Status Single now a column!

I want to thank everyone who has helped me with Status Single and encouraged me to keep writing about dating, love, and relationships from the twenty-something male point of view over the past two and a half years. The hard work has paid off. Filly.ca has picked up the blog to be a column.


Please check out the next era in Status Single twice a month (the first and third Tuesday of every month) for the episodes and escapades of the single life as seen through the eyes of yours truly.


Status Single at Filly.ca

Rockstar Writer at the Junos

Will Rockstar Writer get to hang out with Indie It Girl Leslie Feist?

I'm headed out this weekend to the Junos and blogging all about it for my weekly The Coast. As a favor to you and because I'm lazy, I will post my entries on Status Single as well as on The Coast website. Pam Anderson press conferences! Crazy after-parties! B-list celebrity sightings! Musings on Chad Kroeger's hair! It will all be here. See you at the Junos.

Here's my first entry:

So it begins

Here we go! A weekend of schmoozing, star-sightings, drinking, and most importantly, experiencing great live music is here. For those who aren't in the know, this is the Juno Awards weekend and it's a music writer's dream come true.

Especially this music writer. Ever since I knew I'd be missing South By Southwest - AKA the world's largest collection of bands that you actually listen to - earlier this month in Austin, Texas, I decided I'd throw my body and mind into the Junos.

If there's a late-night singalong with Sloan, The Super Friends and the other members of the Halifax Pop Explosion Class of '95 - I'm there. If there's a 20-minute long rendition of "Cause = Time" at the Broken Social Scene show - I'm all about it. If Diana Krall decides to dress up in a Ms. Claus outfit to promote her 5-time Juno nominated "Christmas Songs" album and hang out with me at Second Cup on Saturday at 1 p.m., I'm most definitely there. I'm at your mercy Coast readers. I'm headed to the frontlines for you. That and the booze, of course.

The craziness began with me writing just over 6,000 words for The Coast's Juno preview edition within the space of a week, something I hadn't done since university. After a couple days to allow my typing fingers and brain to heal, I started to plan out my itinerary for the weekend. That means choosing from 80 acts over 15 venues that comprise the JunoFest line-up on Friday and Saturday nights. It also means figuring out which after-parties to attend, if I can actually get into them (more on that later this weekend…). Not to mention, what I should wear, and what to say if I actually meet Chris Martin from Coldplay ("Um, how often do you shave and cut your hair?" and "What do you think of the name Banana for a boy?" are good choices).

But first things first. Tonight is the "free" concert on Grand Parade in downtown Halifax. I say "free" because I'm certain that taxpayers had to dole out for this somehow. Someone had to pay for the bands, equipment and security. Part of me knows corporate sponsors didn't shill out a lot because if they did, we'd be seeing someone from Canadian Idol performing. However, the line-up is strictly east coast – the one thing I like about it.

The show kicks off with 2005 Junos blues winner Garrett Mason, followed by Jimmy Rankin, then Dartmouth-living heartthrobs with big hair: Joel Plaskett and Matt Mays and El Torpedo. The night is capped off with The Trews, whom I actually don't mind in a live setting. Let me tell you, it's too bad certain bands have to put CDs, because no recording is going to ever represent The Trews the way they play onstage.

Anyway, I'm going to miss Mason (he's playing as I write this) and Rankin. Sorry, but I need to get pretty and fill up on some grease before this long, fun-filled weekend begins. I'll let you know how it went as it happens. It's all for you, my friends. Enjoy!

The End of the World is Near
or
What I will be doing on May 26

I admit it. For about three awkward prepubescent years, I was a comic book geek. I got into comic books around Grade 7 and it lasted through Grade 9. From ages 10-13, I marveled at the world of Marvel, propped up my low self-image with Image, and dissed anything DC. I thoroughly enjoyed the pages of X-Men, X-Factor, Uncanny X-Men (different team from X-Men), Spawn, Wild C.A.T.S., West Coast Avengers, and What If… My idea of a constructive Sunday was riding my bike to the comic book store and spending hours sifting through the $1.00 comic discount boxes. In fact, the highlight of my week the first year I moved to Texas, when I had hardly any friends, was when my mother took me to the store to pick up my weekly allotment of books.

