I’m Sorry, I Never Do This

Before we change into something more comfortable…

If you’ve read My Secret Admonisher and are wondering how that whole thing turned out, then I apologize. This is not the much anticipate subsequent update. Watch for that in next weeks’ post. There have been developments which include a car chase, a terrorist hunt, and a shower scene showcasing my bare bottom. If you haven’t read the original Secret Admonisher update, it’s highly recommended. While you’re reading Cosmopolitan it’s curing male pattern baldness, putting the toilet seat down, and house training puppies.

The few times in my life that I have visited a pub, I didn’t sit at the bar. For one thing, the stools are too high and the foot rest is too low. The few times in my life that I’ve worn pants that actually fit properly (which are the same few times I have visited these pubs) I’ve leapt up onto these bar stools only to have the ankles of my slacks ride up. That, in turn, exposed the tops of some brown SAAN store stockings and the portion of a pasty white cankle where a tattoo of Tinkerbelle may someday reside.

If I’m ever finally able to achieve representation on the bar stool in question, there is left an entirely substantial issue pertaining to my safety. For starters, I’m elevated 3 ½ feet in the air. That’s much too high unless my mother is feeding me strained carrots amongst a resounding chorus of “open for the choo, choo!” The tops of these barstools are almost always shiny vinyl; which practically pleads for me to slide off leaving me in a crumpled heap on the floor.Finally, every single portion of my surrounding that lies outside my peripheral vision (which is almost always the entire pub) is vulnerable to sneak attack (with a +3 modifier for backstab). The entire proposition is unsettling at best; and I wrote the book on unsettling propositions.

Even if you can get beyond the limitations of the bar stools’ physical attributes, you’re still left with the daunting task of trying to engage women in that ever so predictable “at the bar” manner. To add insult to injury, you’re forced to do this whilst a violently sexy bar maid dries high ball glasses from a vantage point that makes her perfection unavoidable.

Travis politely, “Hi.”
Some Lady interrupted, “…”
Violently Sexy Barmaid: **smiles in eager anticipation**
Travis as a final effort before admitting failure, “What’s your name?”
Some Lady annoyed, “Dolores.”
Travis blankly staring at Violently Sexy Barmaid over his drink as he sips, “…”
Some Lady turning on her stool to address Travis, “What?”
Travis defensively trying to dismiss the obvious non-verbal communiqué, “nothing…”
Some Lady glancing at Violently Sexy Barmaid, “No What?”
Travis awkwardly dismounting bar stool as he turns to leave in panic, “I have to return some video tapes…”
Some Lady grabbing Travis’ arm in attempting to force the information via physical abuse, “No…seriously…what is it?”
Travis blurting in self defense, “Mulva.”
Violently Sexy Barmaid, **eyes widen in disbelief**
Some Lady, **slap**
Violently Sexy Barmaid, “smooth…”
Travis gingerly runs out of the pub waving both arms wildly about his head.

It’s next to impossible. Which brings me to my very loosely coupled segway. I really never do this, but I’m compelled to mercilessly beseech you from atop my inelegant bar stool whilst begging for your assistance in the following matter. I pray it doesn’t end in my running out of the room like a cheerleader who’s just discovered she’s wearing red nail polish with pink sneakers.

Someone once told me that the sign of a true writer had little to do with how well they wrote and much to do with why they wrote (lucky for me…judging by that hacked up dialogue scene). Following that, this same person (annoying bugger; I ran, couldn’t escape) asked me if I would continue to write if no one (other than myself) would ever read a single word of it. I pondered, then answered with the utmost integrity and resolve, “sure I would continue to write, I would write every person I knew and ask them why they weren’t reading my writing.”

Now, my readership is good. Actually, considering the uselessness of my writing, I’d say my readership is great. Painfully faithful you are. Returning weekly to churn through the same grammatical errors and plots that seldom deviate.I do appreciate the regular visits to the website and those dedicated soles who subscribed to the services (RSS or E-mail). In return, I have been trying desperately to regularly update the site and keep my updates at a reasonable level of interest (aim for Pulitzer, settle for Penthouse). Our subscription membership is up to 102 individuals and the site has received that times three in visitation.

I would like to send a heartfelt welcome to visitors from Blackfalds, Springwater, Winnipeg, Cherry Hill, and my personal favorite….Revenue, Saskatchewan….yesss (I hope it’s the elevator).

While blush-inducing, the actual numbers do represent a reduction from the magical days of the e-mail mailing list. It seems that while trying to safely shepherd readers across the narrow expanse of that drawbridge a few poor souls plummeted over the railing (willingly or otherwise). If you are one of these persons and you’re reading this; then firstly, I’m both amazed and relieved that you’ve survived the fall. Hopefully during your absence you weren’t forced into a daily readers ration of “O” magazine. Secondly, you’re likely reading this via the actual blog site; if that is your preferred medium, then continue in that regard.

As a matter of marketing, I would like to encourage everyone to forward the link if you have a particularly captivated desperate whom simply has nothing better to do with their respective time (relations being imprisoned felons, for example).

This method of engaging you is, actually, not my first attempt at reaching out. Over the course of the past few weeks I had taken the time to test some innovative ways to improve our readership, they just haven’t worked out that well…

I receive a multitude of telemarketers at my work ranging from organizations claiming they are strictly research companies to vendors begging for an opportunity to provide a product quote. With the introductory salutation of my counterparts pitch being so predictable, I am able to formulate a concise sales pitch of my own…

Some Sales Lady tentatively, “Yes, um, Mr. Weber, are you the individual responsible for IT purchasing decisions in your organization?”
Travis enthusiastically, “Yes, yes I am!”
Some Sales Lady with marginally more confidence, “Oh hi, we’re conducting an important survey concerning the top Canadian Technology companies future IT Plans.”
Travis in his negotiators voice, “I’ll take the survey if you sign up for my blog.”
Some Sales Lady effectively relegated to tentative, “…um…..sorry…..uh….sir….excuse me?”
Travis instructionally, “I wrote a great story about some knights in shining armour that live under a pile of dirty underwear in my bedroom…..hello……uhhh…..hello?”

