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.