Yes, I know this sounds pathetic, which is why I quit collecting comic books the moment I realized that I’d never score a girlfriend if I continued to look forward to the latest Wolverine-Ghost Rider crossover. I cancelled my subscription box at the comic store and immediately got a subscription to Rolling Stone. It changed my life. Now I have five VDs.

No, not really. Please don't listen to Library Girl. Seriously.

Although I left the superheroes and supervillians behind, I still carry a little torch for those times. Every once in awhile, it's allowed to manifest itself in the form of comic book movies. I am usually the sucker that pays to see a comic book adaptation, no matter how bad I know it’s going to suck. I was there for Daredevil, The Fantastic Four, and even League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.

However, some great, critically acclaimed movies were worthwhile: the first two Spider-Man movies, the Tim Burton- and Christopher Nolan-directed Batman flicks, the first two Superman movies, and of course, the X-Men films.

So, it was especially hard to hide the fact that I reverted to a pubescent teen when I saw the trailer for the third installment of the X-Men franchise. My voice squeaked in approval when I saw Magneto rip apart the Golden Gate Bridge (he never did that in the comics!). My peach fuzz prickled when I saw Jean Grey had turned into Dark Phoenix. I marveled once again watching Wolvie rip apart some mutant baddie.

Yes, I will be at the movie the night it comes out. And much like the time I spent as a preteen in my bedroom on a Friday night, flipping through the colourful pages, I don’t care if I have to do it alone.

Canadian-U.S. relations

"Uh, where'd you say I was again?"

An old friend from Texas just recently visited me for a weekend that involved copious amounts of booze (thank you, duty-free!), Brit-pop, dancing and debauchery. A great time was had by all. We did the requisite tourist bullshit, but mostly drank and recovered from drinking, a preview of my weekend to come when the Junos, the Canadian version of the Grammy’s, hit town.

10 Things I Learned From My Friend Who Lives In New Jersey:
1. Americans think Canadians are surprisingly friendly
2. Canadians like to give Americans shit for their crappy government, but in a friendly way
3. Characters featured in the Sopranos do exist
4. The city officials and said characters hang out in the same dining/drinking establishments
5. Supposedly there are a lot of crazy people in New York City, especially guys that play in Fountains of Wayne
6. Canadians are generally more positive than Americans
7. Canadian beer is still better than American beer
8. American boys like Canadian girls
9. Nova Scotia has good oysters (I’ll take your word for it)

10. Drinking vodka and Jagermeister until 7 a.m. is not good for your physical health

Change of fortune

Rockstar Writer's heart gets a last minute repair job

***I’m sorry KD, I may not be able to have relationship-talk with you so as to maintain your sanity, which is totally cool. But the premise of this blog must live on! ***

It’s amazing how life changes at the drop of a dime. You’re having a shitty day and out of nowhere, something happens to change your fortunes, morph your perspective, and maybe just have a lasting impact on your future sort of like that really bad Ashton Kutcher film The Butterfly Effect.

Just over a month ago, I meet someone. Someone cute, smart and funny who I enjoy being around that can carry a conversation past, "I need another drink." We hang out, I start to like her, I think she starts to like me for reasons unexplained, then I start to get excited like when I was 8-years-old on the Christmas Eve I asked Santa for the electric racetrack before I found out it didn’t work a well as it did in the commercials. Then perhaps I get too excited and she starts to look at me like I’m walking down the street naked a little too often.

Anyway, to make a long story short, we stop seeing each other. Partly because I’m a freak (true), partly because she doesn’t like electric racetracks (not true), and for other reasons I’m not going to get into here. I go back to hanging out by myself. I am no longer excited. I start to act like Rudolph in that Christmas movie before Santa starts having a problem flying his sleigh in the dark. No, I don't have the red nose, but with the red cheeks that come with the requisite post-break up binge drinking.

A week passes with no end in sight to feeling that comes with the knowledge that another person I actually wanted to share more than a month of my life with, did not feel the same. My insecurities have their way with me. No matter what I do, I can’t ignore them, the way you can’t ignore the next-door neighbours having loud sex through your apartment wall.

Then comes the day when she comes over to pick up her stuff. DVDs, toothbrush. The unceremonious goodbye. She comes in to talk and is gracious enough to hear out my dying wishes.