This hasn’t worked yet, but I remain hopeful.I also considered handing out business cards at a location having a high rate of foot traffic. What place has a higher instance of random foot traffic than Walmart, and a newly opened Walmart at that. I walked into the superstore on opening day amid a traffic jam of potential customers. A helpful elderly man in a smock approached me and welcomed me to the store while handing me a bright yellow sticker portraying a happy face. I handed him a blue business card with my blog address on it. I cheerfully pointed out that he could read about me on the Internet. To which he replied…”what’s an Internet?”

The site that I use to distribute my blog does offer payment for sites which posses regular readership of 5oo or greater individuals. I figure, since we’re already 1/5th of the way there, we might as well make an effort. I am more than willing to share my dividends with my readers. I have read the site will pay $7.00 per 1000 impressions. So if I produce a weekly update to the minimum paid readership of 500, that generates $14.00 monthly to my 500 readers. Please e-mail me your mailing address so I can ensure you receive your monthly check for 3 cents (I rounded up).

Weighting to Exhale

To all my light hearted affiliates.It is a great day; no, nothing particularly great happened. I did launch a Telemedicine site in the Unity Health Centre. The staff, auxilliary/foundation, and some public were there. The equipment was very well received. I even had a quick photo-op with the local press that (I’m sure) will be accompanied by a quaint misquote revolving around the cost of the unit while downplaying enhancement in patient care. Pinko-Commy-Rag. I’m only kidding. Dan-O is a great guy and I know he’s as excited about the initiative as I am. Watch for it in all major North American publications (ie. The Unity Herald and Wilkie Press).

I guess the next logical question is that if there was no particular incident leading to this days ascention into greatness, then what was it? Well my friends, I’ll tell you.

On August 9 of 2005 I was thurst into a weightloss adventure that I (and likely some concerned friends) was hoping would someday result in a particular measure of fitness and sex appeal. As I’m sure you’ll agree, I am perfectly happy to settle for the former while not waiting on the latter.

I’ve been doing this for 412 days. Portions of the adventure seemed like long hard roads; however, the velocity with which my life changed also helped to make the months both interesting and exciting. I visited the gym approximately five times a week. I probably averaged two hours in the gym while I distinctly remember sessions lasting up to four.

Here I sit, 80 pounds later. I know. Thats a lot. If you’re wondering what 80 pounds looks like, I can’t help you, I didn’t save it. I can itemize a few moments in history that were also defined by that same number. As a matter of interest, I’ve included my general whereabouts at approximatley that time.

1) April 27, 1983 – The number of pounds of Heroin seized in a raid in California. I had turned five years old on April 13 and celebrated with the arrival of a stunning little sister. I remember receving handcuffs for a birthday gift, a request I’ve been unable to repeat to date.

2) June 8, 2005 – The amount of money an Oxford University student was fined for insulting a police horse. Yes, you read that correctly. A police spokeswoman said: “the man was arrested while drunk and shouting homophoboc comments at a police horse.” I have never insulted a horse. I have insulted a woman by telling her she looked like a horse, and I have killed an actual horse by feeding it too many buckets of oats; however, I have never actually insulted a horse to its long pointy face. I have time.

3) September 13, 2006 – The respective amounts of garlic sausage, summer sausage, and beef sausage stolen from the Dupont Cheese Factory in Marion, Wisconson. I once shingled a roof for a man who fed me all the pork sausage I could ever want. RIP Tom.

Ok, enough silliness. Point is, I am down to 180 pounds which is actually 5 more than I had really wanted to lose.

The Three Classifications of Boys

Here I sit, on my lunch break, knowing full well something needs to be written all-the-while completely unawares of the escaping notion. That is a weird feeling. An insatiable urge to wield pen against paper that can only be satisfied by a page worth of nonsense sent in your general direction, the result of which (I suppose) is yours to bare. Good friends you all are…indeed.

The haphazard details of my latest Jerusalem, Cape-Canaveral, or Waterloo have been quite overdone in the chronicles to date. So much so that those topics demand a serrated knife in parsing and take considerably more time to digest. I’ll do my best to offer up something a little more tender.

I have been carefully considering the state of my love life lately. “Love-life” is such a misnomer. I see no accurately applicable way that I can begin to refer to my relationship with the opposite sex as a “Love-life”. Hopefully nobody will think less of me if I simply refer to it as my “Female Acquaintance and Interest Life” or FAIL.

I know. That subject falls entirely within two of the above analogies and possibly all three. It’s always a bit of a pilgrimage for me (Jerusalem) that will undoubtedly explode before it gets off the ground (Cape Canaveral) due to an astounding number of my own oversights (Waterloo). It wasn’t always like that. I don’t like that it is, and really, that’s why we’re all here, isn’t it? A little therapy? Oh c’mon, you can’t deny that reading about my transgressions either a) nominates you for sainthood by comparison or b) makes you take stock of startling similarities.

The homage paid of late hasn’t been due to any life altering epiphany or any single affecting incident; I’ve just been thinking about it a lot lately due to the accumulation of occurrences and happenings from months prior. Now, I know we have some new readers and I certainly don’t wish to regurgitate the story of the passed thirteen months. Suffice it to say, it’s been bit complicated. HA.

Alright, what I’ve done here is grouped “boys” into three easily identifiable classifications. This will raise everyone’s awareness (including mine) of how men are likely to behave during the different stages of their lives, as well as give me something to potentially help evaluate my situation.

* * *

Unattached
Presently, we find ourselves here. By “ourselves” I mean the collective me. Referring to all of my valued readers in the third person thereby giving the impression that you’ll all be brought along on whatever fateful adventure awaits. Perhaps [T.G.Chronicles TN.981.0 - A Wedding Invitation] will be sent out sometime in the distant future. Writers would call that foreshadowing….or is it foreboding?

The Unattached men basically spend weekend upon weekend focusing on two very basic indulgences. Girls and Socializing. You may find slight derivations in behavior (possible sports); however, this classification of man is all basically doing the same thing. Running around acting like a bit of an idiot, and having a self-justifiable excuse for doing it – “We’re single”. The effect is made exponentially worse with each instance of close friend that is a single boy.

