Steal Your Honey Like I Stole Your Bike

Back in the 7th grade, living in the bad part of town, I was affiliated with a group of kids from school colored bad all around; the kind of kids that weren’t better off at all; the kind of kids that you see wandering the malls for the better part of the evening looking for an arcade to pass the time. It was another form of day care for their parents, if they even had any.

“Look what I got,” announced Samson, showing off the watch that illuminated from his wrist. We hung out at the soccer fields after school lying about the girls we’ve kissed and hearts we’d broken. I had convinced everyone once that I had a girl back in Paris that wanted to get married. I left her waiting for me at the train station though. Today, it seems, we were having a competition to see who stole the coolest thing. “It’s my older brother’s watch but he thinks he lost it. I’ma pawn it later for some cash.”

“Well check this out,” steps up Mario, “A 2L pop I just stole from the Domo gas station!”

“Oh yeah, look what I got,” David called. We all turn our heads to see him with an old lady walker. “Some lady hurt her ankle and fell over leaving this unguarded. Best part is she couldn’t even stop me from taking it from her. Now all my weight rest solely on my arms allowing my legs a break from gravity’s dominant reign.” Like I said, bad all over.

My turn...

“You got nothing right?”

“Not again! You’re lame!”

“Oh I got something!” I fought, looking around for some ideas. Then, like heaven sent, there it was, lying by the white painted goal post, a yellow bicycle, ownerless, lockless. Out of all the soccer fields in all the world, it had to ride into mine. “That bicycle right there! I’ma steal that!”

“Yeah! Do it. Do it!” My people command me!

I walk up to her, still shiny and new. “Hello there, what’s your name?”

*bicycle bell rings*

“Isla? Well that’s a pretty name. You wanna go for a ride with me?”

*bicycle bell rings*

“shhhh. speak not of your past. Let’s just focus on you and I, now.”

And away we went; the yellow bicycle, me and the wind in my hair. I didn’t wobble once and for a while there, I thought this two wheel contraption was built for me and no other. I mean, sure it belonged to someone else before, but if they thought a lock was a poor investment for a beautiful thang like this, then they don’t even deserve her! Isla was mine now! My friends praised me. I was on top of the world. I was becoming a man! Yeah right…

What defines a man? Is it based on the opportunities he's willing to seize? Or is it also the opportunities that he's willing to pass over. Think about it.

“That’ll be $35.95 please.” The cashier took my life savings and in return I got $4.05 in change and an unbreakable bike lock.

Down on one knee, I look up at Isla and fitted the lock around her frame. It was the happiest day of my life. “With this lock, I promise never to look at another bike again, let alone ride one. You are my transportation, my support, and my friend. Will you be mine forever?”

*bicycle bell rings faintly*

“You hesitate?” I reach out to give the bell another ring hoping for a cheerier response. Still faint. I can see that her mind was far from here, maybe thinking of her previous deadbeat owner! Or maybe the owner was an innocent soul, too poor to afford a bike lock. And it hits me.

“Samson, what time is it?” I asked.

“Sorry, pawned that already man. Remember? You doubled me there.”

“Sigh...useless!” I find out from a random jogger that it has been 4 hours since I first laid eyes on Isla. 4 fabulous hours.

Swiftly we rode back to the field, with the sun almost gone. I jump off her seat while momentum was still high and watched from the ground I landed on as she ghost rode back to the very spot she was resting earlier. Bike lock and all. She looked so beautiful with that yellow shining in what light was left of this world. Then suddenly a figure emerged from beyond the street light running happily up to Isla as though they had been searching for days.

“Here’s looking at you bike. We'll always have those 4 hours,” I whispered and turned to Samson. “Samson, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“Shut up you pussy!”

Kenny Vasoli, lead singer of The Starting Line once sang, "He loves you? Who loves you more to let you go?" This of course, refers to a love triangle, two men fighting for one woman. The question is who’s love is strong enough to realize that all parties are suffering here? Who's man enough to make the sacrifice? Sometimes a man is defined by the opportunities he chooses not to take. Heck even Humphrey Bogart told Ingrid Bergman to get on that plane with her husband and Humphrey was a playah! Now that’s a real man right there.