That’s when it happens. We start to wonder why we’re doing this. We question our original motives for ending things. We talk like adults (I think). Eventually we come to the conclusion that we like each other too much to give up so easily. Just like that, we are back together and all is right in the universe again. And just like that, the sun is shining a little brighter today.

Oh, wait. What's that?

I'm sorry, I don't carry airline motion sickness bags with me.

Reading material

***NOTE: This has nothing to do with my recent romantic woes, so please don't think I'm talking shit. My previous interest knows how I feel about her, so don't accost me at the bar on her behalf. - RW***

The Library Girl
"They come in all shapes and sizes. All genders. All different ages. Unless you appreciate a good headache, an occasional heartache and some serious psycho-drama, you are keep at least 100 feet between you and said Drama Queen..."

A Question of Love

Is love possible in this generation?

Lately I've talked to so many people my age who are afraid of the idea of love. Rather than something that might bring great fulfillment and happiness into their lives, many believe that falling in love means giving up independence, compromises their individuality, and gets in the way of long-term endeavours and plans.

I admit it: I’m a hopeless romantic. I’ve been slightly jaded over the years, but I still remain smitten with the notion of unabashed, uncontrollable feelings towards another individual.

I look at feelings like a set of tasks. When a task arises, we adjust to accommodate them. But do we forget the tasks that have been set before? No, we do not. When one falls for someone else should they ignore the feeling because it may get in the way of some set plan? I say no. I believe it’s possible to make allowances for both goals and love. If one truly has a strong feeling for someone else, they can make room for those feelings. And the object of their affection, if that affection rings true, will support those goals.

I believe ignoring feelings rather than acknowledging them leads to worse consequences. It’s as though one is throwing a wrench in the machine that is life. To ignore affection is to welcome sadness, confusion, and personal repression.

Yes, I wholeheartedly believe we must stay driven. But love is a welcome respite in a world of pain and suffering. Stay focused, yet remain open to the possibilities that may arise and let some light in.

WWVND - What Would Vince Neil Do?

***I don't usually post my published work on my blog, but this was too good to pass up.***

Only at a Motley Crue after-party would this moment be possible. Without any warning, two breasts flash before my eyes, followed by an ear-piercing shriek. "Vince Neil just signed our boobs!" scream the two women, holding their bras open for anyone at the nightclub to see.

A crowd mobs Vince Neil for autographs and high fives at the Marquee Club. Still flying from the Metro Centre concert, Neil sports a Stetson cowboy hat, chin goatee and leather jacket. On one arm is a blow-dried, peroxide blonde woman in a leather nurses outfit, as if she had teleported straight from the "Dr. Feelgood" video circa 1989. Word is she ditched her boyfriend to hang out with Neil. Little does she know, as the cameras flash around her, she'll be ditched by Neil when his mandatory appearance at the event is over an hour later. He spends a good 20 minutes signing autographs, celebrity mania at a frenzy point.

"I got my stomach signed by (Canadian Olympic curler) Brad Gushue," says one of my more cynical friends. "It was when he was here for the Lord of the Rings thing at Metro Centre. I got the entire team to sign. It was sweet."

"Oh my god!" shrieks one of the Vince Neil-autographed girls. "I'm not showering ever again!"

Or maybe at least until they decide to compete in a wet t-shirt contest judged by none other than the platinum-headed wonder that is the lead singer of Motley Crue, one of the most notoriously debaucherous acts in the history of rock 'n roll. Singer of the radio hits "Shout At The Devil," "Smokin' In The Boys Room," "Kickstart My Heart" and "Home Sweet Home," Neil was the poster child of 80s rock 'n roll excess: boozing, drugging, and fucking his way to the top of the charts with his just-as-guilty bandmates Tommy Lee, Nikki Sixx, and Mick Mars.

"We need one more girl for the contest!" the MC shouts over the roar of "Feelgood" and whoops of the appreciative crowd that's easily 3:1 men, most in leather or denim jackets. Where the female participants for the contest appear from remains a mystery.

"I studied feminist theory in university," a curious female friend told me over pre-party drinks. "This should be interesting."

The festivities get underway around 12:30 a.m. as six women of different shapes and sizes walk onstage. A dozen pitchers of water line a table. The crowd roars as Neil makes his stage entrance.

"Who here was at the show tonight?" he asks. Almost the entire room raises their hands, all voicing their approval for what they've just witnessed.

