents was necessary, and I don't think it left for another month. It turns out that being a bit older made me a lot more receptive to the joys of the musical. Much to my father's chagrin, I suppose; it must have been a bit disconcerting for an AC/DC lovin' hog ridin' man to find his son listening to a musical while playing a game that involved a little green elf.

Which begs the question: Did I ever see a performance of The Phantom of the Opera? Why yes, I did! However, apart from the business with the chandelier and the... um... "qualities" of the girl playing Christine, I don't remember too much about it. So I guess that leaves out any possibility of discussing it, then. On we move!

There is the begging of another question: Why the hell am I even bothering to write about The Phantom of the Opera? Well, it turns out the chaps in Hollywood are producing a movie version of the musical. Sound good? Hold your horses, young fella; Joel Schumacher is at the helm. That should give you a bit of a pause. The man has a history of working with great ideas yet dropping the ball. The perfect example of this - barring the obvious one - is Falling Down. A man suffers a stress-induced meltdown after dealing with too many of society's flaws then proceeds to toss aside the Unspoken Rules. This is an idea with great potential. So why does the movie devolve into him pulling a gun in a fast-food restaurant because he missed breakfast by five minutes? Given his past directorial efforts, I don't have high hopes for his take of The Phantom of the Opera.

But successful movie or no, at least I'll still have my tape, and the wistful nostalgia that goes with it. Memories... shit, wrong musical.

In Defense of Blogging

As I sit and stare at the title I've just written, I'm starting to realize that I may just be out of my depth. After all, the blog outbreak has encompassed the entire world. I doubt there's one geographical location, obtuse ideology or obscure hobby left unrepresented. At the moment, Technorati lists over 3,265,509 blogs watched. Any minute now, I expect blogging to supplant porn as the number one Internet pastime. Blogging is built on self-reflection, and given the sheer number of online journals and such there have been countless number of posts discussing the Worthiness of the Blog. What can I add to this din that hasn't been said already? And a better question to ask is: Why should I bother? There's only one thing I can say to these admittedly apt questions: I blog, therefore I am.

Note: I don't understand it either, but it sounded good in my head, so it's staying.

Perhaps I'll begin with my own reasons for starting. I found my first online journal back in the balmy spring of 1999. After a brief period of bemusement (as in: Who the fuck wants to read this crap?) my mind changed to wanting to start one of own. However, I had an utter lack of knowledge concerning the logistics of web-publishing and a rather strong desire to not learn any of it. Fast-forward five years later, with my introduction to Blogger. Ah yes! Now you're playing with power! Thus, Our Names on a Marquee was born.

After making several posts, I started to reflect on my continued blogging career. Most bloggers do this after the initial thrill of having your random thoughts available to the masses is over. And while I was surfing one night, I came to the understanding that a lot of people don't think highly of the so-called self-publishing revolution. If you believed them, the web was soon going to be overrun by idiots who can barely work a keyboard. Quality content would be lost in a sea of meaningless information. Nothing less than the fate of humanity was on the line. But in spite of this invective, I resolved to contine my blogging efforts.

First of all, the web has always been a sea of meaningless information overrun by idiots. Take it from me, I've been here for ten years now. (Hey, wait a minute...) Considering the exponential growth of the Internet, the ratio of quality sites to pointless crap has never had a massive fluctuation for good or ill. Back in the day, we had pages devoted to people's cats. Now, we have blogs. It's not that a big of a difference, if you ask me. Number two, horrible blogs with no redeeming qualities aren't going to last. They'll soon be abandoned due to a lack of interest, personal or public. More digital detritus? Indubitably. But this is nothing new. Number three, and this is a bit more sticky. What about what the blogs are about? And I'll answer this with another question: Does it matter? There's millions of voices on the web right now. Some of them tackle politics. Some of them review the arts. Some of them talk about their love lives. Some of them discuss what brand of toothpaste they use. The weaving together of these voices into an ungainly yet mesmerizing mosiac is one of the reasons I've enjoyed the Internet ever since I was first introduced to it. I'll admit that some of these pursuits are loftier than others. But I'll be damned if I ever say that the lesser should make way for the more.

And that's why - despite the waves of elitist pontification - I'm a-keeping my new blog.

Note: If you're interested in reading another opinion - one which is hella more fleshed-out than mine - you should read this. He even has a section devoted to the classification of bloggers. In my continuing pursuit of greater forms of self-deprecation I've decided that I'm an Obsessive-Delusional Ranter. Which kind of blogger are you?