Living Unnoticed - The Tokyo Express Affair

The racket of hundreds of people bounce off the glossy floors of one food court in the largest mall in North America, West Edmonton Mall; home to a skating rink, an indoor theme park, a water park, a Cineplex Odeon movie theater with a fire breathing dragon, more than 800 stores, two food courts, and one heinous bitch. Oh I'm not talking about some side show attraction featuring a crazy dog. I'm referring to an older Chinese lady working at the Tokyo Express. With eyes that will pierce through the thickest crowd, her goal in life is to deliver the most hostile customer service you'll ever experience. I once witness her throwing soya sauce packets at a poor defenseless girl like knives because she had asked the psycho bitch for an extra one. It plays in my mind, always, in slow motion, her laughter chopped and screwed like some dirty south production. And I guarantee that if you had recorded the audio to that event and played it backwards, you'd hear the Chinese lady saying something like, "I like to kick cute puppies in the tummy and make out with the Devil!" That was the first time I laid eyes on pure evil.



My second encounter with her was of a more direct kind similar to being raped and I was the victim. Recently coming out of a bad breakup, vulnerable me stepped up to the Tokyo Express counter with a Teriyaki Chicken Bowl on my mind.

"What?" she shrieked in her broken English.

I played it like a brave soldier on the front lines, "uhhhhhh ummmmm k...k....can I get a chhchchchicken bo--"

"We out of chicken!"

I flinched, "umm how about some California rolls?"

"We out"

"beef bo---"

"Out!"

"tempura?"

"Hey stupid! I said we don't have anything but Udon Noodle! It's five minutes until close, so hurry up!"

"Ummm I'm pretty sure you just said no chicken."

"Maybe learn to speaka English ok?? I say we out of everything but Udon Noodle! Understand?" She mocked me! I can hear onlookers, who had began to crowd, chuckling at the fact that a ill grammared old lady was telling a guy half her age to learn English. I was humiliated! My reputation destroyed! My plans of becoming mayor of Edmonton ruined by this grumpy old lady!

I was flustered and didn't know what to do. I didn't want Udon Noodles! I wanted my dignity back; my sense of respect; my backbone. So I closed my eyes and took a deep breath and did what any man in my position would do.

"You're a bitch!" I screamed before storming off. The crowd gasp; the bitch screams back something threatening in Chinese; one tear dropped from my eye. I boycotted that Tokyo Express ever since.

Like suppressed memories, these scenarios flood back over me every time I enter this food court, motivating me to walk by that very spot hoping that she'd be working so that I can give her a look dirtier than senior men around a gorgeous nurse, except dirtier and meaner! I called it The Stink Eye Walk By. Time and time again I would grind my teeth at her, mouthing phrases like "I'ma kill your husband you little punk!" or "I'm calling immigrations to get your ass deported motherfucker!" or "When I'm done with you, you'd wish you didn't escape the railroad business you grumpy ass chink!" That one is my favorite. I'm not going to lie, I should probably send her co-workers some Edible Arrangements to thank them for holding her back because I'm not sure what I would do if she made it all the way over that counter.

I think I'm going to give her the middle finger this time and say something like "I'ma marry your granddaughter then have you put in a senior home" I thought as I approached the battle zone. Kids chased each other laughing, boys kissing their girlfriends, friends laughing in conversation. These things didn't even register in my mind. For in that moment, it was just her and I. I wait for her eye contact. There it is. Go! Go! Go! But as my wrist flipped the bird something strange happened....something almost heart breaking. She turns away. No anger. No attitude. No reactions at all. She was done with me. Like a guy watching that beautiful girl he just kissed run back to her boyfriend, I had been forgotten.

So Alive

Could it be that philosophies
Can suddenly change
Like catastrophes?

Routine steps, confusion crept
And with self doubt
I’m Epiphany-swept

Shadow fields, yet do not yield
Time passed is blurred
Perspectives healed

Standing now and screaming loud
All will know
These refreshing vows

Dip? No! Dive!
Remit? No! Strive!
I once was dead
Now I'm so alive

Fuck the Golden Rule, Treat Everything Like a Banana

I peel back the thick tough skin of a banana while Silverchair’s Spawn Again blasts out of my iMac speakers. The heavy bass line and metal guitar riff allows Daniel Johns’ voice to take a violent tone unlike many of Silverchair’s other songs on the Neon Ballroom album. Many people who love this album, for tracks like Ana’s Song and Miss You Love, tell me they often leave Spawn Again out of their heavy rotation.