An important distinction within the group of “Unattached” is “Available” vs. “Happily Single”. Some boys are actually looking for a female counterpart and; subsequently, they are considered available. Some boys are not currently interested in finding a girlfriend and may state that they are happily single. All boys will tell a beautiful woman that they are both available” and happily single in the same sentence.

Reserved
This group of boys has gained maturity allowing them to put aside many of the tendencies of the “Unattached” boys. This has allowed them to rise above most of the childish things boys do and adopt a meaningful and healthy relationship with a member of the opposite sex (or same sex, if that’s you’re thing….believe me, I’ll not judge)

Reserved boys are good boys. Ok, that sounds dumb, but they are. They have a deliberate sense of appropriate vs. inappropriate and are anxious to make a good impression for a particular woman not only for the sake of relationships, but on the general premise that they’re growing emotionally. Ok, I only said it (wrote), I didn’t say I was it.

Edified
The edified group of boys represents the final transformation of those childish boys into men and their willingness to improve in an effort to spend their lives with someone who they undoubtedly have no desire to live without.

There’s little more that I can say here, save that I find it an honorable endeavor indeed.

* * *

Three groups of boys all struggling to do what their upbringing has taught them was appropriate. State of being and maturity driven by several factors including the place they are emotionally and the things they need from their lives at that point.

We can all agree that I’m currently wading through a period of “Unattached” (“Available” is up for debate, although I’d like to think I was) and working my way toward “Reserved” with the fullest of intentions of getting back to “Edified” (if I ever actually was).

I enjoy being single (although the silliness does leave me with a nearly continuous case of the “guilties”); however, I genuinely look forward to having a girlfriend again (although I doubt I remember how that actually works) and I’ll welcome marriage whence it comes knocking again (I can assure you there are mistakes that won’t be made a second time).

Maybe that’s enough to go on at this point and I should stop belaboring the argument. In any case, it seems my “Female” “Acquaintance” and “Interest” “Life” should focus on working my way through the stages of “Unattached”, “Reserved”, and “Edified”. It’s simply a matter of FAIL-URE (or rather avoiding it).

Hmm. The update was intended to be a clever mnemonic device developed from acronyms littered within the body of the update. What has happened is that I’ve unknowingly (honestly fairly unwittingly) ended up with a frighteningly negative noun to describe my state of affairs. In retrospect it’s easy to see that I need to be more positive when it comes to dating, really, then I can begin to work my way back through the stages of a meaningful relationship.

Bastard I’m smart.

After that I reckon (who says “reckon”?) it’s simply a case of the “she’s out there’s”. God willing I’ll be walking through a busy hall-way somewhere only to be sidetracked in helping an attractive intern pick-up the excessive amount of notebooks she’s managed to drop widespread across the floor. Interns have it so easy. Need a date? Easy, drop your notebooks all over a crowded hallway floor and wait for handsome man to help you pick them up. Jeeze.

My dearest Nikki, we all miss you and look forward to your safe return. I whole-heartily apologize for the blatant lack of plot (which I know you despise), I’ve tried to compensate with colorful word play and admirable cadence. Yes, yes, I know it was way too Dr. Phil. Way.

Staggering Toward The Alter

G’day, G’day…just got done feeding my birds…Alright, those of you who actually took the time to wade through the overbearing self-wallow of the last update may have labeled mine a little sensational. That is, sensational in the bad over-the-top way, not the fantastic superhero-tights way. I’ll agree with you on that premise. I reread the update and I get the feeling that all manner of wretchedness has come down atop the writers’ think-tank with the force of a two-handed hammer. I’ve easily rectified the issue by purchasing a trusty yellow hard-hat; I wear it now. I refuse to wear anything else.

What’s that? Well….yes….it’s always been that size. Embarrassed? No, sorry, I don’t get embarrassed. I’ve lived with that particular “short”-coming for many, many years; I’ve “long” since “grown” out of shame. Besides, most men “largely” “stretch” the truth when it comes to that particular “endowment”. Why so red you ask? No, nary a blush my friend, I’ve simply washed in anticipation of our meeting, yes, that’s it. I’ve washed.

On what fact-checkers (props Nik) will prove to be Saturday July 22, 2006 I attended a “stag”. There is a definition of the term “stag” that states it is a male animal, for example, a hog, removed of its manliness after it reaches maturity. I assure you I did not attend one of those. I would remember that occasion.

Now, for those of you unversed in the liturgy of love, a “stag” as it were is actually a festive gathering of quivering ignoramuses possessing free passage to a small town named “Idiocy”. It almost sounds too good to be true; however, you must trust me.

I once attended a “stag” for a man who loved Judy Garland. His best man had organized a triathlon. It was requested that I outwit a Scarecrow, seduce a Tin Man and wrestle a Lion. What could I do? I asked that the Scarecrow elaborate on Pythagoreans theorem, the Tin Man received a healthy does of Keats, and I kicked that Lion in the nuts when he wasn’t looking. Good times.

The only downside to a “stag” is that women, generally speaking, are not invited. It seems the only way men are able to convince a woman to attend a “stag” is to pay them. Even then, for some reason if a woman accepts the invitation they usually feel inclined at some point to remove their clothing. I don’t get it. It’s distracting when I’m trying to tell my best buddy about the new color-scheme in my master-bath.

Do not confuse a “stag” with its polar opposite of a “staggette”. Although I have never attended one, I have every confidence that a “staggette” is little more than a group of extremely attractive women sitting around in their night-gowns wondering where all the boys have gotten to; followed shortly thereafter by hours of scantily-clad tickle fights….*sigh*. Adding insult to an already brimming pot of injury, the “stag” and “stagggette” must be performed tandem. On many occasions a “stag” has effectively been reduced to a rabble of hormonal cavemen wandering the streets looking for an accompanying “staggette”. This can be a particularly dangerous state of affairs should the “stag” happen upon a “staggette” not of its correct counterpart. A melee often ensues, and many an individual has had their eye poked out. Saturday I would have lost one myself; if not for my trusty hard-hat. Not laughing now, are we.