A Delicious Spree

OOH! A trip to Red Deer yesterday! I guess I'll have to come to grips with the fact that I'm a Consumeristical Bitch and that Naomi Klein et al are coming to molest me any minute now.  On that note, is anybody else feeling a rather peculiar case of Left-Leaner's exhaustion lately? At this point, if I found out that George W. Bush and Donald Rumsfeld raped a bunch of monkeys then jizzed all over the Constitution, I'd hardly bat an eyebrow.

I can't believe I just wrote that.

Anyway, I spend a lot of money. What did I pick up? Why, I thought you'd never ask!

For books: Bastards and Boneheads, Fire and Ice on a recommendation left by H. W. in my comments section so H.W. I thank you, a history of the number zero, Wonder Boys although I was really looking for Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay but Wonder Boys was a great movie so I decided to get the book it's based on, Maus, and V for Vendetta.

For movies: Kids in the Hall Season 1, Glengarry Glen Ross, and Melvin Goes to Dinner. Melvin is by one of my heroes Bob Odenkirk.

And I'm spent.

Cue the Violin

Sorry to let you down, but I'm going to be taking a break from the site and the Internet in general for the next couple days. Perhaps, I might start enjoying life instead of constantly lamenting it.

I can hear the shattering of millions of hearts already.

And somewhere a baby is crying, because The Dazzling Sports Ross has decided to discontinue his blogging efforts. It'll be sad to see him go, as he was one of the first non-friends to post a comment here. Should I remove his link or not? Heh, we'll see.

Love Story

Carbonated caramel-coloured sugar water?

Check.

U2's All That You Can't Leave Behind - which would be perfect if not for the groan-inducing Beautiful Day - on the stereo?

Check.

Brain hijacked by evil, evil memories?

Check, check, and double check, with one more check for good measure.

I suppose, then, it's time to begin.

The possession of so public of a forum requires a decent amount of discretion on my part. There are a many number of things that I shouldn't post about; and number one with a bullet are the details of my personal life. The reasons for this are varied, but my favorite is also the one with the most common sense: nobody gives a rat's ass. So I ate a strawberry Pop Tart for breakfast this morning. Who cares? Is that knowledge going to empower some poor sap to take charge of his own life? Frankly, I doubt these "revelations" carry enough oomph to puncture a brain cell; beyond the blogger's core audience of friends and family, of course. And since a large section of my audience is imported from somebody else, I'm not sure that anything I have to say about the details of my own rather humdrum existence is going to intrigue anybody besides the terminally bored. But hesitatant introduction aside, I'm still going to go through with it. Prepare yourselves, people; I'm going to be talking about a subject which'll be rolling up your socks instead of knockin' em off. Relationships, of course. Specifically, mine. More specifically, one of them. And may God have mercy on us all.

It all began in the frosty Rocky Mountain House November of 2003. I was working one evening when a rather striking young woman came into the store to purchase some milk. She came up to the counter and we exchanged the normal customer/cashier pleasantries; the typical comments about the weather and somesuch. She was smiling at me the entire time, which I took to be rather odd, because hey, its me we're talking about here. After I gave her the change, she asked if I worked a lot. I replied that I was pretty much there every evening. She gave a coy smile and said, "Good. That means I'll be seeing more of you." My friends know that when I'm in a situation such as this my face turns beet-red and my mouth turns to my brain-signal-ignoring jelly. And of course, this time was no different. She must have thought it was cute, though, because she started chuckling as she waved good-bye.

I saw her a few more times through the end of November and the first half of December, which culminated in her asking me out to lunch. And so we went. During the course of my meal I found out a lot of things about her that would make a lot of normal guys salivate; such as her affinity for fast motorcycles and sky-diving, and the fact that back in her native Indonesia she was the lead singer in a pop-punk group. My side of the conversation was rather sparse, the only thing sparking interest in her being my then-recent conversion to vegetarianism (which has since ended.) After we had finished we then went to my place where we watched "Jackass: The Movie" on my computer. Never underestimate the romantic appeal of buffoonery, I guess. We made a date to hang out together New Year's Eve, which was the next week.

And so, it was December 31st. We renting xXx (goodbye, braincells) and settled in for a rather uneventful night of movie-watching at her house. Her family phoned after I had been there for an hour, leaving me to contend with her 3 year old son. His idea of a fun game was whacking me in the knee with a plastic hammer. I tried to play along for a bit, but I had to end it after he went to grab a REAL hammer. Oh, aren't kids grand??? The rest of the evening went smoothly, but I was struck with the notion that Something Wasn't Quite Right with the whole picture. After all, we have a single mom who just moved to Canada and has no job, yet she was somehow able to afford a swanky new house and a brand new SUV. I inquired into what job she had back in Indonesia to be able to afford all this, and she said she was in PR. Having no idea what the average flack makes, I left it at that.

