Chester French rules!

(And I don't mean the American sculptor Daniel Chester French. Although he clearly does good work.)

Perez Hilton was right.

They kick ass.

Go check 'em out!

Labels: music

As I look in through your kitchen window, you've never been more lovely.

Red hair falling over your shoulders, looking like it has never known a tangle.

Still in your work clothes. The grey dress pants. The white button up shirt with 3/4 length sleeves.

And you are cooking fish.

My favourite!

But, you must know that by now.

And that smile.

Wow.

It makes me not want to interrupt you.

You look completely at peace.

It is causing me to grin and --

Wait! Who is THAT dude? He better be the cable guy.

WHY is his hand on your shoulder?

You are hugging!

Hugging!?!?!

Oh, man... my stomach.

A cold chill just went down my spine.

THIS is how I find out?

He looks like a poster boy for date rapists!

I'm literally going to be sick.

Who was there for you during February's pregnancy scare?

Who had your back for the last three months while you, very unnecessarily, ate nothing but those Weight Watchers meals?

Who knows about your tax problems?

Not little Ronnie 'Roid Rage there!

It's me.

You are so ungrateful.

This feels like a dream, yet I know that I'm not going to wake up from it.

I really thought you were the one.

I knew it from the first moment I saw you.

The twinkle in your eye as I held the supermarket door open for you melted me completely.

Maybe I'm overly romantic.

Maybe I'm an idealist.

But, if we don't believe that there is someone great out there for us, what's the point of trying?

Damn you.

I actually started believing.

I'm hurt.

I'm confused.

I feel stupid for ever believing that you were different. That there was more to you.

I won't soon make that mistake again.

Great... now you are kissing him.

Screw this.

I'm getting out of your rosebush, putting you garbage back in the can, and pulling my pants and underwear up.

Yours isn't the only window in the neighbourhood.

Slut.

Labels: It REALLY is, short fiction

I just watched American Idol and have a couple quick thoughtlets:

- Sanjaya Malakar... Dude. Seriously? He now feels completely bulletproof. I'll be shocked if he doesn't come on next week wearing a feather boa and burping the alphabet.

- If I wasn't such a gentleman -- and if I hadn't sworn off Italian women -- I'd say that I'd like to take a 3-day vacation to Haley Scarnato's legs. Have you seen those things? Insane. Wow.

Labels: American Idol

I fought harder against Facebook than I did against any other web service.

I'm not sure why.

Probably because it started out as something just for students. Even when they opened it to the public, joining would have felt like crashing some kind of party, I assumed.

So, I ignored numerous invites from friends.

Until one arrived while I was looking for a good procrastinating activity.

I signed up. I filled in a few profile items. I added a couple of friends that I knew had accounts.

And then I forgot about it.

A few days later another buddy of mine added me as a friend. He had tracked down some folks I hadn't thought about in years.

So, I added them.

Then I signed up for my old high school's "group."

More people added me.

Then I started to understand it.

Facebook is great for re-connecting with long-lost friends, for keeping up with the doings of your friends, and for sending out invites to hastily planned orgies.

I'm assuming.

I was living in a little Facebookian utopia.

Nobody warned me about the dark side.

Just like nobody warned us as kids that one of the Smurfs was, in fact, a serial killer.

I am betting on Hefty. You know, 'roid rage and all.

Fast forward to last week...

I was busy doing something awesome and world-changing, when my gmail tab told me that a new mail had arrived.

I took a quick peek and saw that someone had added me on Facebook.

"Neat." I thought.

(Yes, even my inner dialog is dorky.)

I clicked on the mail to see who it was.

And that's when everything changed.

To finish that story, I'll have to tell you this one first...

When I was in the twelfth grade (high school senior, for you Americans) I started dating a girl from a neighbouring town. We dated on and off (and on and off) for three years. (Four?)

[She drops by here sometimes, so she may correct me on this, or other parts of the story.]

She had a little cousin. She was 4... or 5?

We babysat her sometimes. We entertained her at family gatherings.

She was a good little twerp.

She loved me.

She made my girlfriend teach her how to dial my number on the phone so she could call me herself.

Cute!

Anyway, back to the other day.