“I don’t support violent music. Music is supposed to be fun and uplifting; it shouldn’t make people want to hurt each other on the concert floor. Daniel Johns must have been doing drugs and hating life or something when he wrote that,” Said one “fan” who then turned away from my interview with a “Jesus doesn’t love gays” protest sign, regrouping with his hate gang. Well the joke is on him because Spawn Again is a song protesting animal cruelty and Jesus loves everyone.

After the song ends I put on my Chuck T’s and decide to drive over to a near by pub where I'll meet up with a long time friend. The sky is full of dark clouds but the temperature is warm as hell. I take off my thick winter coat to adjust. Frankly, judging the weather through a window is not the best method. I pull into the lot and park my Tacoma beside his Land Rover and hop out to catch a middle-aged white woman staring at me.

“Is something wrong?” I ask. Running late for a KKK meeting perhaps?

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t expect a 5’2” Asian boy to hop out of a 4X4 Double Cab V6 Tacoma.” She replied, a little embarrassed for getting call out. Really? Well I didn’t expect the senior home to let old ladies like you out in public alone!

“Believe it honey.”

Already on his first beer and deeply concentrated on the hockey game on the flat screen, Thomas pats my back as I take my seat. “Don’t mind my silence for 15 minute ok Thomas? I just got something I really need to write,” I warned. His nod translated to, “The hockey game is on. Honestly, I don’t care about you right now.” Fair enough. Every time I see Thomas I’m reminded of that tragic day when my mother discovered that Thomas was a local drug dealer.

“I don’t want you to hang out with Thomas ever again!” she demanded, while chopping onions in the kitchen. Even though, just yesterday she was telling me how good of a friend he was.

“You don’t know him mother! He’s a good guy and - -“ I tried to defend him, tears in my eyes….due to the onions of course.

“Good guy my ass! Police officers are good guys. The main guy from Die Hard is a good guy! A drug dealer is not a good guy!”

“Police?! Tell that to Rodney King!” I screamed before running out the front door never to return…..for a couple of hours. “Tell that to Rodney King!!!”

The waitress arrives to take my order as I type away on my iPhone. A gorgeous blonde named Bambi. Bambi. She’s probably working some strip joint later to support her abusive biker boyfriend who’s probably cheating on her with some tramp as we speak. “I’ll have a Guiness please.”

“Guiness? Didn’t take you for a beer drinker.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Nevermind,” she dodges, “That’s a long text you’re writing there.”

“It’s not a text. It’s an article.”

“First Guiness and now you’re a writer?” She laughs and walks away.

I give Thomas a look of disbelief. “What the fuck?”

“Don’t worry about it man,” he comforts. “I think some of your blogs are great.”

“Some?”

“Yeah, I don’t like the ones where you make up stories that are totally over the top just so you can make a point. Blogs aren’t supposed to be fairy tales in my opinion.”

I’m annoyed. “Hey, what’s your new girlfriend’s name again?”

“Keeley, why?”

“Yeah she sounds like a slut.” I snapped. “My blogs are awesome, ok?!”

The End

New York, I Love You, I Love You.

A middle-aged man smoking his cigarette outside a fancy restaurant paces back and forward, submerged in a business conversation over his mobile phone. The smoke that escapes his mouth floats wildly in the brisk New York evening air; his trench coat buttoned up to the collar. An important call I gather. An attractive blonde woman comes out of the same restaurant looking for a lighter to begin the surrender to her addiction. She signals him silently and, still engaged in the voice coming from his blackberry, he lights her cigarette. A couple of puffs later (and in his case, a couple of Buy! Buy! Sell! Sell!’s later), he hangs up and she sparks a conversation that turns flirtatious. They discuss the excitement of one-night stands with strangers and how everyone looks for rushes like that.

“After this cigarette I’m going to walk into that restaurant and face my husband, who doesn’t even notice that I’m wearing no bra or panties under this dress.” She reveals that her husband is bored, probably thinking of a younger girl that could satisfy him. The man, now sexually interested in the beautiful blonde asks why she’s telling him all this to which she replies, “because I want it all to end tonight.” She throws her butt out and enters the restaurant leaving the businessman alone in the street with nothing but his thoughts and that chilly evening breeze.