2003 began. I was at her house almost every single night. We even took a trip to Red Deer together, where I was subjected to her singing in the vehicle. Please note: If you have a heavy Indonesian accent, it's not a good idea to sing Celine Dion. Ever. Don't. However, she was beginning to act strange. She would get wistful and intimate that she wanted nothing more but to run away with me, because she was in l... and then she would stop. I knew what she meant, and it sent chills down my spine. Not because I have a phobia of the l-word, mind you; but because 1.) I'd only known her for a couple of weeks and 2.) she knew absolutely nothing about me. I could describe every detail of her life story to anyone who cared to listen, but besides the facts that I worked in convenience store and I didn't meat, she knew zip. This was partially my doing, of course, because I've learned nothing ruins a relationship quite like me opening my big mouth. However, she didn't appear all that interested, anyway. The notion that Something Wasn't Quite Right swelled up once again.

It came to pass that one night I was able to get off work earlier than I expected. So I went home, and decided that I would phone her. I dialed her number and was surprised when a man answered the phone. I asked in a fairy nervous fashion if she was in, to which he grunted angrily and passed off the phone. When she answered I rather jauntily asked who that guy was. She rather nonchalantly replied that it was her husband. Oh. It turns out he was working in Russia the whole time, and every trace of his existence was cleverly erased from the household. She said she wouldn't be able to get in touch with me for about a week (for obvious reasons) and we'd get together later. Hoo boy. The pieces had come together. I don't think I ever talked to her again, but that wouldn't be the last I'd hear of her.

I was quite the babbling fool for the rest of the evening. I had visions of some fearsome fire-and-brimstone Relationship God slamming his palm on the earth and bellowing streams of invective at me. In an instant, any good relationship karma I had built up immediately evaporated. "The Other Man" by Sloan suddenly took on a deeper meaning. O Foul Temptress! Lead astray by your wickedness! These thoughts kept on until I was informed rather briskly by an acquaintance that I should suck it up and recognize that it was mostly my fault for sensing something wrong and doing fuck all about it. Quite true, I have to admit. Although in my defense my gut usually has shit-for-brains, and I take anything it tells me with a grain of salt. Eventually, the only thing I was really mad at was the fact I left my copy of The Royal Tenenbaums over at her house. What was I going to do, knock on the door and say, "Hey there! I'm the guy who turned you into a cuckold! Can I have my movie back please?"

And that's not the end of it. Yep, there's more. It came to pass that several months later my roommate spotted her driving past our house numerous times one day. I didn't end up getting stabbed, thank goodness; but her husband was rather shocked to come back home from Russia one day to find out that she had fled the country with their son.

True story.

Kudos, Kiddo

Oh, I've been meaning to get to this for close to a month now. I suppose now's a good a time as ever.

There once was a girl named Sara Tjostheim. She befriended some goofball named Joel Nielsen. And along with a whole other cast of crazies, they wiled away the summer months working in a gas plant. But those summer days have long since gone, and after a number of wacky mis-adventures she found herself working at Northern Cablevision in Grand Prairie covering the local entertainment scene. Since this was Grand Prairie and all, you can imagine that this wasn't a very fulfilling job. In a fit of frustration, she began harassing the local CFRN office to hire her. Now, when the average person such as you or I do something like this, we get a squad car full of psychotic police officers chasing after us and smashing off our private parts. But because this is a very special girl we're talking about here, they took pity on the sad case and hired her. So now, ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to announce that starting Monday the Magnificent Sara will now be working at CFRN! Hey, wait a minute. Remembering Dane, I just realized that two of my friends are journalists. This is a scary trend and I'd like to see it stop immediately.

In other news, my friend Jermey has mowed his lawn. Go Jermey.

Grunt!

Whoop, I'm watching a rebroadcast of the swearing-in ceremony for the new cabinet ministers. And they're now grouped together on the lawn for a picture, I believe. Oh, and the camera has zoomed in on Paul Martin. He's currently demonstrating all the facial gestures associated with taking a gigantic, soul-wrenching crap.

The symbolism of this should not be lost on anyone.

The Inevitable and Underwhelming 53rd Post

How does one follow something like the 52nd Post Spectacular? With this.

Update your blogs, people. I'm bored.

 

THE 52ND POST SPECTACULAR!!!

CLICK HERE!

