I think that I'm a pretty mellow dude.

I don't get too high or too low.

I don't really have much of a temper. (Usually.)

Though all of this sometimes goes out the window when sports are involved.

To say that I take sports seriously is like saying that Alec Baldwin gets a bit touchy when you don't answer his phone calls.

I once considered breaking up with a girlfriend because she jinxed an important field goal attempt by the Colts in the playoffs.

That all being said, I kind of took an emotional beating, as a sports fan, this weekend.

It began Friday night with my beloved Toronto Raptors losing to the evil New Jersey Nets. To make matters worse, it featured a much improved performance by world-renown sack of shit Vince Carter.

Saturday afternoon featured Major League Soccer's Toronto FC losing their 4th game in a row. In all fairness, they are an expansion team and played MUCH better than they had in previous outings. And the debut of new English striker Danny Dichio was cause for optimism. He played like a menace, and even flattened their goalie a few minutes in. Awesome.

Saturday night was game two of the series between the Ottawa Senators and (also evil) New Jersey Devils. I stayed up until some crazy hour watching this and Ottawa ended up losing in double overtime. Ugh.

Finally, last night was game four between the Raptors and Nets. And the Raptors got absolutely smoked. It wasn't even close. I still can't really talk about it. But, how friggin' hard is it to knock Vince Carter down on a drive to the basket and then "accidentally" step on his shooting hand a little? Have you people not played this sport before? Come on.

The only bright spot of this horrific game was a sideline interview with New Jersey resident Bruce Willis. Within seconds it was obvious that Bruce was drunk off his ass. When the rambling interview was ending, the Canadian reporter mentioned the next Die Hard movie coming out. Bruce said that it was even better than the first one. So, the interviewer said, "Thanks and Yippee Kai Yay." And Bruce said, quite clearly, "Yippee Kai Yay, Motherfucker."

Now, normally this kind of sporting weekend would have me ranting more than this. (No, really!) Or much too bummed to bother blogging.

But, this weekend was different because I was lucky enough to get a visit from the ever delightful ACN. She was a very good girl and we had a tonne of fun. Her favourite part -- other than changing her name to Goobie Goobie -- was playing with the Webkinz that her little cousin bought her.

I didn't know much about the world of Webkinz before this weekend, but now I feel like an expert. You start by buying a teddy bear. There are different kinds. Cats, dogs, frogs, etc.

The ACN got an "Ally Cat." She named it Penelope. (Though she enjoyed it when I'd sometimes refer to the kitty as "Pen-a-lope.")

With your animal, you get a special code which allows you to log into the Webkinz website. And that's when the magic starts...

We "adopted" Penelope Saturday after lunch. And we pretty much played on the site until Sunday evening just before bed time.

On the site you can build a little home for your animal. You buy rooms and then spend money to furnish them. To get the money you have to do jobs, play games, mine for precious gems, and a variety of other interesting things.

I was lucky enough to spend Saturday afternoon apprenticing under The Monkey, or else I would have been completely lost. The Monkey was a very good Big Cousin this weekend. She helped the ACN build a bedroom and a bathroom and to furnish them with all kinds of fun stuff.

I asked many questions and The Monkey answered them all. Though typically while wearing a "Duh, Peter" expression.

On Sunday afternoon it was just me and ACN and Penelope. I quickly found out that the ACN LOVES spending the money on stuff for Penelope, but doesn't enjoy the whole process of actually earning the cash.

They learn early.

Some highlights of Pen-a-lope's house include:

- A treadmill that she actually uses. She says, "Phew, my feet are stinky" when she gets off.
- A cat-shaped TV in her bedroom that works! (You know that I was pushing for that purchase.)
- A bathroom with 7 plants and a toilet... that she actually uses. "When you gotta go, you gotta go," Penelope informed us.
- A skateboard that she actually rides.
- Kitchen chairs with hockey stick legs
- A "Pretty Room" which currently features a pedestal and trophy and a green swamp boat -- which she rides around the house for fun. Every house needs a swamp boat.