It was the little cousin that added me in Facebook! (You had to see that coming.)

And, much to my surprise, she is no longer four years old.

She is in college.

And TWENTY years old.

I was shocked.

And then I felt very, very old.

Just the day before I was glancing at pics of people I went to high school with and thinking that I had been aging pretty well.

And now this...

Now notices from Facebook no longer elicit a "Neat" response from me.

I find myself experiencing Pavlovian flop sweats.

Maybe I'm just naive.

Just like when I've dated crazy women, I didn't see the potential for disaster.

Oh crap... gmail says I have new mail.

Labels: Facebook

- Earlier the ACN wanted a Tim Hortons chocolate chip cookie. I started feeding it to her. She told me that she didn't eat chocolate chips. So, I took out each little chip before giving her a bite. When we got down to the last few bites, I asked her if she ate the chips at home. She started giggling and said, "Yeeeeah."

- The ACN has decided that, when she is at physiotherapy, both the physiotherapist and her Mommy have to applaud every time she completes an activity. LOVE that.

Labels: ACN

Am I a bad person for thinking that Salma Hayek's child better cure Cancer at some point to make up for potentially destroying her rack?

Probably, eh?

Today is my blog's first birthday! Pretty exciting, eh? 276 posts.

Feel free to send my blog cards, presents, or pictures of yourself dressed as a naughty librarian.

To celebrate this momentous occasion, I am giving you my top ten favourite posts of the year. (A list that changes almost hourly.)

10. "Some People Are Just Touchy"
9. "General Days of Our Bold Passions & the Restless"
8. "Clap!"
7. "Friday Flip-off #3"
6. "Touch"
5. "Sara's Apartment"
4. "If My Blog Was Anonymous"
3. "April"
2. "George"

And of course...

1. "The Best Day of the Year."

Labels: blogiversary

Though I HAVE dressed in nothing but a diaper and shot arrows at people.

But, that is not important right now.

I've never tried to set anyone up before. I've been tangentially involved with others being set-up. I've had people say, "Wouldn't they be great together?" To which I'd reply, "Suuuuure, why not?"

It has never, ever crossed my mind that two other people would be a good couple.

Yes, yes, "self-absorbed" blah blah blah.

When I meet a female, I immediately size up whether or not she'd be a good fit for me. If not, then they are pushed into a nether region, where they land on a spectrum that ranges from friend to patio furniture.

I have been set-up before.

Not voluntarily.

When I was in college, a friend's (godless and EVIL) girlfriend thought it would be fun to go on double dates. So, she had a single friend and decided that the four of us should go out together one night. I was someplace south of enthused.

I fought it for a while, but to stop all the pesky talking, I relented.

Because my life works that way, the soirée was planned for a night that turned out to be shitty timing for me.

I was working that summer for a big building supply retailer. We were setting up their new warehouse store. This involved long hours and lots of grunt work. So, of course, the date was arranged for a night when I had worked three days straight. Like 14 hour days.

I was broken.

To make matters worse, just before I got off work that night, I was lugging bags of cement and one had a hole in it. I tossed it on a pile and got a crapload of dust in my eyes.

My contact lenses were unimpressed.

I went home and walked into the apartment. The three of them were sitting at the table, waiting impatiently for me.

The fix-up chica was VERY cute.

I still wanted to back out, but didn't want to be rude. So, I took a quick shower. ("Quick" being a very relative term when it comes to me and showers.) I didn't shave because I was having a hard time lifting my arms.

I finished showering, got dressed, splootched some product in my hair, looked in the mirror and thought...

"Man, I look like crap."

Yet, I soldiered on.

We headed for some bar.

At this point I should admit that I couldn't remember the girl's name. Still can't.

She tried to make smalltalk with me in the car on the way downtown. She'd ask a question. There'd be a 5 second delay. And then I'd say, "I'm sorry, I missed that."

Bru-tal.

What little mental energy I had, was spent wondering what about her made them think she and I would get along.

We got to the bar and found a table. The three of them chatted and laughed. I stared at the pretty lights.

I even attempted to tell her a funny story at one point... but completely forgot the end. And the middle. And I kinda messed up the opening.