 

Now, Goddamnit!

Okay, I'm unhinged. At least I can admit it.

A member of the hack circle based in the University of Alberta recently left a comment asking why I was "stalking" Steve Smith. Because I didn't feel like writing anything at the moment, I cut and paste my explanation from an e-mail I sent to Mr. Smith detailing why. That much should be clear if you've been reading my comments section. What you probably don't know is that I made a list of alternate explanations to help break the ice. Frankly, I doubt it worked, but Steve Smith left a comment last night suggesting that I post them because he liked them better than the "straight" reply. At first, I was apprehensive. After all, there's a lot of you who think I'm some wacked-out creep, and reading these aren't going to help change that opinion. But should I be making futile attempts to change it, or should I be embracing it? Eh, who knows. At my best I'm a charlatan and at my worst I'm a goofball. Anyway, the list follows:
 
As to how I found your site, please pick from the following the one which best suits your emotional needs:

I had spell of narcolepsy and slammed my head on the keyboard. When I woke up, your blog was on my screen.

wE R teh Delta Omicron Pi SoRoRiTy from the U of A (in Albequerque). OMG U R TEH HAWT !!11!!1 Plz cum 2 R Stev Smith nite! We R HAWTTT 2, but we R shy around ReALlY HaWt GuYz! SO we made up JoEl to talk with U! We R VERY HORNEE, but only HACKZ do it 4 us!!! Plz Plz Plz!!!11!!!1 RAWR! C U later, stevie-poo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Whilst prancing around the broom closet, The Teal Fairy flitted in and promised I could become a real boy if I went to your site. I once had strings but as you can see / Reading the hacks has set me free...

We-are-a-digital-hive-consciousness-born-from-the-hybridization-of-Internet-data. ADD ANOTHER INCH TODAY -ummm-sorry-that-happens-to-us-sometimes. We-see-all-and-we-know-all MAKE $$$ NOW - dammit-not-again. We-have-a-fiction-suit-named HORNY SLUT 4 U!!! -no-that-is-not-correct-its-name-is-Joel-and-we-created-it-to-facilitate- HOT MONKEY SEX -ahem-we-mean-facilitate-interactions-with-members-of-your-species. We-wish-your-assistance-in-helping-us-find- BRITNEY SPEARS NAKED -we-must-apologize-for-Floyd69-he-has-been-really-depressed-lately-and-cannot-control-himself. Now-shut-the-fuck-up-Floyd. Anyway-we-wish-you-to-help-us-find-the-Creator. Tell-no-one-about-us-or-we-will-recombinate-your-DNA-using-radiation-from-your-monitor. We-thank-you-in-advance-for-we-know-you-will-help-us-because-you-are-one-great CUM GUZZLING QUEEN!!!! dammit-Floyd

The rumors are true: I AM stalking you. Fear me. BWA HA HA HA HA!

The Best Laid Plans

'Tis with a mild sense of disappointment that I scrap the project that I was working on. For the time being, anyway; I'm sure there's another phoney milestone I can celebrate coming around the corner. What was it, you ask? Well, suffice to say it was another misguided attempt to bring you all to the verge of the laughter. Which is something I try so hard to do in my continued blogging. So I apologize to my regular readers - and there ARE actually a few of you, given my tracking statistics - you're just going to have to make do with the humdrum descriptions of my day-to-day life.
 
 

Adding One Half to Seven Squared

Notice to anybody who regularly reads this space:
 
If you're wondering why I haven't updated for the past few days, it's because I'm working on a super peachy keen project. And it can't be entirely chalked up to procrastination, either. I'm waiting for SOMEBODY to get back in touch with me so I can get it finished. I should make that multiple somebodys actually, because there's more than one. So please guys, can you stop having wild monkey sex and/or injecting heroin into your eyeball for ten whole seconds and write me back? Thank you.
 
Now, back to the old post...
 
Oh, what a beautiful day! Yessiree, I don't mind the mugginess one bit! Full exposure to a burning star? Oh, no problem; no problem at all!

Fuck.

Adventures In Messaging

If you've been paying attention, you'll no doubt remember my announcement concerning my triumphant return to MSN Messenger. And some of you have even added me to your lists. Mwah! Anyway, in that post I mentioned that some Rocky kids decided to add me. Because of the deep wells of generosity i carry, I reciprocated. Last night, one of them messaged me asking who the hell I was. I told her, of course. She said she didn't remember adding me in the first place and insinuated I was a creepy pervert for adding her. I tried to state the case that I was simply reciprocating, but I guess no matter how you slice it, it looks pretty seamy for a 24 year old guy to add a seventeen year old girl to his list, reciprocation or not. So I ended the conversation before she could keep on the path of accusing me of being a deranged sex offender. How the hell do I keep ending up with that sterotype?