So, I ended up spending many hours playing little games to win money for more purchases. The ACN even told me that I should keep playing it when she went home so that next time she wanted to play there'd be lots of money in her account.

Yesterday afternoon I got the bright idea to play a "tournament" game against other online players. I thought that I could score some quick cash schooling some little kids at Connect Four.

So, my first match-up started and I noticed that the total prize earnings available was only $10. I looked at the ACN and said that we weren't going to buy much with that kind of scratch. She shook her head "No." I looked back at the monitor and a puppy named "Som" had beaten me quickly at Connect Four.

Little shit was probably from New Jersey too.

Labels: ACN, running on NO sleep, sports

This is Steph.

Stopping looking at her ass. Yes, I'm talking to you.

Granted, that's all she is showing us. But, still... try blinking a little at least.

Perv.

As I was saying, this is Steph.

And right now she is thankful for her peephole.

Thankful because her ex-boyfriend, Julio, is on the other side of the door.

They've been broken up for weeks.

Their's was a storybook romance. You know, if the story was started by Danielle Steel and completed by Stephen King.

Though it did begin like many others before.

He pursued, she withdrew. She pursued, he withdrew. He admitted a secret, she did a round of penicillin.

And so it went.

Initially they seemed like a great fit. She used his old underwear to wash her car. He wore her old underwear as a hat.

But, these things never last.

Soon she was working longer hours. And he was fucking cocktail waitresses two at a time.

She tried to work more from home, and he cut down to one dirty whore at a time, but the compromises weren't enough.

Two weeks ago tonight, Steph broke up with him.

And now he was standing outsider her door.

Julio: Can you let me in?

Steph: CAN I? No.

Julio: Will you let me in?

Steph: No.

Julio: Ahhh. Then CAN you let me in?

Steph: Wait... What?

Julio: Nevermind.

Steph: We're through. We gave it our best effort. It's time to move on.

Julio: I'm sorry, Steph. I've changed.

Steph: It's too late.

Julio: It doesn't have to be.

Steph: You got drunk and slept with my sister, defecated in my favourite boots and stole $150 from my mother's purse.

Julio: It was $145!

Steph: Good bye.

Julio: Wait. I've changed. I took you for granted. I know that now. I've seen the other side, Steph. I've seen life without you. I-I want no part of that. You are my best friend.

Steph: It's... too late.

Julio: It can't be. I can't let it be. You are the one, Steph. I don't know how I was ever so blind.

Steph begins to well up a little.

Julio: I'll do whatever it takes to prove it to you. I'm here emotionally naked for you. I'll really strip off my clothes to prove how committed I am.

Steph: Don't do that, my neighbour has done time for a violent homosexual rape.

Julio: Emotional nakedness it is.

Steph laughs.

Julio: Try to remember the good times. Before I started acting like an ass. Well, before I started acting like a COMPLETE ass. I had your back, sweetie. I can again. I love you. I just want a chance to prove that I've changed. I want to spend the rest of my life proving that maybe -- just maybe -- I could remotely deserve someone like you.

Tears flow freely from Steph's eyes now.

Julio: Open the door, Steph. Open the door to possibility. Open the door to our future. I love you so much.

Steph turns her back to the door. She wipes her eyes. Then she smiles.

Steph: Okay. But, no sex tonight. I just want you to hold me. I need that. No sex at all.

Steph turns, smiles wide and opens the door to...

Nobody.

Steph: Julio?

So, my immensely talented cartoonist buddy Kevin LeBlanc and I have been messing around with a format for a recurring comic strip. Here was last week's effort.

Labels: American Idol, Follywood, Sanjaya Malakar

I don't know what the hell I'm doing with my blog.

I am feeling more than a little uninspired when it comes to posts lately. Granted, some of that can be chalked up to seasonal allergies causing my head to explode, but even still...

On any given day I might write anal sex jokes, short fiction, or about sports, politics, love, dating, current events, or my adorably cute niece. And, I suppose that makes sense, because they all make up parts of my personality. Still, PDDC is just not feeling like it used to.