At some point, she grew tired of my inability to carry on a conversation. And, strangely enough, she wasn't at all won over by the whole "crackhead who was beaten by his dealer for not paying" look I had cultivated.

Chicks, man.

She wandered off to talk to some friends.

I pulled the pin and headed home early. I didn't even bother trying to say "good night."

I fell onto my bed that night and slept the sleep of the just.

Until the next morning when my friend came into my room.

He stared at me, just shaking his head.

"Dude... you realize that she is a bit of a slut, right?"

Uhm, no. I didn't realize that. Talk about burying the lead. If only he had shared that information the night before and --

Bah. She could have been a hooker/contortionist and it wouldn't have made any difference.

The funny (again, relative) thing is that my friend's (Godless and EVIL) girlfriend actually did have a friend that I was moderately interested in. However, she was involved with some old and, if memory serves, married dude.

Now that I think about it, that "old" dude was probably my current age.

Well, that's a kick in the jiggers.

They shouldn't put you in this position.

But, they do.

They shouldn't ask you to decide.

But, they do.

You shouldn't feel guilty for having a preference.

But, you do.

One of them you've known longer.

And better.

One of them you met more recently.

So, things are more vivid in your memory.

They, like everyone and everything else, each have pros and cons.

They know that you'd feel guilty for choosing.

But, they still want you to.

They don't have to know.

They just want to.

Fair?

No.

Understandable?

Probably.

If one of them would let you off the hook, that could swing things in their favour.

But, neither steps up.

So, you are left with the choice.

You don't want to hurt anyone...

But, they haven't left you an out.

You look deep inside.

You remember.

Images flash through your mind.

You smile.

You frown.

You know that waiting will only make it worse.

A feeling washes over you and you say...

"I'm sorry myspace, I am going to have to say that I prefer Facebook."

Still need more folks in the baseball pool.

Again, remember this is a zero effort baseball pool.

I was getting ready to take a shower this morning when I looked out my window.

Then I looked again.

Two Canada Geese were wandering around the backyard.



I'm not sure how rare it is for Canada Geese to wander into someone's yard, but I know that it's never happened before in MY yard.

I grabbed my camera and coat and rushed outside.

I was afraid to get too close and spook them, so I started taking pics right away. I slowly moved a bit closer.

I got some decent shots.

I also noticed for the first time that my fingers were sticking to the metal camera. It was a tad nippy out.

It was at this point that I decided -- despite how robust they looked -- that these geese appeared to be hungry. (This also happens to me with various other kinds of animals... and skinny women.)

So, I foraged around the kitchen and found stale trail mix and nacho chip dealies. I went back outside and tossed them into the yard.



The geese didn't even notice.

"Sons of bitches!"

I said that, not the geese.

I went back into the house to see what I could find.

I discovered some hamburger buns and brought one outside.

I decided that the other food I had thrown was too close to the house. So, I broke off pieces of hamburger bun and tossed them out farther and farther from the original pile of food.

I figured a bread crumb trail worked for Hansel and Gretel, so...

Or did they get eaten by a witch?

Regardless, that was my plan.

So, I had chucked out a dozen or more pieces of bun when suddenly a couple dozen seagulls flew in from every direction. They were joined by a few crows. It felt very Tipi Hedren-esque.

These newcomers were gobbling up the chunks of bun. I looked down the yard and the Canada Geese hadn't even noticed!! They waddled around, picking at the ground and grooming themselves. (Much like, I suspect, Paris Hilton would do if she was a bird.)

I gave up and went back into the house.

But, I learned a valuable lesson today, my friends...

Despite being truly majestic creatures, when not flying in a "V," these feathered fucks don't have a clue what they are doing.



Thus endeth "Profiles in Nature, with Peter DeWolf."

Labels: Canada Geese

There are a few things that you should know about me.

I like...

Her bikini - small; heels - tall.

And apples - Golden Delicious.

I also jinx teams that I pick in pools.

If I had picked David (v. Goliath), George Armstrong Custer, and Jack Bauer, history books would be entirely different now.

I went 9-7 on Day 1 of the tournament.

Which, I think we can all agree, royally sucks.