What I just wrote is my interpretation of a scene from the movie “New York, I Love You.” Like it’s counter part “Paris, je t’aime,” the movie involves many well known directors and writers collaborating to give their views on love in a particular city; in this case, New York. Now before you get the barf bag out I must assure you that all the stories are not your typical love story. In fact, they all explore the grey areas of love that still leave you breathless. So why, out of all the stories, did I choose to write about the businessman and the blonde? Well, because it made me realize something that I now know I’ve been fearing. And……enter deep monologue………..now.

Oh Girls. Oh Relationships. Oh the Mortality of Love! In the last 3 years of my life I’ve gathered in my heart countless relationships with the female sex, all of which lasted no longer than a month. Besides some good conversations and events that require less conversations (wink), none have been able to help me conquer my fear; not of commitment, as I had previously thought, but of what the blonde girl was saying.

“You suck in bed! FYI!”

No no. Not that blonde girl! (and for the record, she just said that out of anger because I said she looked ravishing, to which she thought I was referring her to a vegetable….blondes. True story.) I’m talking about the one from the movie. Focus people! Now where was I? Oh yes. I’m scared of waking up one day next to the girl of my dreams and realizing that I can’t even write a poem about her anymore. I’m scared the flames that lead us to make out wildly in a subway station will be no more than ashes within 5 years time. And there I’d be, sitting in our lovely home in front of our fake fireplace while she runs around town sharing smokes with strangers. And I’d damn them and their lighters through my blogs! Or I guess, to keep this entry connected with the movie, I’d be sitting in a restaurant while my wife flirts fucken furiously (alliteration bitches) with a stranger. Before this movie, I guess I was looking for someone to persuade me differently. But as you can see from the blonde (not from the movie) and all the others, I have yet to be assured.

…Until now! (Didn’t see that one coming did you?).


The businessman enters the restaurant and walks towards his table. He observes his wife patiently waiting for his return and for the first time he sees her, the way he did when they first met. He gives her a kiss before taking his seat and she smiles at him. It’s as if something changed or better yet, it’s like they were strangers discovering one another again for the first time. It’s then that the audience realizes that the blonde woman is the businessman’s wife. Enters a montage of the couple smiling in conversation over their dinner accompanied by soft orchestrated happy music. Beautiful.

Just My Treasure and I

I close my eyes and see a shovel in my hand, a wall of dirt surrounding me, and the gentle reflection of light from the moon peeking at me from above. The grass, that lays lazy over the edge of the freshly dug hole I'm in, sits right at my eye level, soon to be way over my head. My breath drops dead as it leaves my mouth for the soft dirt absorbs every sound I make. Just then I hear the tune that put the shovel in my hands in the first place. A sound that, a year ago I would not think twice of listening to even once. It means I’m getting close. You see I have come to believe that somewhere under my exact spot there is treasure beyond a pirate’s wildest dream. And as I sink further and further away from the natural light of the surface I grow more addicted to this tune. My friends throw rope, hoping that I would grab hold when they pull it back but all I can attach is a note or two of what I see and feel.

Their silhouettes look down on me as their words drop like hail, “There is no treasure down there and you know it!” And who can blame them? As good friends they must tell me when I’m beyond ridiculous. I mean who buries treasure anymore? And this tune I speak of, no one hears it.

And with dust in my lungs I call back, “What if there is?”

The answer to my question came in the form of the ropes, once again, retracting to the surface. I follow the rope’s end as it trails, up and up. “This is the furthest I’ve ever gone,” I say softly at them. “I thought you’d be proud.”

Yeah, I dug holes before, but they’ve only been the side effect of the hills I’ve built. Then after marveling at the view from the top of those highlands, I’d dig another hole in different scenery. But I don’t want just another mound that I can hop off of and move on from anymore. I yearn to sit atop the highest mountain, just my treasure and I.

The Things That Keep Us

I, in the grand scheme of things, am neither a temptation nor a force. I exist to satisfy my own curiosity and live to fulfill my own happiness. To you, I'm traffic or an exit lane.

Imagine that you're on the freeway and the traffic is horrid. You're traveling north during the 4 o'clock rush on a scorching summer evening, the burning sun greets you on the west, through your driver side window, always in your face like a confrontational delinquent. Sure you got sunglasses on, but it doesn't fix the uncomfortable heat emitting from your leather bound steering wheel, forcing your firm grip to loosen; and with that, a lack of control. The tiny hairs on your arm wilt like flowers, your skin red from the exposure. The air conditioner blasts louder than your stereo speakers, your only escape, and yet the artificial facts leave you unsatisfied.