Perhaps part of the problem is that many more people I know in "real life" are reading it now. And that is causing me to over think each post. (Even more than usual!)

It's not that I was trying to hide my blog, you know, at PeterDeWolf.com. I just didn't used to think about who was reading. Or care.

I tried posting one day as if I was one of those anonymous bloggers. It felt kind of cool.

Maybe I'll take a break from here and start some secret blog in some murky corner of the internet.

Maybe I'll take a break from blogging all together.

Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow morning, write a kickass post for here, and forget about all of this silliness.

Well, at least it sounds like I have a good handle on the situation.

Lately I've felt like my blog has been sucking. And that pretty much everything I've written has been crap.

So, I am going to try something a little different today.

Like many great men before me, I am going to try some LiveBlogging.

And by "great men," I mean other sports addicted blog dorks. (Bill Simmons being the most well-known.)

My original plan was to type while watching the game, and to hit "Publish" at the end of every line/paragraph. However, I am not sure how that is going to affect RSS feeds and the automatically imported Facebook "Notes."

Maybe I'll just "Publish" a separate post at the end of each quarter.

We'll see.

[UPDATE: I tried this LiveBlogging business. It sucked. I deleted it.]

Two hours to game time!

And the return of Toronto's greatest enemy Vince Carter.

I couldn't be more excited right now if Kate Mara was dancing to 80s music in front of me wearing nothing but a pizza bikini.

Well... maybe that would be more exciting. But, I AM pretty pumped up.

If I ever spark a bloody bar brawl at some point, it won't be because of a woman, or because some drunk stepped on my foot. It will be because of the Raptors. Or, quite possibly, because someone stole a french fry off of my plate.

Never steal french fries off my plate.

Go Raptors!

Labels: Kate Mara, Raptors

If the first thing I did this morning -- even before getting out of bed -- was watch Argentinian soccer highlights, would that make me a sports addict?

Just curious...

How about if I was completely and utterly fixated on tomorrow's Raptors/Nets playoff game?



Probably, eh?

Oh well...

While I was watching said soccer highlights -- it was Boca Juniors vs. River Plate -- I saw a commercial for eHarmony.ca

I didn't know that there was a Canadian version of the popular (I'm guessing) dating website. (Didn't I go to the 'online dating for blog fodder' well already?)

From what I can gather, eHarmony is a site where you answer an assload of questions, they take the results and perform some math voodoo on 'em, and then the site spits out a list of potential matches.

Sure. Nothing says romance and true love like a sexy math equation. Mrrrrrrooowwwrrrrr.

Let's pretend that I believe compatibility is somehow quantifiable. I think I'd have some serious concerns about the type of questions they'd ask. eHarmony doesn't know me, man. They don't know what is important to me.

You know what? I think I'll pop over to eHarmony.ca right now. And, if it doesn't involve registering, or doing anything resembling work, I am going to bring back some examples of the questions they use.

[Elevator music plays.]

I'm back.

Curses! They did make me register.

The things I do for you people.

I registered as "Raoul" from Toronto.

Okay, the first section contains 19 questions. And they are the super annoying kind where there are 7 options for how much it sounds like you, ranging from "not at all" to "somewhat" to "abso-fucking-lutely" "very much"

And I can't see the next set of questions until I answer these. Diabolical.

Here are some highlights:

#3 I feel unable to deal with things.

What the hell? Raoul does NOT like feeling like he's being analyzed.

#7 I often carry the conversation to a higher level.

If by "higher level" you mean sprinkle it with obscure Simpsons references then, yeah, that's a big "very much" from me.

#9 I often make others feel good.

Did eHarmony just ask me if I was a manwhore?

#19 I get angry easily.

You really want to ask that after 19 idiotic questions?

FYI: I filled it in to make Raoul sound completely evil. Just on the off chance that eHarmony will return a "Dude, have you considered a monastery?" verdict.