Thankfully I didn't pick any of the losing teams to win their next games anyway.

So, now I have to pick myself up off the mat, dust off, keep my stick on the ice, mix and match overused sports clichés and hope for better on Day 2.

We'll see how it goes.

Labels: March Madness

In yesterday's post, I wondered whether or not my writings would change if my name wasn't on the site. So, I sat down this morning and tried to pretend I was anonymous. This is what came out. Maybe being anonymous wouldn't make that big a difference with me after all...

*****

She was closed and broken.

He was open and kind.

She was indifferent.

He wanted it.

She acted like it was more than just a fuck.

He acted like he didn't give a fuck.

And they fucked.

She was disappointed when his guard went up.

He loved when her guard came down... a little.

She was surprised.

He wasn't.

His warmth was more enjoyable than she expected.

Her indifference was more troubling than he anticipated.

Still... they connected.

Afterwards, she acted unlike herself.

So did he.

She wanted him to stay.

He got up and left.

It made him sad.

It made her sad... mostly.

She learned that maybe she could have more.

He learned that he needed more.

She was left a little bit softer.

He was left a little bit harder.

The world kept spinning.

Hey.

Did you think that I was ignoring you there?

I saw you breaking up the Sean Connery-esque solidarity.

Growing longer than your black friends. As if you weren't going to show up enough already.

You couldn't just blend in with the whole Barry Gibb-ian vibe?

You seemed to come out of nowhere. It was like you appeared overnight.

But, make no mistake, I spotted you right away.

I should have known that one of you would appear eventually.

I mean... I did know.

I guess I just didn't want to face it.

I don't like change.

I resist it.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow once said, "All things must change to something new, to something strange."

I wonder if people made fun of his last name.

So, while I am learning to accept you, or to ignore you, I do wonder why you are here. You know?

What is your purpose?

Are you here to remind me of the brevity of life?

I suppose it doesn't really matter. What is important is how I react to you.

And I have decided to use your arrival as a kick in the ass. I'm going to use you as a reminder to seize the day and to take chances.

You will be a symbol for living in the moment.

You will remind me to go for it.

To set goals and to attain them.

You, my friend, are now a call to action.

I am NOT going to allow you to distract me! You won't bring me down.

And, when I achieve my goals, I am going to thank you.

I will appreciate what you've done and--

Oh, screw it. I'm just going to pluck your ass out of there.

Love,
Peter

Last night I had a dream about my blog.

It was wearing a little black lacy get-up and...

Okay, not really.

Still, I think that I may be getting a little blog obsessed here, people.

In my dream I organized a group of bloggers to take part in a blog experiment. We were going to each write a section of some multi-part story and post them on our own blogs.

Not sure how it turned out because I was distracted by some mysterious brunette lass.

Well, at least I'm not so blog-sessed that her feminine wiles were wasted on me.

Even so, I spend a lot of time in the blogisphere.

One of the first things I do every morning is go to Bloglines. (Of course I go to gmail first. Come on.)

Before I eat or shave or anything, I check what you goofs have blogged about.

Truth be told, it doesn't take much to get me to put off shaving. Get beaten with a sack of doorknobs... Or shave... Tough call.

Unfortunately for you, I am one of those annoying bloggers that is always asking things like, "Why do I blog?" Or saying things like "Man, my posts have sucked lately!" Or "I am so blog-blocked." Or, "She's not a slut, she's just misunderstood!"

I often wonder if I was an anonymous blogger, would I be more free with what I wrote? Would I stop giving a shit and just let it all hang out?

There is something about having my name on my blog that makes me put more thought into things. It is just like when Flava Flav screened the girls for the second season of "Flavor of Love" personally. Or something.

"NO MORE GOLD DIGGERS!!"

Granted, there are lots of bloggers that use their real names and just don't seem to give anything resembling a fuck about what people think.

Tony Pierce -- of whom I'm a big fan -- just does his thing.

Tucker Max -- who I don't completely enjoy -- certainly isn't concerned about what people think.

Plus, they get a buttload of traffic. I get *cough* slightly fewer visitors.

Though maybe there is a direct relationship between not giving a fuck and getting an assload of traffic. Probably involving madness like "traffic = exp(giving a fuck)" or something else that gives me a headache to even consider.