That, coupled with the reality that you are now at a complete stand still adds to your frustration. You're not late for anything but you'd rather be there. You yearn to be still but not like this. You make some shoulder checks. The one lane to your left is bumper to bumper packed as is the lane to your right. The semi-truck in front of you blocks your attempts to plan and the red mustang behind you tests your patience. In further examination of your surroundings you see a sign. Exit: 100 meters. You know this exit. It detours to an unfamiliar part of town that eventually would circle you to your destination. Exiting would be like taking a few steps back but at least the traffic flows. You feel the dampness on your shirt compressed between your back and the seat rest. You need fresh air but hesitate to pull the windows down for fear that the cool conditioned substitute will leave you. The signal controls to your vehicle, located behind your tortured steering wheel, calls you; the gas pedal begs that you give the brakes a break. Just a couple of pushes and a hand full of angry comments from other on-edge drivers and you're on your way. If they talk let them talk.

So the question is do you ride out this unbearable safe route or do you exit and feel real wind through your hair? You see, we’re so conditioned to place blame that we lose control of our own lives. I can’t jog today because it might rain; I failed my exam because it was too noisy in my apartment building to study; I didn’t get the job because I don’t own a computer to update my resume. But are our lives really about the things that keep us? Or is it as simple as obstacles and alternatives. You either work through the obstacle or take another path.

I'm either traffic or an exit lane.

Gather ‘Round, I Got Stories to Tell

Story # 1

On a late night drive in my super fast, super cool red 1993 Tercel Sport (yeah it’s a Toyota), I past a church that really caught my eye, not because I’m religious or anything, but because 5 feet in front of the grand entrance, on the edge of a curb was a fire that stood 3 feet tall. I stopped my vehicle on the deserted 2 AM road and stared at the dancing light while my brain contemplated on what I should be doing. Was it God? Was I the chosen one that would carry out her wishes, in turn, losing all the respect of realists across the globe? Or was this flame, which grew as I sat there, just a product of the dry fall season coupled with dead leaves and, maybe, a cigarette butt ill disposed? Either way, I decided the best thing to do was to put it out by scattering the dead leaves around with my feet. 10 minutes later, smelling like I’d been rolling around a camp sight, I was back in my car feeling like a raver at the moment when their glow sticks are brightest (unstoppable). Either I just saved a sanctuary for hundreds of worshipers or I just curb stomped God herself. Whichever it was, it's hell of a story.

“You should have called the fire department because what if you got hurt? There would have been no one there to help you! Even worse, what if you couldn’t control the fire and it spread to all the houses in the neighborhood? How will you explain that to authorities? Witnesses will say they saw a mad man [you] starting the fire. Blah Blah blah blah blah blah,” was the response I got when I told my heroic story to my girlfriend at the time. “Why do you put yourself in harm’s way like that??”

Story #2

I received a poke on face book one night from a Kindergarten teacher who knew how to make a man giggle like a school girl. Her words were like feathers to my bare feet and a defibrillator to my dying heart. We spoke of her children at work and what kind of guys she was into, none of which really matched my characteristics (yeah, she only liked dumb losers ohhhhhh burn) and yet, I accepted her invite to have coffee.

“Don’t do it!” exclaimed a female friend. “I know a girl that knows a girl that knows her and she’s bad news! She’ll rip out your heart and stomp on it!”
“Dude, I made out with her once,” said my right hand man, “She also had a thing with Ronald a year ago.” Ronald is a friend, also rumored to having an affair with Mrs. Samson, our grade 11 English teacher.

After a magical two weeks, things with Kindergarten teacher went sour. She stopped calling, resulting in long nights of crying and tree climbing, a restraining order, endless numbers of poems and songs, and countless ridicule from the aforementioned prophets. Maybe I thought that I was the one to tame her. Or maybe it was deeper than that. Whichever it was, it’s a hell of a story.

Story #3

I remember watching a horror movie with my dad at a young age. In one scene, a lady was creeping slowly towards a door to a dark cellar that had abruptly shut without explanation. Surely, the intelligent thing to do would have been to leave the house, call the police on the suspicion that there was an intruder in her house, and then run to a crowded public area and let people with guns handle it. But no, she’d rather investigate for herself.