"You motherfuckers fuckin' rocked," Neil yells to more cheers. "You fuckin' Canadians rocked!"

The beau of the ball takes a seat on a large wooden throne center stage. The opening riff of "Girls, Girls, Girls" kicks off the contest, the first girl grabbing two pitchers. She walks into the spotlight in front of a slobbering testosterone-pumped audience. Lifting the pitchers above her head, she pours the water over her white Hanes t-shirt, shaking her hips at the same time. Vince signals his approval from his throne with a flash of his trademark, shit-eating grin.

Each successive girl gets nastier, rubbing themselves seductively, shaking their asses at the front row of spectators. Some of the girls ignore the confines of their see-through shirts, one even neglecting the social penchant for pants. Meanwhile the rabid audience encourages the contestants every step of the way.

"There goes 30 years of feminism down the drain," my mortified friend says after Neil helps the last contestant soak every inch of her outfit, giving herimpromptuomtu chest massage to make sure she leaves with no dry part uncovered.

Once the preliminary round closes, the participants walk across the stage one more time, making their case to the Marquee crowd. More female parts are flashed with little coaxing. The time comes to make a decision. Neil slowly surveys the madness around him, building tension.

"You're all winners, motherfuckers!" Neil concludes. The girls mob him, showering him with kisses and unseen gropes.

One thing makes itself apparent throughout the evening. Regardless of the expanding waistline, the darker than usual coiffure, and the aging wrinkles, Vince Neil is still a rock star. He has not changed one bit - through the sex tapes, manslaughter charges and model wives. He's made a living at being the life of the party and he knows how to do it well.

Earlier in the evening, a couple of acquaintances walk up as the two women show-off their autographed tatas. The two university students look at what's going on, and then mischievously look at each other. They promptly disappear into the crowd surrounding Neil. Fifteen minutes later they return, beaming.

"Oh my god!" they shriek. "We just made out with Vince Neil! At the same time!"

Surreal life, indeed.

What is happening here?

Trying to figure out if someone has taken a payoff

I've met someone who does bad-ass graphic design as a hobby and is making an ultra-cool template for Status Single. Meanwhile, she's a scientist working on her PhD and has a dry humour that can compete with any joke on The Office (UK version). And then she finds time to discuss the merits and/or non-merits of Woody Allen's contemporary work.

Is this some cruel trick or did my friends come together to contribute to the Rockstar Writer Wellness Fund and hired a really good (and cute) actress? Since I don't have many friends that have a lot of spare money, it's gotta be the former. Either that or an asteroid is about to destroy the earth any second.

The fine line of liking someone

There have been times in the past where I’ve been into someone early into the relationship. But then it’s as if they get a sniff of that adoration and run for the hills.

“To much, too soon,” one former lover told me. What? Was I the only one in your bed last night?

As exciting as an early relationship may be, that excitement is partly brought on by the knowledge that you’re treading dangerous waters. Paddle too hard and you’re prone to lose control and fly off the edge of the waterfall. Paddle too softly and come across as too aloof, uncaring and not interested.

Every once in blue moon, a connection is made and a sense of hope grows alongside the jitters. But how much of that hope do you share with your new fascination?

After crashing and burning more times than NASA first rocket prototypes, I now say go with the flow and see where it takes you. I once believed that you should just blurt out how you feel and hope it sticks, like bologna to a fridge door (it sticks – trust me). My mentality was that if my feelings didn’t stick, that person wasn’t worth your time in the first place. However, I realized that some people aren’t as forthcoming with their feelings as I am and many can’t handle the truth that someone might actually like them – flaws and all. It freaks them out. For some, it forces them to question whether the insecurities they’ve based their entire lifestyles on actually were real (they usually are as real as Bigfoot). There’s comfort in ignoring change.

I must admit - I’ve been one of those persons. Several women have expressed their affections for me a little too enthusiastically and/or too quickly, effectively signing their death warrant and/or free scarlet letter. I felt like I would give away some sort of independence or would be missing out on something else if I handed over my innermost secrets too soon.