I've gotten to the point where I don't trust anyone without a blog. What are they hiding?

Not sure if I'd want to date a woman who shared personal stuff on her blog though.

"Why does Peter insist on wearing his baseball cap to bed?!? That shit ain't right! And why does he keep referring to me as 'Lauren Graham?' Freak."

Some things should stay in the boudoir, ya feel me?

I've also been thinking that maybe I need an intern for my blog. (Or a blogtern?)

The blogtern can write on days when I have nothing interesting to say. Like today. The blogtern can track down new and interesting blogs for me to read. Cause, you know, I definitely need more of them.

I honestly don't know how I've gotten this far without a blogtern.

The blogtern could free me up to do important things, like writing, reading, commenting...

And, of course, watching reruns of "Flavor of Love 2."

Labels: blogs, blogtern, Lauren Graham

The beguiling Jazz is taking part in Aids Walk New York this year.

If you can spare a few bucks, you should go over and sponsor her.

I mean right now.

Why are you still reading this?

Seriously.

Man... You are stubborn.

What do you mean I'M stubborn?

Screw you.

Who asked you?

I'm sorry...

I didn't mean...

I just get all riled up, you know?

Still friends?

Awesome.

Now you should go sponsor Jazz.

Seriously... I mean NOW.

Even while you were in the middle of it, you knew you were experiencing something great.

But that knowledge, much like the experience itself, was fleeting.

Even when we tell ourselves not to take something for granted, we do.

It's all part of being human, I suppose.

You know that someday it could end, but you push that aside.

You live in the moment.

The good times are magnified. But, so are the bad.

And when it's over...

You can sometimes miss both equally.

And you know that there will be moments when the pain will be worse.

When you'll be in a situation that you shared together in the past and now you are experiencing by yourself.

Everything will seem so different.

Usually not in a good way.

But, you have to look forward.

You have to think positive.

You have to tell yourself that maybe... just maybe...

The UCONN huskies will be back in the NCAA tournament next year.

It's been forever, so I decided to do a little vloggin'.

Labels: jail bait, natalie portman, vlog

A while back I decided that it would be fun to write an article about the goofy things that guys do when trying to date online. (It was inspired by the misadventures of a female friend of mine.)

So, I contacted a bunch of women who have been in the trenches and asked them some questions. I got some great replies and wrote the article.

It was at that point that a confluence of events derailed my plans.

1) I found out that half of the newspapers in Canada are, apparently, laying off large chunks of their staff.

2) I found out that articles about online dating have been done... and done... and done.

3) I realized that I didn't exactly set the world on fire with my writing in the article. (You like how I mentioned that part last?)

So, I forgot about it and moved on.

And then I remembered it this morning. So, I figured that I'd share it with you suckers valued readers now.

**********

Online Dating: What Women Want... Men to Stop Doing

A funny thing happened on the way to writing this article. What started off as something sarcastic and silly, has turned into something different. Well, mostly.

With every passing day, more and more people are meeting online through dating websites. It is possible that meeting this way will soon become more common than meeting at a bar or a party.

What's the appeal of the online hook up? Maybe it's a teensy bit more prudent to decide on a potential mate based on the careful reading of exchanged e-mails, while sipping on a coffee in the sober daylight of morning, than, say, based on a discussion held while outside of a bar at closing time. Especially if you are half-soused on tequila and trying to figure out how to button up your coat - that still has a hanger in it.

You know, hypothetically speaking.

Let's take a deeper look into the lives of the women on the front lines of online dating. And, fellas, they have some complaints.

Lucy, 35, says that "women put more into their profiles and pictures than men. They seem to present themselves better." And she wasn't alone in this feeling. Harper, 30, tells of meeting a guy for lunch who looked nothing like this photo. As did 23 year old Laura. As did-- well, let's just say that it was a recurring theme.

In addition to sneaky photo use, women are also unhappy with men who try to fudge the numbers when it comes to their height. While Catherine, 29, admits that "the most common lie from women seems to be about weight," a large number of women accused men being a little creative when divulging their height.

