New Romance

Where to go from here? I figured things were leveling out – I was wrong. It’s becoming clear to me that chaos isn’t scripted and insomnia will make you crazy. But for you, it won’t be long before I’m gone and slipping between the cracks of your mind. I recognize that the truth wasn’t hidden and Jack was right all along. And believe me, it’s easy to twist your mind and heart when you think that you’re falling in love. And even though you were, there’s no stopping it. So I’ll kill for a girl next time and know for sure what true love is. 

Don't mean nothin'

Delirium and exhaustion feel normal. Breaking down from insomnia is to be expected in times like these. But I aint that bothered cause we all gotta go and I know I’m on my way. By and by, the easiest way to loose your mind is by using it. Your heart aint healed for a pain you never felt. Doubt is now a possibility at the bottom of an ocean on a rainy day.   

Fades in

It's better to be lost on the road than it is to be lost at home. If you're lost at home, you might be askin' yourself questions like: "where am I?" and home aint no place to be askin' those kinda questions. Feelin' the sound of acoustic like the boy in me on a magic carpet, never changin' up in the sky, like purple lights on an acid sunset. Am I dreamin' or who's dreamin'? Chasin' blind love with tired eyes - sleep on a beach and wake up young. Who told you true love can't hide forever? 

For Someone

There's nothing I can say. Love aint the trap I thought it was. Spit it out if you got some soul or kiss me on the cheek and close the window. My mind's cracking up on your broken piece of shit radio, laughing from across the river. If you're caught between the truth and the echo of your own fucked up desires, it's the cause of laws for you to make a foolish decision. You'll soon find that you're older than you think, and what better way to learn.

'Big Race' Update

Due to post-Olympic bullshit, yesterday’s race between Alex “Super Space Cheetah” Robertson and John “Steam Engine” Currie has been postponed until crews finish dismantling the Richmond Ozone at Minoru. 

As it stands, Friday, March.12 is race day.

Similarly, as it draws near, both competitors are undoubtedly feeling the pressure mount—quite possibly, one more than the other.

Its been rumored that Super Space Cheetah has been listening to nothing but “Jesus Walks,” by Kanye West for the last five days.

“I’m going to crush John’s dreams like I crush pussy,” said Super Space Cheetah when asked about his strategy.

At this point, however, Steam Engine is vehemently refusing to acknowledge any of the attention whatsoever the ‘big race’ is receiving on Facebook and around the world. 

When asked why he’s so stubborn, Steam Engine replied, “I’m not stubborn, I just want to get this race over with.”

Sources indicate, however, that Steam Engine has been training vigorously for the upcoming dash, as it is going to be, without question, the most defining moment of his entire life.  

The Big Race

What happens when two former elementary school track stars grow up and start playing macho head games with each other?

That’s right. They settle it the only way any conflict should ever be settled: in a 100m freestyle foot race.

The challenger, Alex “Super Space Cheetah” Robertson, 23, shocked the world at a track meet over 15 years ago with his lightening fast starts and disregard for appropriate footwear. He hasn’t run since.

“I’ve crunched the numbers and mathematically there’s no way I can lose,” said Super Space Cheetah.

John “Steam Engine” Currie, crashed into the podium with four 1^st Place ribbons at a Swangard track meet at the age of 11. He’s now 23.

“John’s the fastest slow kid I’ve ever seen,” said Jamaican sprinter and Olympic gold medalist Usain Bolt.

The race is scheduled for Friday afternoon, March 5: Minoru Track in Richmond.

There can only be one winner.

The Olympic Dream?

Red spray paint, broken glass, long lineups and one dead. 

There’s no question, as the city erupted into a magnificent state of chaos and high-fives, the Olympic experience manifested from day one with the ferocity of a thousand hippos. 

The past two weeks in Vancouver have been a wild demonstration of unbridled patriotism and drunken delight—oh yeah, and of superior athletic performance.

For the first time ever, I have witnessed people from across Canada truly unite under the influence of two colours and one flag.

For those two Olympic weeks, nothing else seemed to matter.  As long as you were drinking beer and cheering for Canada, you belonged.  

By day three, I’d lost my credit card, partied with a millionaire, wore a beer tray on my head at the Heineken house courtesy of a Dutch bartender, slept on a bathroom floor, missed a day of work, witnessed an Olympic protest and pondered the merits of fascism. 