The moral of the story is it’s difficult to find someone that’s as interested in you as you are them, at the same time. It feels like those of us who know how to pull back or move forward at the right time are the ones that succeed in relationships. Whoever said love isn’t a game was downright wrong. This is an intense bout of motherfuckin’ RISK. Except you’re not really conquering countries with calvary and artillery. You win by honing the ability to hold your shit together and keep your mouth shut.

February Spawned a New Morrissey Record

Valentine's grocery list:

1 package of razor blades

1 bottle of sleeping pills
1 bottle of Wolf Blass Yellow Label
1 advance copy of Morrissey's Ringleader of the Tormentors

In my singlehood, the Valentine's gods shone down on me as I received notice that a highly guarded copy of the new Morrissey album awaited me at The Coast office a month and a half ahead of its release in April! What's better than sitting in a dark apartment, listening to a man who made a living singing songs about depression and romantic yearning sing about, well, more depression and romantic yearning on the "most romantic" day of the year? Yes!

I rejoiced in my freedom (loneliness) as I read over some of the uplifting (downright sorrowful) titles: "Dear God, Please Help Me," "You Have Killed Me," and my favourite, "Life Is A Pigsty." Oh, Moz - you softie.

I've never been one for Valentine's Day. Not that I'm against showing expressions of your love for that special someone, but I think that every day should be a day to show your feelings for the one(s) you care about.

Take this for example. The girlfriend of one of my fellow workers shows up at the office this afternoon to drop off a balloon tied to a stuffed animal. Cute. We give him a hard time. Fun. But the best part is when the office hockey team, who is supposed to play tonight, comes down to our end of the office with a balloon attached to chocolates with a card. They jokingly ask him to read the card out loud.

Dear SDI hockey team,
Please excuse Brad as he will not be attending
hockey tonight as his presence is required at
home.
I hope the chocolates will make up for his absence.
Thank you.

Let's just say, someone is getting some action tonight and it ain't at the ice rink.

But hey, having an Anti-Valentine's Day is always more fun than buying Hallmark cards and a box of chocolates. So, forget the stuffed animals. I'll take the Mozzer, songs about how life and love suck, and a case of Nytol, please.

*In reality, I had wine with a nice, smart, cute, and funny girl. Because if you can't figure out an excuse to do so on Feb. 14, then you're trying too hard. And I got a message from an ex I never expected to get. All in all, a strange Valentine's. Not too shabby, really.

The depths of Rockstar Writer's lungs

The result of Rockstar Writer's X-Ray revealed a stuffed animal living in his lungs.

Bronchitis. Asthma. Pneumonia. I could have one or all three of these. Likely it’s the first one, but my weeks of hard working and hard partying have finally caught up to me as it does every so often. It’s like my body says to me, “Fucking slow down now and place yourself on your couch with a copy of the latest cutting edge TV season DVD. And stay there until I say so.”

I’ve been sick since Christmas Day and I only know that because I suffered through the Detroit Lions versus New Orleans Saints game when I was visiting the folks in San Antonio(the Saints were playing in the Alamodome because of Hurricane Katrina). A night-long party binge resulted in my body feeling like I was a QB being blindsided by a 350 pound offensive line behemoth. Then I went had my mother’s yearly Christmas party to attend that night. Needless to say, if you could take a picture of my immune system at the time, it would look like one of those warnings the government requires plastered on boxes of smokes.

The next day I was sick and hungover AND had to visit about 20 different families that wanted to see me before I left for another year. My sense of obligation and codependent tendencies led me on the long cruel journey that was the longest Christmas Day EVER. It was as if Jesus himself was punishing me for one too many Christmas Eve martinis.

Anyways, the penance continues as I’ve been low-grade sick for nearly two months with my body turned into a factory for mucous of many colors (clear, green, yellow, brown) and consistencies (clumpy, viscous, sneeze induced explosions). It comes out of my nose and chest and anytime I breathe out too hard, I can feel it moving around in my lungs like that stuff the victims are covered with in Aliens.

I finally went into the doctor and he did the regular stuff, but when he finally used the stethoscope on me, he asked me if I had asthma. Not that I was aware, I replied. He informed me that my chest sounded like it belonged to a person with asthma. Fantastic!

A prescription for a puffer and one for antibiotics later, I made the decision to stay at home on Friday. Not really because I felt awful, but mostly to go to the hospital for my chest X-ray to ensure I wasn’t going to drown in my self-produced phlegm with a bout of pneumonia. So, here goes nothing.