34 year old Stacey recalled one such instance, "after staring at the top of this man's head for an entire dinner, and then being asked for a kiss goodnight, my immediate reaction was 'I don't think I can bend down that far.'"

Aliya, 28, had a similar experience. "The guy lied. His profile said he was six feet tall. He must have been five-foot-four. For a girl who is five-foot-eight, and wearing four inch heels, it was not a comfortable situation."

I can see him going over his mental check-list as he arrived at the restaurant, "Shower. Check.. Shave. Check. Stop at bone stretching shop. Dang!"

As bad as lying about height is, Catherine can go it one better. "One guy was not how he described himself – in terms of ethnicity. He assumed that I'd only meet him if he was Asian American, as I am Asian Canadian."

I'm guessing that it would take some pretty slick spin control to be able convince someone that you are Asian when you very obviously are not.

If the height-challenged and the inexplicably faux-Asians were the worst things about on line dating, it would likely be even more popular. Sadly that's not the case. Even if the man looks exactly like his picture, it is still entirely possible that the evening is going to go completely off the rails. And quickly.

To say that Lisa, 35, had a bad first date, is an understatement. After a dinner conversation consisting of complaints about his life, and prying personal questions, he was good enough to walk her to her car. Then he tried to invite himself to her house. She declined. After she made it clear that she didn't really want to pursue the relationship, "He said that I must be a lesbian."

And you thought that only happened on TV.

Samantha, 46, also had a less than stellar date with one eligible bachelor, "I met a born-again Christian who was grilling me about my spirituality and my religious beliefs." It got better. "He said that I was everything he was looking for in a woman except for 'that' and since I seem to have had a good 'religious' upbringing (I was raised Catholic), he had hopes that I would, 'come around' some day." Now,
wait for it. "Then he proceeded to ask me if I wanted to join him in his hot tub."

We'll just assume that it was full of holy water and had a Pope Pius XII floating thermometer.

Sometimes a woman doesn't even need a first date to figure out that someone is already Mr. Wrong. Wendy is 36, from Toronto, and has this story to tell, "I had one person emailing me for at least half a year, telling me I was the one. I received emails from him (sometimes weekly) and he wouldn't give up for the longest time, even with never receiving one reply from me. He lived in Colorado!"

Guys, persistence is not always a good thing. Don't be "the little engine that could... get hit with a restraining order."

But, all is not lost. Despite a plethora of bad experiences, not yet finding Mr. Right, and sometimes becoming a tad jaded, many of the women still held out hope. There was talk of having to kiss many toads – and a willingness to do so.

Maybe we men should work on being frogs from the start. Just a thought.

Lucy summed up the optimism well, "It is interesting though that when you read profiles of a lot of guys they seem to be looking for someone too... so that provides some sense of the fact that you are not alone in your quest for that someone to spend your time with."

A funny thing happened on the way to this article. What started off as something designed to poke fun at my fellow men, has turned into a warning. Fellas, there are some wonderful women out there. You just have to approach them the right way... and tell the truth.

Or don't.

Frankly, we single men have enough competition.

And I really am six-foot-four.

Seriously.

Labels: Dating

It was the ACN's Parent-Teacher day today.

Her Daddy attended.

She told me that she spent the day with gypsies - who apparently also pinch bums.

The teachers told the Daddy how awesome the ACN is, of course.

On the wall of her classroom, each kid has a picture of a little bear with four little hearts next to it. In each heart is written something that the kid loves.

In one of the ACN's bear's hearts it says...

"Uncle Pete."

Yay!!!

Labels: ACN

Though I don't think they should be hunted for sport.

Probably.

Every so often I hear a song that immediately takes me back to another time and place. Some people get the same result from smells, but since I haven't been able to breathe through my nose since the summer of 1990, I only have music.

I recently heard some crappy dance song from waaaaay back in the day. It transported me back to college. (I immediately craved pizza and felt like taking a nap in a TV lounge while skipping accounting class.)

I was at a commerce society social event one night. Despite my obvious super coolness, my buddy and I got there a bit early. There may have been twenty or so of us in the smallish house.

We were in the room with the bar when I saw a girl. She had reddish hair. Long. Plaid skirt.

I wasn't much for the cold call approach back then.