Strangely enough, I wasn’t sure how it all fit together. 

What was the Olympic dream?

In the second week, when America defeated Canada in game two of men’s hockey, a fleeting wave of panic rolled over the red and white homeland, like a realization that its national identity could indeed be mortal.

But it was a divine fallacy solved by fate and Sydney Crosby in the gold medal game between the two rivaling teams.

The universe can be enigmatic sometimes, but it never lies. 

The gold medal in men’s 2010 Olympic hockey is, indeed, the answer and solution to any existential question or identity crisis any Canadian with a hangover may have – at least for the next four years.  

Paddywagon Piss Tour

Part 1

“Get on the ground and shut the fuck up.” The cop drives his knee into my back and restrains my hands with a zap-strap.

“Ahhhh. You’re cutting off my circulation,” I say as urgently and politely as I possibly can.

No response.

There are crowds of people around and I can hear the voice of someone asking the cop to let me go. At least I think he’s talking about me. I’m intoxicated.

“Please man, they’re really tight. Can you please loosen them? Please.”

Still no answer. This is hopeless. I’m in undue pain and, of course, the cops don’t give a shit. What if I get gangrene and my hands fall off?

All I can see from this angle are black steal-toe boots and cargo pants. I’m afraid to lift my head and look up—I don’t feel like getting tazered or pissing myself.

I really wish I had a lawyer with me.

Everyone should have a lawyer when they go down town. It’s a civil hazard otherwise. The Police are everywhere and the fact is, they want to arrest or injure you. It doesn’t matter what for: fighting, laughing, eating pizza, giving change to street rappers and cripples—it’s all the same. Cops and bouncers, alike, have a profound ability to perceive anything you do as threatening to their tenuous sense of authority and the status quo.

The Concert

Inside GM Place, Oasis plays to an obedient crowd of 10,000 people or more. I on the other hand, am a dedicated fan laying face down on the concrete with my hands bound behind my back, guilty of nothing else but trying to rock out and crash the stage.

I don’t understand why they have floor seating at a concert like that anyway: essentially the catalyst for my ejection and subsequent arrest. I agree it would be ideal for Celine Dion or U2—but not fuckin’ Oasis!

So when I attempt to stagger onto the floor for the second or third time, five security guards intervene and haul me out of the stadium like a wrangled calf, dropping me directly in front of the Vancouver Police and a white box-shaped vehicle known as the paddywagon.

I know it’s going to be hard to slur my way out of this one.  Evidently, they're not giving me a chance.

Within minutes, I’m sitting in the back of the paddywagon beside two other less than scholarly gentlemen as it peels away from the grounds of GM Place.

Driving, I have no idea where we are or where we’re going. Each time the vehicle stops, we recruit yet another unruly patron of the city. Meanwhile, the ferocious stink of urine and vomit has engrossed the chamber which we occupy. It’s pitch black and my hands are numb.

So here I am, locked-up in the back of this roving piss tank, wondering what’s going to happen and if I’ll make it into work for 6 a.m.

To be continued…

Sex and Relationships

Let’s face it, relationships are an emotional and psychological shit storm.  It’s no wonder the only people who talk openly about the woes of fidelity are construction workers and alcoholics. 

Props to: Kobe Bryant, Tiger Woods and John Holmes

Interview with a sex addict

Stu: “Do you have sex recreationally?”

Byron: “Ya, I have sex recreationally.  I don’t want to get all serious about it.  You see those guys who turn pro and they’re all jacked-up on steroids and dick pills.  That’s not what it’s about for me.  When I get off work, I just want to have a mean-nothing orgasm before I go home and make love to my girlfriend.  That’s nice.  No cameras.” 

Stu: “That sounds more like adultery to me.”

Byron: “What’s that?”

Stu: “It’s where you lie to your girlfriend about sleeping with other people.  It’s not like playing golf or doing crossword puzzles.”

Byron: “How do you figure?”

Stu: “Well, calling it ‘recreational sex’ is a bit of a misnomer I think.”

Byron: “I don’t follow.”

Stu: “Let me put it in terms you’ll understand.  You can’t control your biological urge to fuck.”

Byron: “Right.”

Stu: “What about bastard kids and venereal disease.  You like that?”

Byron: “Condoms.”

Stu: “Abstinence.”

Byron: “What?”

Stu: “I think you’re an asshole.”

Byron: “I think you’re a pussy.”