If I was the sort of “Tosser” who went about assigning arbitrary values to each event he ever attended, I would give this past weekend a score of 146. Respectable. For perspective, my birth would have an impressive score of 214 and my circumcision would garner a score of -1293. The evening I became the anti-virgin would demand I score it 384; although I received a phone-call stating she scored it 4. I negotiated her up to a 7. I feel that’s fair.

I haven’t the time to ramble onward into every minute detail of a reasonably good time; however, I will surmise the entire evening into one singular thought. Let’s just say a cup-of-joe and I are quite a bit better at horseshoes than flip’n tea-bags. That should be sufficiently confusing.

What’s the point of it all? I know, this one’s tricky. I’ve had to remove my hard-hat for a second to scratch my head in thought. Wait, there it is, I believe I’ve found a point worthy of making under the bed. Many times many people have heard me say, “I’m going to have fun tonight”. With startling consistency on those evenings when I expressly proclaim that fun will be had, I have a good time. With that notion I employ you approach every single situation you encounter with the same blind zeal and anticipation. Albeit I’m a bad example since I could find fun in a broom closet; however, the point still stands.

Hands in your pockets…

He’s Just Not That Into You

Hi Friends…Yes, you are all my friends, in a roundabout Guy Ritchie British Mayhem way. I simply adore British Mayhem.
I promised zero Mailing List Updates during the summer; however, I can’t resist the urge. It is a slow day at work and I’ve simply got to share. My only demise at this point is that I haven’t the foggiest idea of what I’d like to share with you. My bed, definitely my bed, I’d like to share my bed with each of you; however, the logistics are simply unmanageable.

I will briefly say that I am writing a novel about a man named Andrew who falls in love with a woman named Madge. It will be self-published late October through Trafford Publishing in Vancouver. Your Nickels Worth in Regina will be doing the editing. I’ll speak no more of it. I am already looking over my shoulder for fear Nikki may end my life for ruining the secrecy of the endeavor.

Goodness. I’ve got it. I have been dating lately. Aha, no such luck you sentimental bastards, I’ll not sit here and bay at the moon attempting to outline for you the wolfs-bane that has become my love life. No, no, I’ll not do that…well…maybe just a little…

I will discuss with you a little book that has been referenced to me an astounding number of times over the passing months. As is the case with every single occurrence on Gods good earth that I cannot understand, this book generated its popularity through Oprah. Oprah, you and I will have words one day.

Now, I have not read this book, subsequently, I will not intend to refute it specifically; however, I will offer a generalized opinion concerning the context.

I dated a woman recently. Well, we went out a couple of times. Actually, we spent the weekend together. Alright, we got drunk and shared a tent for a weekend at a ball tournament. Don’t judge me.

I saw her the last time on a Monday and I called her the following Wednesday. I waited the two days because I didn’t want to appear overbearing and pushy. The weekend was a bit of a whirlwind influenced heavily by friendship and spirits. I thought she might benefit from a few days of clear headed thinking prior to being propositioned by a guy she’s effectively only just met. I sincerely refuse to take advantage of any women, subsequently; I hoped she’d gain a firm grasp on her position prior to our next visit.

Apparently I was quite incorrect. Not far into Wednesday’s discussion she informed me she had read that men who wait two days to call are “not that into you”. I did not know this. I thought men who called the next day were desperate, clingy, and/or psycho. Norman Bates could present an excellent relationship with his Mother-In-Law; however, other than that I see no appealing dating qualities radiating from his persona. It’s the whole stabbing thing.

Additionally, she informed me that if I’d waited one more day and called her on the Friday I’d have been calling simply to implicitly propose an amorous “physical encounter”. You can imagine my surprise. My prospective list of things I expect from a woman on a second date includes Conversation, Laughter, Shaved Legs (hers and mine), Indian Leg Wrestling, Breaking Wind, and at least one difference of opinion on an arbitrary issue. Sex is not that important…at that point.

Near the end of, an otherwise pleasant, conversation she added that I had also made a mistake in offering her my telephone number.

It seems I had placed the onus on her by offering her my telephone number. I should have asked her for her telephone number as that is a manly thing to do. I would have then had her number (saving her having to offer it) and would be able to call her promptly the next day. I held the telephone receiver away from my face and stared at it in a state of wonder.

MY SUMMARY OF THE WEEKEND – We hung out. I liked her. I offered my phone number in hopes that we could see each other again. She offered hers and I called her the following Wednesday.

HER SUMMARY OF THE WEEKEND – We hung out. She liked me. I should have called sooner. I should have asked for her number.

I will tell you this. By the end of the Wednesday night phone call she was very correct about one thing, I simply wasn’t that into her.

She seemed surprised that I cancelled that weekend.

I, personally, don’t think it is fair to standardize every situation in dating and label it as positive or negative. People are different. And I’m not just speaking of the crazy shit men do. Women do crazy shit all the time. When my date gets uncontrollably plastered and stomps around the bar all night hating me for no reason, I do not label her as being “not that into me”. I don’t generalize it and start comparing it to an acceptable list of things women can do during dating. I label her as a crazy fecking drunk. The next we both pretend it didn’t happen and bury it away in a shameful prison of all negative things waiting to explode in a fit of emotional unhealthiness.

Honestly friends. The simple fact of the matter, for me anyway, is that every time a woman compares something I’ve done to something they’ve read in a book and then offers up a reason provided by the book for me performing the action prior, it offends me. I don’t do things because that’s what guys do. I do things because that’s what I do. That’s what I am. That’s what my moral fiber and underlying value tells me I need to do at that point. Right, wrong or otherwise.

I’m not saying the book has no merit and I’m not saying the book is not a useful tool; just don’t use it as a substitute for feelings every time you face uncertainty.

Run the by me Again

It’s Tuesday and I’m fired up. This update is fired up. It’s fired up with action of the Jason Statham variety. I’m not talking “Snatch” with the cheeky background music; I’m talking “Transporter” with the open dress-shirt. It’s that fired up this update is. If I could embed rockets in this update that shoot out of your computer screen the instant you opened this email, you’ be on your ass right now. That’s how fired up I am. I’m that fired up. That’s how fired up I am….and so on, and so forth. Enough of that, as you can plainly see I’ve had my morning coffee. Right-o, here we go. No stragglers please.Note: if you can find a mailing list with a better introduction, purchase it immediately. In fact; buy me one; I’ll reimburse you for the cost. It’s also low in trans-fat.