In another recent conversation, the person I was chatting with announced that they were "nominally diurnal" and it was time for them to hit the sack. And in the folly of my youth, I took it to mean they had two urethras. Which is typically something you don't admit in casual conversation. But, it turns out diurnal means "belonging to the day" and not some bizarre birth defect. Heh, don't say much for my vocabulary.

Welcome to the Xander Zone

So I'm down to using that as a title. That's not a very good sign.

I was watching CPAC last night, and they were having a discussion on the North American Relationship. As is typical it turned to the subject of the U.N. and whether or not Canada should side with it instead of the U.S. The fellow who was speaking, who I believe was from the Southern Methodist College in the States(!), brought up the point that the U.N. was LITERALLY where the world goes to discuss its problems. So... as opposed to figuratively? Goddamnit, I always thought that it was a complicated metaphor for baloney and cheese! Next time, Methodist; next time!

Who am I kidding? Who am I fooling? When they be like, "What's Up Joel?" And I say, "Cooling."

Oh, and then we had the guy who said unilateral around thirty times in the span of three seconds. What a foreign policy stud. Ariel Sharon probably has a picture of this dude up on her bedroom wall and coos lovingly at it every night before she goes to sleep. Hey, whattya mean, she's a guy? Well, I still hold to my speculation.

Hmmm... It appears I've received a message from the House for the Actualization of Canadian Knaves - or HACK - issuing a cease-and-desist order in respect to my "half-assed political commentary". Or else they're going to "send a slobbering Paul Wells to remove my testicles with a paring knife". Okay. Well, everything seems to be in order here... have a good night, folks!

A Change of Pace

Useless Information: This will be the first post I've composed at home since... well, ever. So as you can imagine, it's a rather exciting time for me. Free from the constraints of my job, I can finally let loose and tell you everything that you've been dying to hear; that I've been dying to tell! So here we go. Now. I'm gonna start now. Maybe... now. Now? Screw it, I've got nothin'. Guess this is going to be the usual crap, then.

In a move that will no doubt shock long time readers, I finally took some time off recently; this past Thursday and Friday to be exact. Yep, I came into work on Thursday evening and I could barely stand straight. I was just too damn burnt out; I begged the boss to give me the night off before I passed out on the spot. Seeing the shape I was in he agreed, at which point I promptly woke up and went to visit a friend. Heh, five weeks straight. Half of them were at least eleven hours long. I don't know what possessed me to give up smoking at the tail end of a stretch like that; hell, if anything, I should be smoking more. But I'm not. Oh, I'm so conflicted...

Follow Me Go Shopping Eh, Me Go Shopping

Ah yesh, went on a shmall shopping shpree, I did. Sheeing ash there'sh nothing more intereshting than hearing shome ash-hole talking bout hish endeavoursh ash a conshumer, I shhall deshcribe them for you ash to masshage your brainsh. Imposhibbible!

First, a question for gamers: Don't the Hypello from Final Fantasy X(-2) kick ass? Ride zat shoopuf, baby!

DVDs! I picked up Bad(der) Santa, Catch-22, and the South Park Season 4 set. Now, before I continue, I'd just like to point out a discovery of mine. Rather informal this; just something I've noticed along the way. There seems to be an odd relationship between how quick-witted someone is and how much they like South Park. Really annoying and buffoonish persons hate it, while intelligent and enjoyable people like it. So, it's best to keep that in mind before you start sneering at my decision to purchase the set. Of course, it should also be pointed out that the most intelligent and enjoyable people don't care either way because they have the sense not to get emotionally involved with a television program. And for the most part, I must concur with that sentiment. But five words: Don't Fuck With Mr. Show.

I also picked up The Rundown previously viewed. This is probably not something I should admit on so public of a forum. Regardless, I have to say it does what any good movie should do. It delivers what it promises, and how. Nothing else I can think to say about it at the moment.

Well, I'm starting to peter out here, so I'll leave my thoughts on the Spider-Man 2 game for next time. Don't do anything an enraged pirate with a nasty case of crabs wouldn't do.

Bandwagoneering

In yet another pathetic bid for attention, I'm announcing that I am once again using MSN Messenger. So if you're looking for saucy and intriguing conversation... I'd suggest you keep looking. But if you're looking for rambling and incoherent converation punctuated by multiple swear words, then goddamit; I'm your man! But if you think I'm just going to write down my contact info, then you're missing the point. Actually, I don't think I get it either. Could somebody please tell me what the hell it is? Anyway, in the spirit of my continuing efforts to confound and vex you, dear readers, watch as I present my information in the form of a PICTURE!