On to page #2...

Eeeesh. It is "Self Descriptions."

"Warm," "Clever," "Dominant," etc. 19 of them!

I am going to select "Not very" for all of them except for "quarrelsome." That one gets a "Very much."

(I tried to ignore "Aloof," but they made me go back and answer it.)

Hit "submit" and...

Oh crap. Section three is more Self Description. 18 more.

They all get "Not very" except for "Attractive."

Come on.

Next section...

Are you kidding me? More Self Description?

"Vivacious?"

Oh yeah, I am lousy with vivaciousness.

No wonder there are so many single people. Dinners for one and rampant, rampant masturbation have never looked so appealing.

Okay, finally a new section...

You have to select four words that your friends would use to describe you.

Sadly "writes annoyingly long blog posts" isn't an option.

I pick the first 4 and move on.

[Peter note: At this point I am completely aware that this post has gotten away from me. I should either end it or just delete it. But, I am just too stubborn for that. Perhaps I should go back and change my answer to that in section 2.]

The next section is...

"Personal Characteristics."

How in the world is that different than "Self Descriptions?"

Examples:

I have a high desire for sexual activity

Not after finishing this son of a bitch.

I often see humour in everyday life

See above.

I greatly appreciate the physical beauty of the opposite sex

Naaaaw. I'm going through all of this hassle for companionship. Jackass.

I like to look at people of the opposite sex

How is that different than the last question?

Are you trying to "out" me, eHarmony?

What have you heard?

I gave them all 4s.

Ha! eHarmony caught me:

"We notice that every question on this page currently has the same answer. This usually indicates that a user is rushing through our process, which has a negative impact on our ability to create compatible matches."

Next section...

Are you kidding me? More "Personal Characteristics":

I tend to either like someone a lot or dislike him/her a lot

I despise YOU, eHarmony.

When I get mad I tend to take it out on someone

You better hope not.

Next section... "About your feelings."

Ugh.

And I notice that I am only 42% done with the questionnaire.

Seriously.

Yeah, I can't finish this.

In conclusion, I'd have to say that my initial reaction to eHarmony is not a great one. In fact, as far as how I'd deal with being single, I'd rank my options thusly:

1) Prostitution
2) Chemical castration
3) eHarmony
4) Italian chick

As far as the questions they asked, I am not sure that they get to the source of what I'd want to know about a woman.

Sure, she is gorgeous, smart, funny and has an ass that I'd wrestle a grizzly bear just to see pictures of, but if she selected "very much" for "keep your room messy," that chick is out.

Labels: Vince Carter sucks

I wanted to write a blog post yesterday about the V-Tech shootings.

It was in my head someplace, but didn't want to come out.

It still doesn't.

Tragedies like this always leave more questions than answers in their wake.

I like answers.

I like answers in my blog posts.

I like answers in life.

It is obvious, however, that there were clues.

Angry, violent, graphic writings.

Stalking women.

Clearly these are warning signs.

But, what can you do?

I bet that if you search your memory, you can think of a few people in your past that you'd describe as an "angry loner."

People in your dorm. People in your classes. Hell, even people in your family.

How did you handle it?

You avoided them, right?

I would have.

I did.

What can you do?

Are you going to give them advice?

They are loners. They don't want to talk to you.

Or they won't talk to you, at least.

Besides, what would you say?

"Hey, stoked about the new book Tolkien's son is putting out? And, by the way, you are monumentally fucked and need some serious counseling."

You could tell an RA or some authority figure.

But, in this case, it sounds like he had been given counseling.

Or had it forced upon him.

The police were even involved.

I suppose you can't arrest someone for their potential for committing crime.

Do you just hope that their first punishable act is a relatively minor one?

While I despise the horribly evil and cowardly act, I can't help but feel a little pity for the perpetrator.

A little.

I also feel a little anger towards his family. A group that I know nothing about.

Shouldn't they have seen the signs?

Wouldn't they have known him best?

But, they too are suffering today.