I love to run. Don’t just say the words, envelope them with oozing sexuality. Stroke your tongue across the “L” as you whisper the phrase hoarsely. Bring forth your voice from the backmost cavern of your throat rather than that little box-seat up near your nasal cavity the likes of which those two annoying Muppet commentators jab down at you whence from.

I. Love. To. Run.

Marilyn Munroe would be proud. Jacqueline Onasis would politely turn a blind eye for the sake of the nation. John F Kennedy would be ashamed. John F Kennedy was in Zapruder Film of Kennedy Assassination (1963) with Jean Hill. Jean Hill was in Beyond ‘JFK’: The Question of Conspiracy (1992) with Gary Oldman. Gary Oldman was in Murder in the First (1995) with Kevin Bacon. Six Degrees indeed. Still here? I said no stragglers….ya’, that means you. Stop with the straggling.I sit here trying to think of what else I particularly love as much as running. I love reading, writing, and most rithmetic (go St. George! Go, except you Merc….jerk); however, I’m currently able to multi-task the entire lot while mixing in a brisk gallop to spite the dreaded Kenyans. In fact, I’m writing this update as I prance across an open meadow; shoeless as I splat through the endless array of wildlife droppings. I bound across the grassed area in nary but a loin cloth. My fingers and toes curl upward to the sky as I look to the left and smile widely at the pinnacle of each stride. It’s as if they’re taking a picture to scrapbook each length of my advance. Tchk, I’ve caught my foot in a rusty old bear trap, excuse me while I gnaw that off. Chew…..chew……chew. Aha, who’s straggling now? Very clever you saucy bastard, yes, it seems I am a bit straggly. Continue on my sarcastic friend, I’ll catch up.

At night I sit, mostly naked, gazing out my bedroom window, across the street, into someone else’s bedroom window. Ok, that’s not true. Their blinds are always drawn closed, I can’t see in their window. In any case, I pour over my brains’ gelatinous mass of license plates. You see, while I’m running, I’m very good at reading these plates and writing them to memory instantly. This, of course, is more a matter of survival than boredom. In an instant I can take the MSRP of an offending automobile and multiply it by the average class-action settlement awarded to pedestrians having been struck by careless drivers. I’ll wager my broken hip against your house boat any day. Don’t judge me. I see the look on your faces.

Ya, that’s the look. Fading ever-so-slightly toward the center line you gawk as if I’m pantless in a Moore’s suit store in downtown Saskatoon (ah yes, it happened…entirely my fault as it were). “Please, Sir, I want some more” I mouth as I gingerly trot along the tiniest portion of the outer most white-line. Anyone care to wager why Oliver was such a straggler? Hmmmm? No, well I’ll tell you, malnourishment. Basically that’s my thin analogy, I’m suffering from running-path malnourishment and it’s making a straggler of me. Oh the hideous creature I’ve become.

I’ve become so good at balancing that I’ve fielded calls from an agent for “The Flying Wallendas”. I keep telling them I will only accept the part of Tino. During the show Tino spends the better part of twenty minutes riding around on a bicycle eating a hot-dog with Aurelia perched atop his shoulders…..sigh. As of yet, they stubbornly refuse my offer.

While I run I’m accosted by all manner of flying debris. Yes debris, such as in a hurricane. All I’m saying is that the travesty inflicted upon my run is basically of the same significance as Katrina. A vehicle whisks by allowing me ample space and time. At this instant I should realize something’s wrong. Seconds later my dream is shattered by an array of materials hurled from the passenger side window. I’ve dodged expended Kleenex, Ricky Martin CD’s, and a Christmas Tree (in July). I was even hit in the face once by a Whopper Junior……it didn’t even have a bit taken out of it, that’s how bad they wanted to hit me. What’s this? Oh; yes….I ate the burger. Nasty habit you’ve got there….that judging. They can most likely remove that with day surgery.

All possibility of being cut down in cold blood aside, running really is a soothing experience. It’s simple, like Marty McSorely. I suspect both running and Marty are honored for that state of simplicity residing in their performance. One foot in front of the other, that’s all there is. Continue until it feels like someone is trying to rip your lungs out by way of your navel, then carry on for another thirty minutes. The pain means its working. I find it’s handy to develop a running route that takes you past the optimal number of emergency care facilities. This maximizes your chance of survival post coronary. Another suitable strategy would be to consistently run adjacent chicks, subsequently garnering a bit of enjoyable Artificial Resuscitation should something most fowl occur. It’s the whole silver lining thing. What’s that I see? You’ve just snuck away from your computer to change into a black robe? The gavel is a bit much.

Some mornings I even get a bit of a show, or do I put on the show? In any case, I get all geared up for my morning run only to be accosted by the sun-lights super ultiviolent-rays. In a matter of minutes I’ve stripped down to my skivvies while my man-boobs flail about to the “Flight of the Bumblebee”. It’s at this instant that hot chicks appear from all angles. With binoculars they burn holes in me from makeshift bleachers they’ve constructed out of the shambles of my self-esteem. Ha, I know full well you are in the habit of judging; however, these women act as jury. A verdict of guilty is handed down every time, First Degree Public Flabbiness. Sentenced to ten years of intense shame….you with the gavel…..now….whack!

What is my official position on men without shirts? I’m glad you asked, so that I may more gladly tell you. What’s that? “Men Without Hats”? How the heck did we go from my spare tire to three pretty boys from a French High School in Montreal? Who cares, I’m talking shirts here. I give you, a quandary…

Everyone looks better with a bit of color; unless it’s purple, then they’re choking and you should probably help them. A nice soft brown hue will cover up all of the indignities that currently scorn the largest of our organs (well, the largest of most of our organs). Varicose veins, stretch marks, Anchor Tattoos with your mothers name scribed below. All of these may be reduced to unnoticeable by way of a little time spent under the solar systems crown jewel. Here’s the rub. I am the first to acknowledge that without my shirt I look a significant amount like a partially deflated inner tube. In my defense, there is absolutely no place on this planet that a man can get sun without being in the public eye. It’s a vampire type of thing. I remove my shirt to get some sun, girls appear, and I turn to ash and blow away.