Or, well, now.

But, I walked up and took a seat next to her. She had been turned the other way, chatting with friends. She turned to me and I said...

"Hey."

"Hi," she replied.

Silence.

"Is that all you have?" she asked cutely.

"I like your skirt."

"Really? It's a [some designer name maybe]"

"I have no friggin' idea what that is," I said.

She found that charming and turned her entire body around to chat with me.

And we chatted for like an hour.

In that time I found out that she was smart, even prettier close up, funny, athletic, charming as hell...

And rich.

And somehow the last point ruined it for me.

I'm not entirely sure why.

We ended up going out to a bar (Liquor Dome, maybe?) as a group. And we danced and hung out some more. She dragged me around by the hand and introduced me to everyone she knew. But, something about her just seemed off-putting.

Her boyfriend showing up later in the evening didn't help things. Though once I met him, I knew that I could steal her if I had wanted to.

Just kidding.

Mostly.

Like 60/40.

College was a bit of a culture shock for me in general.

In my town there were people who had more money than others. But, the gap between upper and lower classes wasn't nearly as wide. At home, "rich" meant that you had a slightly bigger house and a newer car.

One of my first days in college, I was chatting with a dude that lived next door. He mentioned that his mother "only" made about 150K a year as some kind of lawyer in Vancouver. And his dad made about a million and a half a year as "an importer/exporter."

This guy figured that the average lower class Canadian family made about 100K a year.

I couldn't decide if I wanted to punch him or pat him on the head.

I opted for the classic, "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

He turned out to be a pretty nice guy, but the money thing oozed from him a bit. It probably kept me from becoming close friends with him.

It's definitely not an inferiority thing though.

I think it was just a lack of common experiences.

Rich friend: "I had to trade in my year old Beemer this past weekend for a newer model."

Peter: "Dude, I had to go parking in a Ford Ranger. With a stick shift!"

Different worlds.

The way I'm wired, it is unlikely that I'll ever be rich. And, if I ever made a lot of cash, I'd probably just trade it for magic beans anyway.

I probably shouldn't have slept through all of those accounting classes.

Remember when the ACN -- my Adorably Cute Niece for you first-timers -- was here and Cassie was being bad? So, the ACN made Cassie sleep in my room.

Well, when the squirt went home, she told me that Cassie had to stay in my room. So, Cassie has been sleeping on a chair in my bedroom. Two nights ago, on the phone, the ACN decided that wasn't good enough. Cassie had to sleep in my bed.

So, because I promised, I put Cassie on the foot of my bed before going to sleep.

And I slept crappily!

I originally thought it was all because of her proclivity for bum-pinching. Because, let's face it, it is not easy to sleep through bum pinchings. It's just not.

But, now I have a slightly different theory...

Cassie has the power to control dreams.

Seriously.

That night I had sooo many crazily vivid dreams.

I had one that I'm calling "CSI: Wal-Mart." In it I was pursuing a serial killer through a... well, a Wal-Mart store. Even though it was super vivid at the time, I don't remember a lot of details. I do recall running by a girl I dated when I was 16 as she tried to get me to stop. And I remember that there were cool t-shirts on sale. I woke up all amped up and ready to kick some serial killer ass.

Moments later I was back asleep and dreaming about a nuclear bomb being assembled by bad guys in my basement. It would have been more harrowing, if it hadn't been partially constructed of legos.

The rest of the night included a number of other equally as strange dreams.

And since I don't recall eating any Guatemalan insanity peppers before bed, I am blaming Cassie.

To see if it was a one shot deal, I slept with Cassie on the foot of my bed again last night. The results...

A bunch of dreams again.

Not quite as wacky, but still oddly vivid.

The one I had before I woke up this morning involved me walking by a truck and rubbing my finger through the dust on the hood.

Let's just say that, when awake, dust-noticing is not exactly a strong suit with me.

So, yeah, Cassie controls dreams.

Take that, Tickle-me Elmo!

I don't think that my theory is SO crazy.

Native Americans believed that dreams were messages sent by sacred spirits.

And then there was that Freddy Krueger dude.