“Why!?” I shouted. “Just run!”

And my dad replies, “If she just runs, there would be no story to tell. And without a good story the movie would be over. Do you want the movie to be over?”

Since I was so young, yeah, I wanted the horror movie to be over. Or did I? Whichever it was, it’s a hell of a story.

Slow Raise and Sunshine

So much can change from a flick of hair
As if curtains to a darken room
Let the light break through like a curious glare
To the corners once deemed as doomed

The spiders retreat behind web tangled forts
Foreign to this brighten scene
Out of the blue comes an awakening sort
Revealing eye of a beautiful green

Tainting the black and whites of common life
Broken and eroded with time
And that curtain dances with hope so rife
That made all words seems to rhyme

Get Crunk to Get Real

“The best ideas come out of you when you’re crunk!”

One of my favorite people right now texted me that once while the world spun around me, a reaction to the alcohol and weed that I had consumed while at a club called Blush. I remember reading it and thinking, “what about when I’m sober?” In fact, the statement above was not a compliment at all. It was an intelligent method of getting me to be truthful to her and to myself I guess. So really, she should have said, “When you are “crunk”, you are more willing to admit things you may not admit when you are sober.” OR “Truth comes when you are unaware of your audiences’ judgment,” which lead me to agree; the less we care about what’s expected of us, the easier it is for us to be true to ourselves. But is it really that easy?

Rewind to my childhood.*rewinding noises*
And as I laid there by the toilet I realized that she would never call me again after what I did to that dog…..
no no. Keep rewinding. That was last month...*more rewinding noises*
Shit…I puked on her shoes upon entering the yellow bus on my first day of school…
Sigh…keep going… *and more rewinding noises*
Ok Stop!

My mother had told me a fable about something I can no longer remember, but the one thing that I took from it is this; Don’t touch yours or anyone else’s belly button or they will get sick and potentially die. And for the record, no, I was not a retarded kid. I was like 4 years old ok! Give me a break. Anyways, I got into a fight with my younger brother days after and I was so mad that I decided to touch his belly button.

“A plague on both your houses! MUUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” I shouted, because at 4 I was big into Shakespeare (not). I ran off after casting my curse, chuckling like an evil wizard, leaving my brother confused as penguins vacationing in Iceland. After staring at a plain white wall for an hour (things regular kids do) I came back to find my mother holding my brother, now sick as a dog; runny nose, pukish, bad breath, even stinky fur and tail between the legs. It took me 3 hours before I approached my mother to confess the crime that I’d committed.

“Oh mother!” I cried, “Forgive me! I have bestowed a curse upon my brother, so youthful and defenseless. In retaliation for stealing my G.I.Joe I have sentenced him to a slow and painful death, not by the tip of my dagger blade nor the knuckles of my iron fist, but by the contact of my finger to his belly button! And now I fear my blood stained hands will forever torment me! Oh the horror!!!”

“Are you retarded?” My mother replied before answering a telephone call, leaving me sitting there at my brother’s deathbed. I contemplated doing myself in; Thomas the Train shirt lifted and index finger, stiff and ready. But I couldn’t. I was a coward. I went into a great 10-minute depression of which my mother now recalls as being the strangest thing she has ever seen, mentioning something about me mooing, but she often exaggerates. She says she thought about putting me up for adoption right then and there but realized no sane person would take me, and you have to be sane to be granted adoption privileges, trust. I’ve been denied myself. Anyways, I woke up the next morning to find my brother healthy as ever so I called the police and told them to destroy the confession tape I made; called crazy Uncle Ralph to tell him I didn’t need to hide out at his crack house anymore; and called little Timmy to tell him I wanted all my toys back. They were good sports about it, except for Timmy, who threw his crutches at me, which in the end was a bad move on his part. Lets just say he couldn’t really chase me to get them back. MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Ok, I take back my previous statement. I was a retarded kid.

You can fast forward to the present now.