Tanning salons? What am I? Za Za Gabor?

I adore this part. It’s been brought to my attention that my closings contain a great deal of life-lesson and heart-string banter. I’m touched. Honest. People read this stuff and say, “wow that guys touched”. True to form, I offer you a parting thought…

My brother has said many things that have stuck with me; however, only one I can retort without worry of arrest. He did speak to me of Health in general and that has stuck with me as I’ve journeyed toward my Arnoldesque physique. He matter-of-factly stated “this has to be a life style change”. Point of interest, he states everything matter-of-factly. He once told a horse that it was ugly, matter-of-factly, then nearly fist-fought the beast when it seemingly disagreed. I didn’t have a clear understanding of his thoughts until my eldest sister inquired as to when I would discontinue my work outs since I had lost the amount of weight I originally wished to. At that point I realized I had no intention of stopping. “A lifestyle change”. Dearest Todd, though as rare as the White Rhinoceros, your wisdom is profound in this instance. Queue the Cosby show close-out music as all the little children crawl up to hug Heathcliffe. With the jeehllooh, and the puuudding popss, and the poppiiinnngg. Rudy…No straggling!

I offer you my deepest sorrows for the length of the update. If I may borrow apologize from a nation so proficient in giving them, ze Germans.

I am working on a version of these updates in a chewable tablet form; however, as of yet have been unable to produce anything that does not taste of brilliance.

In the middle of a tickle fight…

Canadian Writers

Hello my delicious little tasties….

2006 is sure to be a banner year for The Chronicles. Fist pump, arm thing, arm thing.

I’ve become enamored with my own writing. I read and reread my last update tip-toeing across the verbage like a tiny little pixie poorly portrayed by an actress made famous via Richard Geres’ smile. Alas, after many pats on the back, nearly resulting in a hyper-extended elbow, I retire to read a bit of “The Joy of Writing” by one Canadian Pierre Burton. I figure with my marginal success it cannot hurt to compare myself to an accomplished writer with some seventy-five published books, essays and columns to his credit.

As it turns out, I’m not a very good writer at all. Granted I’ve only read the first two Chapters, but it seems I routinely break many of the rules that have passed my fellow Canadian writers their literary mustard. Folks like Will Ferguson, Stuart MacLean, and a personal favorite, one Farley Mowat (granted he seems to have a bit of a thing for the ‘four-legged’).

At the forefront, Mr. Burton claims that I shall not write anything that which the content of I am not an expert. This I find preposterous. Not only am I fully uncertain what I am writing at the time I write it, I usually never have any idea what my point is until I’ve reached it. It’s a lot like taking a taxi cab when you’re lost. I find this to be the easiest way to keep my reader thoroughly in suspense abruptly blind siding them at the end of the update. Naturally, they can’t possibly foresee my ending if I haven’t thought of it until the instant I type it. Score it T.G. = 1, Mr. Burton = 0.

Followed closely by Mr. Burton’s appraisal that writers have a tendency to gravitate toward bias readers and inflate their own categorization of their writing based on responses received from those readers. I must say, I find his assumption a little shocking. If eighteen years of my mother beating me every time I wrote a single stitch was her secret way of inflating my perception of my writing, then I must deduce that I currently write like an armless man in an eraser factory. Nay, nay, nay, I recant. In typical Olympic style fashion my mother showered me with the poisonous potion that is maternal bias, stating over and over that I am special and people do love me. Score it T.G. = 1, Mr. Burton = 1.

Mr. Burton also states that non-fiction is easier to write that fiction. Well I’ll have you compare the next two sentences on the basis of your general interest. “The Binary system is a numbering system based on sequences of 0’s and 1’s”. “The ‘Binary’ system is a numbering system based on ornery bisexuals”. I’ll let you decide which you’d rather read. Score it T.G. = 2, Mr. Burton = 1.

In order to write, you must read. I feel that Mr. Burton has painted me into a corner with this realization and is holding me at bay with his brush. Obviously anyone who purchases his book will read it. Subsequently anyone who reads his book is able to read. Lastly, anyone who observes Mr. Burtons suggestion will, by then, be duped since they are already reading and likewise do, in fact, read. That’s a point for you Pierre, but I personally don’t like the way you played the scrimmage. Score it T.G. = 2, Mr. Burton = 2.

Lastly, Pierre would have me believe that I’m not going to make it as a writer. This is insulting. Not because it may very well be true, but because he has missed the point. I don’t need to make ‘it’. I have made, and I’ll continue to make ‘it’, so long as someone wishes to read ‘it’. It doesn’t have to be in a book, in a magazine, or on a billboard. As long as a single [extremely] bored individual yearns for what I bring. I’ll bring ‘it’.

I must note, I have been very much enjoying my adventure into Canadian writing. If you ever get a chance to pick up anything by Stuart MacLean or Mr. Burton, please do. I find Mr. MacLean a simply fantastic writer with a genuine knack for descriptive prose. Personally, I really enjoy Mr. Burton’s book “The Joy of Writing”. I have found many useful suggestions within its text. I’ll read it through, note his points, and follow as many as I can. After that, the rest is up to you.

Halloween

I reckon you’re all expecting a dank and dreary foxtrot down the abysmal tunnel that is the horror genre. Well, I’ll provide you not my nipple to suckle. Besides the fact that I am significantly less imaginative than most of you give me credit for, I’m also quite easily frightened, proof positive by my refusal to watch anything containing any derivation of the specter that is Barbara Walters.Instead I offer you an eye opener (no Shelley, not an 11:00 a.m. red-eye), but rather a short story from that point of view which is exclusively ignored by every manner of Hallowed-Eve poet ever to don a writer’s halberd, the monsters.