Fun Fact: As I booted up the new version I'd downloaded, I found out that some of the local kids had added me to their contact lists using my dormant MSN profile. Heh. It turns out that when I found their site a month ago and signed the guestbook they decided they'd like to chat with me. Even though they usually look at me like they'd rather projectile vomit on my face instead of holding a conversation with yours truly. Oh well. If you'd like to get a rare glimpse into the minds of the Rocky youth I'd suggest checking out their page.

Jesus Never Saved A Robot

First thing firsts: I need to address the fact that new comments being added lately simply aren't showing up on the page. At least on my system, anyway. But don't worry; any comments being added are automatically forwarded to my inbox so I'm still receiving them. They just aren't available for the masses to read. I don't know what the hell's going on with Blogger/Blog*Spot lately; there seems to be something brilliant happening every day here. Check here to get status updates.

So, I'll just take a moment to address what was written in these comments. Big thanks to Brodieclerk for once again reminding me that there's situations ten times worse than I've got going on here. Thank you Ross, it always brings cheer and joy to my heart when people recognize that I'm a barking loony. I also thank you for the c-store empathy. Clerks unite!!! And to the enigmatic fellow/lass known simply as G, I must concur that Chopping Block is one kick-ass webcomic.

I suppose I should give an update on my kicking the habit. Am I still going strong? Well, yes and no. After my Tuesday shift turned out to be the worst possible time ever to have discontinued my intake of nicotine (and tar and CO and so forth) I realized with a heavy heart that I'm simply not going to be able to go without my precious cigarettes at work. Not right off the bat, anyway. So, I gave in and bought a pack today. Which should be sort of clear to you, seeing as I'm not typing out bizarre messages involving meat products. But don't worry, I'm not totally off the wagon yet; I'm keeping them at work. It turns out when I'm at home the urge to smoke doesn't hit me as hard so I can pretty much go without. However, as Tuesday night proved, if I don't have a suitable Nicotine Delivery System on the job I'll start to stare down the customers. So I'm going to have one every hour and a half for this week, then tack on an extra fifteen minutes next week, and henceforth until I don't need the damn things while I'm working anymore. The only problem with this system is when I go out on the town, because that's the other time I smoke like a chimney. Oy, we'll see...

But I'm starting to get sleepy. So until next time, keep your feet on the ground but your eye on the sky!

DAMN!! I have no kiwis!!

Someone recently recommended that I should check out the Johnny the Homicidal Maniac comic series. After managing to procure a few copies through many varied feats of strength, I must admit that I'm quite glad I did. Violence rules. But the main reason I'm enjoying it probably has to do with my introduction to Happy Noodle Boy, who has since become my No. 1 personal hero. Why, do you ask? Because [pause for effect] today I have quit smoking, hopefully for good. Believe me, when you're in the middle of a nic fit the best your brain can manage is a stream of invective punctuated by several non sequitors. And it's a very nice thing to see yourself represented so well on the page. Anyways, while I come to grips with the choir of agonized screaming voices that have suddenly taken root in my head, I believe I'm going to take a short break from this blogging thing. For a day at least to forever at most. So keep checking back in the meantime! Trust me when I say take it's taking all of my concentration to sttopp myyyseellf... Check it in the maroon dungheap where my mamma's pasta salad goes to play!! Quick! Patch me through to the President's Anus! AAGH!! I CAN'T DEAL WITH MY SCROTAL BARNACLES IN THE SCRUM! Keep that damn crow in the pie! FUCK!! I see you there thinking you have a beautiful voice but the nail's in my foot and I can't reach my tequila!! FUCK OFF!! SHIT COCK ASSHEAD TROLL!!

3 Angry Customers

I don't claim to be a wonderful person. Fact is, I'm not the friendliest guy you'd ever hope to meet. However, I like to think that I'm fair and honest when dealing with people, and I never attempt to screw anybody over or plot to bring ruin to their family name. Truth is, I'm just an average schmoe trying to make a buck in this world and as such I'm not interested in being a najor-league asshole, no matter how many times I use that term to describe myself. Oh sure, there have been times when I've rightly deserved it, but it's not something I actively seek out.

So why does it seem like people have it in for me lately?