And will for a long time.

Who do we blame?

Should we be blaming?

Tragedies like this always leave more questions than answers in their wake.

But, if we don't keep asking them, will we eventually accept this type of event as normal?

Labels: senseless

Here's the thing...

Men and women are different.

No, it's true!

Some of it is just the way we are wired. Some of it is what we learn from our families and from society.

So, it should come as no surprise that there are a few things about women that I don't understand.

Like, for example, what they think, feel, wear, eat, watch, buy and want.

(But, other than that, I have them pretty much figured out.)

Oh, sorry, there is one other thing about women that I don't get...

Why are they so down on hookers?

I blame the puritanical hang-ups of our culture.

Because, let's face it, hookers provide a valuable service. They are willing to do the things that you ladies are sometimes unwilling to do. You know, like things involving ping pong balls and a bottle of tobasco sauce.

Hypothetically speaking.

These women need to make a living. And maybe, just maybe, there is a solidarity -- a sisterhood even -- within the... clitterati.

Whores need love too.

Let me tell you a little story...

There was a young woman. She was gorgeous. A very pretty woman. A tall redhead.

She had a warm smile and an infectious laugh.

And she, dear friends, was a prostitute.

She didn't enjoy it. But, she was a realist. She knew that there was no prince charming coming to take her away from all of that.

Until a prince charming appeared.

He was rich -- something to do with buying companies, splitting them into pieces and selling them for a profit. He drove a super expensive car, although he had no idea how to handle a manual transmission.

And they connected.

That's not to say that there weren't some bumps in the road. His lawyer tried to rape her. The mean women in the shops of Rodeo Drive wouldn't sell to her. (Thankfully a kindly hotel manager helped her with that.) Prince Charming let his hang-ups and commitment phobia cause him to treat her like a whore until he saw the error of his ways.

But, they got through it. They healed each other. And they found love.

And that woman was...

Former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher.

True story.

So, folks, if you are on your way to dinner tonight and see a hooker on the sidewalk, please stop and think for a moment. Realize that she has likely been through a lot in her life. And then give her a hug.

But, don't hold it too long or she'll probably try to charge you for it.

Labels: Hos in different area codes

You know you are getting old when...

You take your ten year old cousin to the store to rent a video game, and the thing that you find the most exciting is that Danica McKellar is the voice of "Invisible Woman."

I'm sick of it.

I really am.

I am sick of living in a male patriarchal society where I have to hide my feelings.

I am sick of acting aloof and too cool for school.

I have feelings too.

And I want to admit them.

I loved my old tooth brush!

Scratch that...

I LOVE my old tooth brush.

And I don't care what any of you say.

From the moment I first laid eyes on it...

The way that the blue and white colours blended so perfectly.

It reminded me of rapids in a clear Colorado river. Or of billowy clouds in a blue sky above a Kansas wheat field.

It took one back to a time before global warming. Before acid rain. Before pollution. Before Jennifer Lopez put a clusterfucking on an episode of "American Idol."

It was a simpler time, my friends.

And the way it fit in my hand...

You just know when something is right.

And it would still be feeling right in my hand now, if the Neo-Fascists at the Canadian Dental Association hadn't decided that we have to replace tooth brushes every three months.

Bastards.

So, I had to throw my beloved tooth brush away. I was going to set it free in the wilderness from whence it came, but I couldn't bare the thought of someday seeing some homeless dude cleaning his dog's ears with it.

Instead I tossed it in the garbage. And now it is... wherever the dudes in the truck take garbage.

Obviously I had to buy a replacement.

*sigh*

I knew from the moment that I took it out of it's package that this monochromatic piece of crap would never satisfy me.

The bristles were too hard and it felt awkward in my hand.

It is clearly a rebound toothbrush. There is no chance of it becoming any more than that.

It is "Saved by the Bell: The College Years" to the old brush's "Saved by the Bell."

And in three months we'll have to go through this charade again.

Hopefully I'll be stronger.

Hopefully.