I was in the Red Lion on Saturday night. I saw him across the room; we both slowly evaluated each other while we were careful not to make eye contact. He wore a long black cloak his head was covered entirely. We both sat and drank, at our own tables, until the space between us seemed to shrink on its own accord. Eventually it was only the two of us and he hastened me over with a single long index finger.

I sat, quite, awaiting his reason for my beckoning. He inquired, “Do you know who I am”. I responded, “no, and you’re scary”. He sighed an impetuous sigh as he reared his head to reveal his narrow face. “That’s the problem with your brand of creature,” he stated, “too scared”. I ordered us a round, and without provocation, he began his Halloween story…

*****
I awake in my bed, or rather, my box. I tell my lovely wife, “tonight is the night I will smash the barrier that has been created over the passed thousand years between my race and the humans. The years of planning will come together in a glorious moment of understanding and acceptance, resulting in a cooperative and understanding world for us all to inhabit”.

My wife helps me put on my best cloak. I peer into the mirror and adjust my slick black hair in a manor that suggests I can actually see my own reflection. A tear trickles down my cheek as I lament how I wish to fit in. My wife assures me, as only a wife can, that I am a loving and caring individual that will be accepted. I leave my cave, anxious to implement the actions that which will provide the new era of understanding and the foundation for peace and love.

As I float across the country side I notice a damsel in distress. I think to myself, this is the perfect opportunity to start spreading my love. A country woman has been trapped beneath the burden of her wagon; that which has experienced the failure of a wooden wheel. Having the strength of twenty mortals I race over to the wagon and displace its entirety; providing the woman with free passage from her inanimate captor. To my surprise, the woman recoils in fear. Rather than rebutting with a fair woman’s favor she flees with the fright that only I command. I race forward, spinning her around in my arms to assure her there is no danger, and in that instant I hug her. After a minute of the long embrace the country damsel gives in and her body rests in my arms. That’s when I notice the blood running down her neck; I knew I should have trimmed my incisors. Shit.

I move on, eager to prove my worth to the world. I stumble upon a lonely lamb. The lamb is being attacked by a pack of wolves and the end seems near. Dead sheep lay everywhere, it seems the wolves thirst cannot be quenched. I see no sign of the shepherd and am eager to act as the original thirst quencher. I change into a wolf as I have done so many times before and a battle ensues. Typical mortal wolves remain no match for this seasoned creature and soon they retire into the woods. I change back into my man form and walk over to the lamb to ensure its health.

Just then, the shepherd and a mob of townsmen stream out of the woods. They survey the scene and immediately presume the worst. One townsman leaps forward, pitchfork in hand, and exclaims, “there’s the demon that slay my wife!” I was hoping nobody saw that. To make matters worse they’ve stumbled up in the middle of a sheep massacre. Shit.

I duck into the forest and easily lose the angry mob. Eager to regroup and recap the evening’s events I slip into the small town at the edge of the forest for a pint. I duck into the local tavern and assume a table in the corner. After three or four drinks and some serious reconsideration I conclude that tonight simply isn’t my night and I will retire to the comfort that is my coffin. As I exit the venue I here shouting behind me and look back in time to see the bartender waving his arms incessantly as he wails “stop that man, he never paid his tab!” Shit.

Believe me when I say, I am a good creature and I want to co-exist in peace, but you have to understand, this is all very annoying. As I exit the tavern I am met in the town square by the angry mob from the forest and the barkeep with his surly associates. I pause, considering what is good, just and fair. My faith has been tested throughout this Halloween and I consider what my wife would say. I bow down on one knee; I put my hands together and lower my head. I whisper, Lord, bless these men for they know not what they do. I know you hold a place in heaven for these men Lord, or at least I hope so, because they’ll all be heading up there in about 15 seconds.

I rise and unleash a fury that which the region hasn’t seen in a thousand years. My rage is sustained and is not filled until the last man falls. When all are dead I pause, surrounded by the bodies of a hundred fallen settlers. I wonder aloud, “Shit”.

I retire to my cave and my wife is there with arms wide open to greet me. “How did it go honey”, she inquires. I pause and consider my response carefully, “Shitty, maybe I’ll make friends with them next Halloween”.

*****
I sit, jaw agape, knowing not what is appropriate to say. I don’t believe in all of the Halloween stories; however, I know when I’m afraid. The tall, dark, slender creature rose from our table in the small Red Lion bar. He looked me square in the eyes as he glided passed me to leave, he betrothed me “have a shitty Halloween, I know I did.” Just as he was heading out the door of the bar my head whipped around to hear the barkeep shouting, “that bastard didn’t pay his tab!” I grab my pitchfork and race out of the building…

Wednesdays’ Tradeshow

Good Day my furry little Ewoks…

I was recently in Saskatoon for an Information Technology and Chamber of Commerce Tradeshow. I saw plenty of interesting Information Technology; however, I did not enjoy the latter. With that particular name I fully expected it to be filled with all sorts of wonderful loot and cash. It thought it might contain a Mace of Lightning Bolts or a Wand of Destruction. I guess I was wrong.

As I surveyed the aisles of kiosks and booths I noticed a scent. It was pleasant. It gave me the feeling that in the very near future I would meet the woman of my dreams. Just then I passed a Hudereit. I paid no homage to the ill omen and continued my mystical dance toward the self-heightening odor. I spotted the woman working the booth and I realized that I could not control my actions from that point forward, a shortcoming that would later prove my downfall. She was short. Not too short, but short enough that if you danced with her she could comfortably rest her perfect cheek on your chest. Her hair was long and straight, but I never got the impression that she had spent hours on end with her head pinned to an ironing board in an effort to achieve the look. Her face was perfect, the beauty, symmetry, complexion of it was comparable to the Phantom of the Operas piano. I feared to even look into her eyes, the bright blue of their spectrum pierced me to the point where I would fall to the floor literally love struck at the instant our peepers met. I continued toward that smell. At one point my feet weren’t even touching the floor, I simply floated through the air; nose first, toward that glorious bouquet.