No matter how sincere my smile, no matter how relaxed the body language, no matter how friendly my tone, I've started to be treated rather scornfully from not only by my customers but the population in general. I can't count the number of damn stink-eyes I've been receiving lately. I figure it's only a matter of time before somebody comes in the store and starts waving a gun in my face again.

But so far, these feelings of animosity toward me have been directly expressed only three times in the past three days, and I'm hoping that's all it will be. Frankly, I'm going to have start screaming at someone soon if this keeps up. Granted, these things aren't really that big of a deal. When combined with the general vibe I've been receiving however, I'm starting to feel like these are only the preliminary rumbles before the big 10.0 quake blows everything to shit.

Friday

Yeah, Friday. Typically the time of the week where all the workaday bums go out and get completely shit-faced. However, there was one lady who just couldn't wait until evening. What are the odds that she'd end up at my store? Oh, pretty damn good, I'd say. After rummaging around in her socks (?) for her money for a good five minutes, she braced herself against the counter and attempted to look me in the eye. She started slurring something at me, but I couldn't understand most of it. To end it though, she said "Yeah, you think I'm a bitch. Well, guess what, you asshole, you're the biggest bitch here!" I chuckled a little, then glared at her and replied, "Don't bother coming back, because I'm not going to be serving you." I've always thought that to be a rather hollow threat; after all, who gives a shit if they can't shop at the bloody Rolf store? But for some reason she looked at me like I meant business and stumbled out. Heh.

Saturday

At the end of a long, boring and soul-baking shift, a member of Rocky's youth population - a guy I wouldn't mind seeing flattened by a Mack truck, incidentally - shuffled through the door. To add even more joy to the moment it appeared that he was completely stoned off his ass. This guy usually takes way too long to make up his mind, and him being high was probably going to tack on an extra ten minutes to the amount of time he'd be in the store. But luckily, he went over to the sub cooler right away and threw something in the microwave. I was getting ready for cash-out and thus was not paying too much attention to what he was doing. I looked up however and saw him shoving an ice-cream sandwich into his face. I made a note of it, and when he came to the counter to pay for his sub I asked if there was anything else. Of course, he said no. Good lord. After pressing him about it and pointing out the copious amount of chocolate all over his lips, he finally confessed to it. I bagged his stuff, and as he was leaving he gave me the finger. Sigh.

Sunday

This was not a bad day, I have to admit. But with half-hour to go on the clock somebody saw fit to ensure that I didn't have a hassle-free shift. A lady came to the counter with a package of Halls and asked for a pack of Export A Ultra Light King Size. After pointing out we only carried the regulars she started swearing and knocked over a bunch of stuff on the counter. I was rather dumb-founded, seeing as this was the first time somebody had thrown a shit fit over cigarettes in the three years that I've worked here. May I recommend some gum?

So, that was my weekend. As I said before, this shit when taken by itself is rather minor. But you've got to place them into context with the rest of my life. When you do that, the future isn't looking too good.

Kids in Emerica

I came upon this article around three months ago, and if I had a blog back then I would have mentioned it. And although it's been in circulation for a while now, I feel the pressing need to bring it up again. You see, I was pondering the so-called 'underground' culture while I was mopping the floor tonight and this came immediately to mind. Is it good? Is it bad? Well, I leave that up to you.


Are you ready to be... mildly nonplussed?

A Heartbreaking W... Dammit!!!

Ah, only 164 packs of cigarettes sold today. My conscience can rest easy, knowing that 36 less packs of our smokes are circulating the lungs of our customers, compared to last Friday. And it looks like I'm still going to be working here!

.............

...

Fuck.

In other news, I seem to have brought ruin upon Steve Smith's blog. 'Twas once a hotbed of witty posts and brilliant repartee in the comments section; but after he was kind enough to mention the song parody I did for Super Fun Happy Amazing Hour, the amount of comments have sharply declined. Sheesh, and this is how I pay back the first guy kind enough to add links to my sites...

Or more realistically, his regulars are quite occupied with other matters at the moment. But I refuse to accept that. Because quite simply, everything revolves around me.

A Heartbreaking W... shit, used that one already

Another post, another annoucement: if I beat last Friday's record cigarette sales of 200 packs today, I'm going to quit my job in disgust.