*****

Assorted junk:

- I read a quote from Ann Coulter where she mentioned being emboldened by her looks to say things that other people wouldn't dare. Who in the world told her that she was attractive? Blonde hair does not necessary make one good-looking. She looks like a closet-drunk soccer mom whose husband is going to leave her soon for his secretary. Seriously. Chick looks like she has some hard miles on her.

- The closet-drunk theory would also explain her idiotic comments.

- I am blog-blocked again.

- Yesterday was the first time I read about Kareem Amer. It's probably a good thing that I don't live in Egypt, because I strongly feel that my country is being led by a complete fucking idiot.

- Why is that Natasha Bedingfield "Unwritten" song stuck in my head?

Labels: ACN, dreams

If so, could you digg this story for me?

It's an important issue in general, and to my family specifically.

Thanks.

Kelly at A Yoga Coffee Outlook is giving away a Zune MP3 Player!

It's true.

Go check it out before she sobers up.

Hannah Montana will be the soundtrack of the revolution.

Yesterday I posted a silly little short story called "Awkward."

HRC commented that she thought the story was going to be about a chicken. And there is a good reason for that.

When I was young it seemed that life was so wonderful. A miracle. Oh it was beautiful... magical. And all the birds in the trees...

And chickens on the ground.

You see, at some point in my youth, my father decided that we should get some chickens.

Which was a little odd, you know, considering we didn't live on a farm or anything.

So, he got some kind of shed deal and built a little pen next to it. A chicken coop was born.

I think he purchased a dozen chickens. May have been as many as twenty.

The only memory that is VERY clear is the smell. My word, the smell.

How can one fully describe the olfactory assault of chicken crap? It changes you. Like Vietnam. Or seeing Britney Spears c-section scar.

When I had to collect eggs in the morning, I'd hold my breath, then run in and try to grab all the eggs and get out before taking a breath. If there were a lot of eggs, I'd be seeing spots and blacking out by the time I got that door open.

I just had a flashback of the smell.

*shudder*

My sister got trapped in the coop one day after school. I think she was in there for 45 minutes. My father finally heard her screaming and let her out.

There was one chicken that I remember very well. He was kind of the runt of the group. Moved slower. Missing feathers -- from where other chickens pecked at him.

I called him, "Awkward."

I hadn't yet discovered the concept of ironic nicknames.

Awkward was my favourite chicken.

Every day I'd go out and toss extra food to him. I'd try to make sure the other chickens were leaving him alone.

(Yes, I'm aware that since Awkward was presumably laying eggs, that he most likely wasn't actually a he. I was a cute kid. Probably not very bright though.)

If other chickens were bugging Awkward, I'd yell and swear at them and chuck pebbles.

I'd wonder at night if they were picking on him while he tried to sleep.

Awkward was my pet.

Then one day I got some terrible news...

The chicken farming experiment was over and we'd soon be eating a lot more chickens than eggs.

Eeeeeeeep.

I was heart-broken and all :( . I tried to get my folks to spare Awkward's life. They were not moved by my plans for letting him live in the basement or guest bedroom.

But, when D-Day came, I was nowhere around. My mother took my sister and I someplace for a drive. When I got back home, there was no more Awkward. There was, however, a freezer full of chickens.

And every time we ate one of those chickens, I'd make a sad little face and say, "This could be Awkward."

And one of them was, I suppose.

I bet that he tasted better than those other jerkass chickens.

Jump ahead twenty years or so and my parents got a phone call one afternoon from my sister.

She yelled into the phone, "I have chicken shit eye!!!"

She had been seeing flashes and decided to see an eye doctor. He found some kind of bacteria on her eye. He asked if she had grown up on a farm. She said that she hadn't. He told her that the usual cause of this was prolonged exposure to chicken feces.

She blamed that day that she got stuck in the coop for so long.

And then she screamed, "Chicken shit eye!!!" again for effect.

So, that is the story of Awkward and my sister's eye.

Mostly...

When my folks told me about my sister's phone call to them, I laughed. I didn't think much of it for a few months. Then one day I had a flashback.

I totally remember locking her in the coop that sunny afternoon.

I suspect that if you asked both my sister and Awkward what I was like back then, you'd probably get very different replies.