Even though that same brother is alive and well to this day I still hesitate every time I go near someone’s belly button (which happens soooooo often). The point is, if we can be affected with something as strange as a fable about belly button how do you think we deal with simple things like “When you grow up you better get a good job and marry a nice girl and start a nice little family.” And “No, don’t be ridiculous. Being the successor for Bram from the Elephant show is a bad career choice.” Thanks mom...Or in this case, “Don’t ever ever ever tell a girl you want to marry her when you only known her for 5 months!”

Oh don’t give me those judgmental eyes! Yeah I did it ok! It’s because I was “crunk”! I don’t even regret it! And I could've been Bram's replacement! With the right encouragement I could've been anything I wanted!
Stop looking at me!
Stop.looking.at.meeeeee!!!! A plague on all your houses!!!

Don't Sink The Ship Until You Identify The Flags

When my fiancé Rose and I boarded the massive ship that would take us clear across the North Atlantic ocean, I had no idea that she would be brainwashed by a poor boy with a delusional vision of how life is lived. His philosophy was that love would conquer all, even starvation. Sure, I see his sense of adventure as a quality to admire and for someone like Rose, who has never been in a kitchen, let alone through a dark unknown alley, it could seem appealing. But what about a year from now, when he’s drunk on the side of the road with no job? Will she find him so handsome then? For crying out loud she’d only known him for a couple of days and she already had sex with him in some stranger's car. And while we’re on the subject, he’s a goddamn pervert if you ask me – drawing pictures of naked chicks on furniture. Is that not creepy?! What is this, an art class?! Sure, she may despised me for slapping her around and junk, I’ll accept that eventually. But did she have to choose him, of all people? I mean, come on! And all you people! Clapping and crying like he’s some kind of hero. I bet you the heart of the ocean that when he froze in that water, Rose was thinking, “Oh thank god. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was just a booty call.”

* clap clap clap *



Ladies and Gentleman, give a round of applause for Caledon Hockley (the guy from Titanic the movie). Poor guy. Not only did he almost drown in a boat, his fiancé left his ass in the same week! For those of you who don’t know this story, go rent the movie and educate yourself cause I’m not getting into that. Cal faced more tragedies than some people see in a lifetime! What a strong brave man….What this? No sympathy?? I’m shocked! I’m appalled! I’m speechless! Just joking, watch me speak.

Why is Jack the hero here? Why is he off the hook for stealing another man’s soon-to-be wife? I think it’s even in the 10 Commandments somewhere that speaks against this act. And yet, I remember sitting in the theatre with my jaw wide open, surprised, that everyone was cheering for Leo, Jack, whatever you want to call him.

“Um, that’s easy!” answered a female friend of mine. “Rose’s fiancé was a jerk. He controlled her life, paraded her like a trophy, disrespected her. He never truly love her! Jack was saving her from the depressed and limited life that she was leading; showed her that there was more to live for than parties and pretty clothes.”

Thanks female friend. That would have been a great answer had I asked, “Why did Rose hate her fiancé?” But I didn’t. I asked, “Why is it okay for Jack to sleep with another man’s fiancé? In a stranger’s car no less!” Two very different questions, no? Don’t get me wrong, I cheered for Jack too. Leo is like one of my favorite actors! He was bad ass in The Departed. I have a “I’ll never let go, Jack” t-shirt deep in the back of my closet too. However, let me put things into perspective. I recently (maybe not that recent) developed feelings for a beautiful girl who is currently involved with a boy…man, whatever - her hair, her eyes, her smile – gorgeous. We talk, we hang out. Once we made out in a bathroom stall during a lunch break and she told me that I was the best thing since iPods. Just joking, that making out part was only in my dreams. But seriously, I am the best thing since iPods. I told a couple of friends of my dilemma, “Hey guys, I think I’m starting to like Shanaynay. I think we’ve hit it off and I have fun with her.”

And what happens? The torches came out! I felt like The Beast in his castle when the mob of villagers came demanding something crazy like “Leave our town” or something. But as I looked from my isolated tower I could tell that half of those villagers didn’t even know what they were screaming about. They just saw their neighbor having a good old time with their shovel held above their head, so they joined. In fact, I'm pretty sure I saw one of them wearing that same shirt I have in my closet.