Mimi strikes gold for Rockstar Writer

Mariah Carey trying to act sane. Sorry, it's not

working. You're on a poster for Glitter.

Thank you, Mariah Carey – for sucking.

Today I took home the win in the Mariah Carey Grammy office pool. I don’t know what’s more pathetic: that people in my office actually like/care about Mariah Carey or that we actually had a Mariah Carey Grammy office pool.

Four of us placed numbers in a hat and whoever picked #1, got to select how many little golden gramophones that Ms. Six Octave could take home out of eight nominations. Whoever selected #2, picked next and so on. The way the numbers drew out, I choose Carey to win three or seven trophies.

I honestly didn’t think she’d win seven – not even that Norah Jones girl won that many statues for being to adult-contemporary pop and jazz as Jesus was to pagans. But the way the numbers drew out, I knew that there was enough industry insiders who made cash off Carey’s Emancipation of Mimi album to give her at least a few awards. I had to pick seven wins merely because she was either going to win a few or win a truckload because Americans love a comeback story and one can’t get more American than Carey’s return from a mental breakdowns, a few shitty albums and an awful acting career (Glitter, anyone?). And besides, the only numbers left when my second turn came around were 1, 7, and 8.

Well, my astute handicapping of the Grammy categories helped me pocket an easy $15. But I also want to thank Kanye West, not for being the most annoying rapper out there, but for creating some competition with the only diva that would/could call her album Emancipation of Mimi. I mean, who the hell is Mimi? One of the many multiple personalities Carey has in that bouffant-sporting noggin of hers?

And I’m sorry, but to associate an album sung by a woman who once requested a red carpet lined by candles before she would step off her private jet with the idea of emancipation is ridiculous and an insult to all those who formed the concept in the first place. Do you think Mimi, er, Mariah was thinking about Abraham Lincoln, Frederick Douglass, and Harriet Tubman when asked what she’ll call her album? I think not.

But thanks to Kanye, who at least has something to say, he created enough confusion with Grammy voters, that U2 came out the other end with at least two more awards than they should have received. And thanks to Kanye, I’m three five dollar bills richer. Now, what would happen if I sung that last sentence in six octaves?

One of those nights...

Shit, I hate it when my drinking leads to mass orgies...or do I?

Yet another reason why the Perry Bible Foundation is the best comic on the web. Hands down.

Snow days are for lovers

What my car looked like this morning before I dug it out.

The phone rings at six motherfuckin’ thirty a.m. in the morning and it’s my boss. In my stupor, I try to be clever.

“I’m ready for work,” I mumble into the phone the best I can before my first cup of coffee.

“Uh, yeah. We’re snowed in today, so work from home,” my confused supervisor says.

I take enough time to hang up the phone, look at the clock, and give a brief hallelujah before I drift off until 9 a.m., an hour and a half later than when I usually wake up when a foot of snow doesn't fall over night.

A great thing about being Canadian is a snow day. These are the times when Mother Nature tells us apartment dwellers to take a break while we sip hot chocolate and watch those foolish enough to own property tunnel their way out of their houses. Eat it homeowner!

One thing that beats mocking people with more responsibility and stability than me is spending the day made for Frosty the Snowman with someone special. Since the city is shut down while plows figure out where to put the icy mass, there’s no need to hurry to work or worry about putting the coffee on right away. Instead, you can linger in bed and do whatever couples do when they, er, linger in bed. Then it’s onto a leisurely breakfast before heading back to bed or on a walk to see check out the freshly blanketed neighbourhood.

As I sat at my kitchen table, sipping my Turtles-flavoured hot cocoa and pretending that some gorgeous girl was sharing half of my breakfast sandwich, I watched the couple next door dig out their car. It wasn’t as if this activity was a chore, but something fun to do with your girlfriend/boyfriend. I almost choked on my toast as they threw snow at each other like some sort of Care Bears special.

That was followed by memories of blizzards spent in the company of a cute girl and a slight pang of loneliness. So I went back to bed. And man, an extra pillow just doesn’t do it for me.

I'd rather be in Montreal

The rural east coast river they'll probably find my friends in

A carload of my close friends took off today to Montreal for a bagel and Reuben-eating, beer chugging, recluse-leading noise-rock band listening, getaway. Meanwhile, I sit here at work, watching the snow fall outside through the window, wondering if they'll make it back alive.