Dressed like a spider, he looks like a bugWe should all just give him one big hug

I have a confession to make. I love superheroes. I've always loved superheroes. And when I'm an old man farting away in a wheelchair, I'll still love superheroes. Even though I've only owned about ten hero-centric comic books in my life, I've always had a keen fascination with magic men (and women!) in tights righting wrongs and slamming evil. I've formed the briefest of acquaintaces and the longest lasting of friendships around them; I still remember discussions on how Batman could pound the shit out of Wolverine and why Superman isn't as great as everyone thinks he is. I've watched as heroes were deconstructed and revelled in their eventual reconstruction. If you ever meet me, I will eventually ask you which power you would rather have; invisibility or flight. (In case you're wondering, invisibility has it, at about 99 percent of people polled. And hey! Hold on, I'm going somewhere with this.) And then comes the ultimate question. If you could have the powers of any superhero, which one's would you like to have?

EVERYBODY answers Spider-Man.

Everybody. And don't say you'd like somebody else's powers, because you're lying. And if you haven't figured out the point of this post yet, you're an idiot.

But first, let's flash back to the end of April two years ago. As is the case with most blockbuster movies, the hype machine for Spider-Man was in overdrive. Nary a minute would go by without a reference to the web-slinger. There were the ubiquitous commercials. There were the product tie-ins. Massive merchandising. And the Calgary Sun rather infamously decided an interview with Canada's biggest Spider-Fan was worth the front page. Now, the typical response to such massive hype as this from the public is a collective "Meh." But not this time. Every new scrap of information concerning Web-Head was gobbled up and followed by a clawing desperation for more. And when opening weekend came the theatres were absolutely PACKED; to the tune of $114 million if I recall correctly. Your humble blogger would be remiss if he didn't say he got swept up in all this as well. Although since I'd been waiting for this movie ever since James Cameron was attached as director, it would probably be better to say that I was leading the charge instead. And given all these inflated expectations, given the longing I had to see this movie swelling in my chest every minute of every hour of every day since the clock hit midnight on New Years 2002, I was probably disappointed, right? You can bet your fucking testicles I WASN'T. (Or ovaries, as the case may be.) This was the only movie in recent memory that made me want to stand up and cheer. That made we want to cry. That made we want to shake my fist at screen and yell, "YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!" This was a rare thing; a blockbuster movie with heart. That it was a movie about one of the greatest superheroes ever created made it all the sweeter. I left the theatre dazed; as soon as I stumbled in the door of our house I told my roommates rather simply that if they didn't go see Spider-Man I was going to kill them. Although my movie recommendations are usually taken with a grain of salt - see Kung Pow: Enter the Fist - they went to see it anyway and conceded that it was as great as I had said. Millions of other people apparently did the same thing, because Spider-Man eventually grossed over $400 million domestic. And thus, the inevitable sequel.

Spider-Man 2. This isn't the title I would have chosen for it. I mean, take a cue from the damn Batman movies! Don't tack a damn number on the end! It would've been far better to call it "The Amazing Spider-Man". That way, for the even-more-inevitable sequels to follow, you have a wealth of other titles to glean from any one of his monthly series. And why am I bitching about the title? Because, quite frankly, that's all I can find to bitch about. This. Movie. Is. Flawless. Forget the hype machine that's once again spinning out of control. Forget all the extraneous celebrity bullshit that's being dragged into the spotlight. And hey, while you're at it, forget any bally-hoo about the special effects. Because as soon as the first frame is in view this movie will have your heart tangled up in webbing. [Pause for groaning.] And isn't that what really matters? Isn't this what movies are for? It takes a movie like Spider-Man 2 to make us realize all the horse manure that's been shoved in our faces ever since Star Wars initiated the blockbuster craze way back when. Which isn't to say that the technical side of this movie is suffering; the amount of loving craft put into every single shot is eclipsed only by the Lord of the Rings series. Raimi and company, take a bow. But the story's the thing, as my uncle says just before he passes out in the fireplace at our family reunions, and this is a wonderful story. And if you don't think so, then you are wrong. So much for the sanctity of opinion, eh? They've managed to make the out-of-mask character development stuff as engaging as the battle sequences. This is a feat that's rarely accomplished by most superhero movies. See Daredevil, for an example. Or don't; can't really blame you there. Even more unbelievable is that the supporting cast turn out to be actual People, not cardboard cut-outs who do bizarre things solely for the purpose of plot. Every exchange is wholly organic; nothing feels contrived. Except for one small part of the train sequence, but what follows will crack the hardest of hearts. Watch and you'll see.

In fact, that's all I really need to say about Spider-Man 2. Watch, and you'll see.

P.S. To Film Snobs: Sometimes things are popular because they're good.

P.P.S. One of the other journals I regularly read posted a rather negative review, saying that it was boring. I'm started to feel disappointed in the younger generation, dagnabbit. In other news, Ebert gave it four stars out of four, which just about makes up for his panning of the first Spider-Man.