I’m not saying I don’t look threatening. I can see why everyone thinks so. I mean, I am a fucking hairy sharp-toothed Beast; the poor creepy drifter/artist who has no goals in life; a guy that just sees something beautiful in front of him and wants it. And if I think, sorry, if I KNOW I can treat her much better than her boyfriend, shouldn’t I have the right to tell her that without being boo’d? Leo thinks so. Jack thinks so. The Beast? Well he just kind of kidnapped Belle so he doesn’t count. All I’m saying is that before you calculate it (girl with boyfriend = out of bounds) just remember, I’m not trying to steal anyone from anyone else. I’m presenting an alternative. Had that fantasy in the bathroom stall actually occurred, I’d let you crucify me right here and now. But it didn’t. Yeah, I may be showing a little booty but you can’t judge me for that. If I got it, I’ma flaunt it. But I am not sitting there asking her to pose naked for me so I can get an A in art class. All I’m saying is Jack had sex with Rose in a stranger’s car when she still had unfinished business with Cal. I just talk to Shanaynay. Give me the same support you give Jack.

Leo! Holla!

Stare, It'll Last Longer (Valentines Day Advice)

I lean back in the wooden stool like I had just been relieved from holding steal beam over my head all day. My arm rests on the ergonomically incorrect design of the old polished seat that matches the rest of this fine establishment. The bar in front of me, still sticky from the customers before me, welcomes me just the same as Walmart greeters, only more sincerely. Phillip, the bar tender re-introduces me to a chilled clear glass filled with Alexander Keith’s. I’m talking about beer of course. It’s 5:15 on a Monday evening; a time when your tie hangs loosely around your collared dress shirt; a time when the sounds of screaming waitresses and pool balls colliding is just the kind of silences you’ve been dying for; a time when nothing matters more than this piece of glass right in front of you. I take a sip.

You ever have a drink of something great and all you can do is hold up the container it’s in and stare at it as your mouth explores the after taste? Well, right now, that’s the relationship I’m having with this beer. And it makes me think. I’ve had a lot of beers in my day and for some reason it feels like this is my first. Then I realized why. It’s because we neglect our drinks. Yeah, excellent point reader number one. For those who didn’t hear, reader number one said, “You’re a fucking idiot. How can it be neglected if it’s in our hands almost 100% of the time and our lips touch the glass every couple of minutes?!? Fuck your mother!” First off, just settle down. Like I just said, you are right. We do hold our glasses of wine quite elegantly in it’s beautiful red coat. Yes, when we are talking to our colleagues about the economy or the weather or that next bestseller novel, we take the time to place our lips on it, even smelling it’s fragrance every now and then. And agreed, when that hockey game is on, we have a place for our cups right beside us on the couch and when no one is looking we even hug it a little. But how many times do we do what I just did above? Taken a sip and than take the time to just watch it?

I remember an incident that took place in a local mall. I was walking through a crowd of window shoppers, when gliding towards me was the nicest female figure I had ever seen. There are some bodies that you clap politely and nod yes simultaneously at, some where you drop your drink accidentally because of, and others where you say “Gawd Damn!” in sync with a stranger next to you, who happens to be a priest. This sweet thangs' body was the “Gawd Damn!” one fo sho! Too bad she was hand in hand with this overly built hulky dude that looked like he was wearing one of her shirts. Can you say tight? Anyways, so they are headed in our direction and Father Bill and I are doing what guys do best - dumping everything out of our memory bank to make room for imagines of hot chicks for later use. Oh grow up reader number two! Writers often memorize things as best they can so that we can describe it in articles for your reading pleasure! I can’t speak for Father Bill though. Anyways, as she approached, my heart sunk like a bowling ball in the ocean. Miss. Gawd Damn is no other than a girl that I broke up with weeks before! “What the fuck” is right reader number one hundred and three, thank you. Either she just got some work done or I just stop noticing what a gorgeous girl she was. I mean, we spend all this time under the covers, in the dark, holding hands, hugging, kissing, writing notes, sending flowers, talking on the phone and all those close-up activities we forget what we look like from a distances.



So here’s my advice to you all as valentines day approaches. Next time you are out, take the time to watch that special someone work the room at a party. Take note of their reaction to comments, their excitement as they conversate, their body language, the many air bubbles that float to the surfaces, the layer of foam at the top, the bits of dew that travel down the sides of the glass….sigh. You’ll find yourself falling in love all over again. So take your time. Slow your roll. Besides, chugging it would only cause you to eventually throw up. I’m talking about beer of course. Reader number sixty-two, you can go to the bathroom now, I’m done.