I was supposed to head to Maine next week to catch Sigur Ros, a fabulous Icelandic band made even more fabulous by the fact they play less-than-exotic places such as Portland, Maine. But seeing a forecast that calls for 20 cm (centimetres for you Americans, and yes, we spell it "re," not "er") consoles me when I think back to why I decided not to head to the French-Canadian metropolis in the first place.

Instead, I get to rock it with controller.controller and OK Go at one of the local watering holes. In case you didn't know, OK Go is the band that became famous with their hugely downloaded video of them practicing their choreographed dance skills in the backyard:

Ok Go in the backyard

Supposedly due to the word-of-mouth success of said video, the Ohio-based band has been invited for the sole purpose of doing this dance for television shows and during opening slots on comedy tours. Who knew that indie kids trying to be N'Sync would be so popular? Perhaps I should head to Value Village, pick up a $10 used suit and hit the comedy circuit with my interpretation of the Nutcracker set to the sounds of the latest Nada Surf record. Score!

That said, if they choose to ignore the main reason people like them and decide to neglect "the dance," I will be extremely peeved walking home from the bar in the blizzard tonight. That is, until I find out that my friends hurled off a bridge near Miramichi, New Brunswick in order to avoid hitting an Ewok or Chewbacca in the middle of the road.

Forgive and forget

So I’m at the bar I frequent and sometimes spin records at. Said bar also has the distinction of being the place where almost every single woman I’ve slept with or hit on in the last year likes to hang out too. It’s totally cool, though, as I thankfully have this learned ability to not be an asshole, and that leaves me on good terms with my former lovelies.

But every once in a while, I slip and show my other human ability to fuck up and do something that pisses another human off. It happens, we choose to forgive, or we bear a grudge until the sun overtakes Earth and destroys us, and we move on. But I digress…

On said evening, I was having drinks with Library Girl and Legs - no, I will not divulge whether either were part of my really-not-so-sordid past. Sorry, gossipy scenesters! – and found my glass empty. I moved to the bar to refill my tasty Stella in a fancy glass just to hear one of the off-duty bartenders finish a naughty comment that involved her breasts. Laughing, my eyes averted to said region. “I’m sorry,” I said smugly as she noticed me. “But I couldn’t help but look after I heard that.” More giggles ensued.

However, one girl across the bar gives a look that could make a Mormon feel sinful (It was a joke, honey!) and sensing this, my bartender friend backs me up, telling her that we know each other. Or perhaps she was sensing what was possibly to come.

“Didn’t you date Stylist Sweetie?” (Not her real name, duh!)
“Uh, yeah” feeling my stomach drop, knowing exactly where this is headed and for those of you who don’t read Status Single frequently, I’ll fill you in below.
“Oh, you’re that guy,” she says in that self-righteous tone that requires one to stick their nose as high it can possibly reach in the troposphere.

I recover enough to throw out an inkling of a response:
“Don’t believe everything you read,” I retort weakly, caught off guard.
“Well, you’re the one who wrote it.”

Touché stranger-girl. Touché.

Of course, she’s referring back to when I was dating someone who happens to frequent the bar and then wrote how I had feelings for a different woman. It was only then that I realized that half the indie scene reads my blog. Ooops! I guess the person at the bar decided it was never too late to show distaste for my fuck-up, regardless that she doesn’t know me or that the event happened months in the past. Hey, to each his/her own, right? As I’ve said before, I’m no saint.

Fast-forward two weeks. I’m kicking out the jams on the turntables thanks to my awesome new DJ pal. During a set that includes “Ring My Bell,” “Heart of Glass,” and “Daft Punk Is Playing In My House,” whom do I see busting a rug on the dance floor? But the very same person who deems it necessary to dole out dirty looks to the unworthy. I guess she recognized me at the same moment, because she pointed at me while dancing, mouth agape in a surprised, I just swallowed a bug sort of way.

“Hey, that’s Rockstar Writer!”

I don’t care if she was probably tipsy or that I may have just enough skills on the decks to make those who dislike me to dance. In that moment, I came to the conclusion that everyone deserves to be forgiven, especially where music, alcohol and blogging are concerned. Even me.