I intended to chat politely with this incredible creature; however, all that came out was a gasp. I shuttered, stepped back, and waited for the inevitable awkward instant. There was none, the angel simply stepped forward, and in true sales fashion asked me if I would like to test the newest fragrance. As she was leaning over to spray me with the newest revision of Paris Hiltons’ Skankoroma (PHS) I, naturally, leaned in to steal a glimpse of the low cut blouse she wore. Rather, not the blouse at all. She sprayed me with the wondrous stink of famous socialites and I fell to the floor.

I woke up in, what I can only assume, was the actual ‘Chamber of Commerce’. It was a ten foot by ten foot cell with bars all the way around and top and bottom. There was no escaping, in fact, I don’t even remember there being a door. This chamber of so called commerce contained no gold, no loot and altogether no signs of actual commerce. The only exception of which was the tiny Jewish Midget Accountant that huddled in the corner while he maintained his constant fetal position. Naturally, I left him alone, after he completed my taxes.

A few hours passed until I heard the sounds of footsteps. Not just footsteps but high heels. They gave that distinctive double click that represents the sounds of the two separate parts of the shoot clicking down on the tiled floor. It was my perfume lady; she strutted toward the chamber out of the complete darkness. Her strides were smooth while she put each foot exactly in front of the other. There was no sway in her step, simply elegance.

I shouted, “Spring to life little Jewish Midget Accountant!” But he simply lay there, drool streaming out of the corner of his mouth while he uttered sweet ledger entries. The perfume lady halted a small space from the chamber, careful not to get too close. I questioned and pleaded with her to let me go, and for the reason of my capture; however, she would give me no clue. She simply smiled and nodded, as she floated around the chamber to spray my little Jewish friend with an additional ounce of PHS. Just as she was ready to apply the spray the little Jewish Midget Accountant sprang to life. He grabbed her by the leg and, thanks to her being so slender, he pulled her directly through the bars and into the actual chamber. The Jewish never cease to amaze me.

As in most of my updates, a fierce battle ensued, a battle that made the Night-Knight battle of 2005 look like Romper Room. By now I understood that I had simply become the play toy of, what amounted to be, a powerful witch of the perfume industry. This Jewish Midget Accountant, as he later explained to me, had been sent by the Tradeshow organizers to stomp out this Chamber of Commerce threat. When the smoke and magic cleared, the perfume lady was struck down. I crept over to the fatally wounded Jewish Midget Accountant. He was in poor shape; I knew he had not long. I leaned down to comfort him and in a moment of haste and ill thought I spouted, “how about getting me out of here?” The accountant waved his arms and in a cloud of smoke I vanished, after he completed my retirement plan, of course.

Next thing I knew I was standing where I had hours earlier. Some distance directly in front of the perfume lady. I simply stood there and stared for I knew not what to do. I experienced all of the similar symptoms that I had the first time, which gave me the impression that the previous onset of delirium may not have, necessarily, been a dream. Just as my senses were firing through all of the details that comprised this beautiful woman’s character, a Hudereit walked by.

She was plump. Not too plump, but plump enough that if you danced with her your bellies would rub together in a wondrous dance of their own. Her hair was long and straight and covered by a checkered kerchief, I never got the impression that she had spent hours doing her hair at all. Her face was worn and weathered; she looked like The Phantom of the Opera. I feared to even look into her eyes, the bright blue of mine and the blondness of my hair would surely spark some carnal ritualistic offer that I could not refuse. Ah hell I thought, it can’t be any worse, and I followed the Hudereit.

Ponies

Aloha my over ripened Pineapples….

It was hot in the city and I was recently walking down the street where I noticed seven little horses fixed to a metal pole. They each had tiny little bridals with saddles and sauntered back and forth as they trudged about in their never ending right handed loop. As I was feeling particularly devious that day I decided to borrow one of them and go for a trot. I named him Chips. I mounted Chips and, although my heels nearly touched the ground, I felt quite bourgeoisie and debonair on the wondrous mammal. I traveled all over town, being careful to stop and allow Chips to take from the public water fountains and give to peoples flower gardens (or was it vice versa). It was a glorious day and a wonderful adventure, that is until, he spotted us.

He was a skinny man with bleach blond hair that spiked straight up on end. He wore a black leather jacket with the collar turned up and the first four buttons from the top undone. He carried a microphone, although I know not why. His outfit was accessorized by a low hanging silver chain with a cross strung from it. A matching cross hung from his left ear lobe. He was furious, he ran down the street after us shaking his fist and chanting “I’ll show you to ride my pony, ride my pony”. I tried to escape but he was catching up quickly. A pony with a 230 pound IT guy on its back can only run so fast.

The man finally caught me and strung me up by my shirt collar with one hand as he demanded his mony, mony. I stated, “Why would I owe you any money, money”. He retorted, “You owe me mony, mony for the ride my pony, ride my pony”. By now I was confused. Not only by the raving lunatic that was chasing me and my new pony down the street, but also at the conversations abrupt shift into its own hard rock musical overture.

Just then I spotted a wedding reception across the street and clenched my heals so that Chips may understand the urgency of my request and whisk me into the chapel where we may hide. It turns out I squeezed my feet together all too hard and Chips collapsed, I was forced to go on without him. Its only natural I guess, he was nearly sweet sixteen. I darted into the chapel. I could hear the nut-job hot on my heels shouting “a nice day for a white wedding” into his microphone. I carefully blended into the wedding crowd and somehow made my way onto the dance floor, a move that immediately drew everyone’s attention. Neither Ballroom nor Celtic dancing could draw attention away from the fact that I was dancing with myself.

The crazy man caught me in the middle of the dance floor. I said, “easy there, you don’t want to rock the cradle of love’. To which he replied “here I come now I say mony, mony”. I was terrified. Then, just at the moment the crazy man was pulling back his right hand to beat me with his microphone, the lead singer of the band sprang down from the stage and shouted “mony for nothing and the Chips for free”. That only infuriated the crazy man and the two engaged in a fierce battle. The battle was more than enough of a distraction for me to sneak out a side door and fade into the then pitch dark night. I snuck home via alleys and side trails, for fear of meeting this crazed maniac. It was a crazy adventure for sure; however, I do miss that pony.

That was my weekend.