Anton Chekhov once said, "Perhaps the feelings that we experience when we are in love represent a normal state. Being in love shows a person who he should be."

I love who I was with my old toothbrush.

Now I have to go brush with it's replacement...

And die a little inside.

Today at PeterDeWolf.com, we are going to discuss my latest addiction...

Wearing women's shoes.

Kidding. I'm kidding.

Probably.

Actually we are going to discuss Facebook some more.

And by "we," I obviously mean ME.

I've already touched on how horrifically old Facebook made me feel a couple of weeks ago. There is absolutely no need for us to revisit that.

Today we are going to discuss the cooler stuff about the 'book.

The 'book...

I can't see THAT catching on.

Unlike the site itself, which is spreading faster than your mom's legs during Fleet Week.

Oooooooooh.

When asked recently what was cool about Facebook, I didn't really come up with an answer. My reply was something like, "It's addictive... but, in a good way. Just fucking sign up."

I've given it some more thought. Here are a few of the things that I've come up with:

Finding old friends that you've lost touch with for some unknown reason.

Finding old friends that you've lost touch with for reasons that quickly come back to you.

Catching up with both groups.

Seeing the profile of old friends that you thought would never settle down, and seeing them posing all fatherly in pictures with their young daughters.

Finding out that a high school friend is now the drummer in a very good band.

Seeing profiles of old crushes and then adding some as friends while ignoring others.

And not being sure why.

People you hadn't thought of in years adding you out of the blue.

And then sharing old stories with them.

Joining groups with ridiculous names and mandates.

Wondering how Facebook's "In a relationship with..." thing would handle it if I was a polygamist.

Seeing someone on your friends' "friends" list and thinking, "She's so cute and blonde, why haven't I been introduced to HER?"

And, possibly best of all, being kept abreast of all the doings and to-ings and fro-ings of your friends. You'll even be informed when your friends break-up. The accompanying icon is a little broken heart. Awww. Sad.

Originally I thought that I'd get a bunch of people addicted to the site, and then delete my account and giggle at them. However, I am completely hooked now.

I assume that at some point the experience will go beyond critical mass for me. I'll eventually "friend" everyone I know with an account. And I won't meet new people often enough to keep my interest.

Of course that will give me more free time. Time I can spend discovering that critical mass doesn't mean exactly what I thought it did.

Until then, I have to go log back in...

Labels: Facebook

Have you ever wondered how I got to be this way?

Did my mother take a buttload of hallucinogenic drugs while pregnant with me?

Nope!

Has she ever wanted to while having to deal with me over the years?

Probably!

But, what made me... well, ME?

Lets look at some of the things I am -- and have been -- surrounded by:

This weekend I noticed a piece of paper taped to the kitchen cupboard at the family homestead. This is an area that serves as the house command and control center, and is typically festooned with post-its in a variety of colours.

On this piece of paper was written my father's to do list.

Of course, it wasn't actually started by him. You see, my mother is that special breed of bossypants that writes to do lists FOR OTHER PEOPLE.

The list went like this:

1) Clean shed and put away snowblower
2) Clean outside windows
3) Clean the yard
4) Clean laundry room
5) Fix kitchen chair

Then my father added an entry of his own...

6) Go fishing

However, my sister wasn't satisfied with that and added a few of her own...

7) check pot fields
8) paint toe nails
9) dye hair
10) take hormone pills

The most troubling thing, to me, is that I didn't think of adding to the list before she did.

Don't feel bad for my father. He has been known to play a prank or two of his own.

For example, one Christmas when I was in high school, my girlfriend at the time was spending Christmas with us. We left her home alone with my dad for a half hour and he convinced her to help him change the tags on all of the gifts under the tree.

He giggled as we began opening and all got the wrong gifts. I got a pair of women's gloves. My Dad LOVED it.

I don't think the girlfriend ever spent another Christmas with us. Hmm.

Altering lists is an age-old tradition in our family. I used to do it all the time with grocery lists.

I'd add things like, "monistat," "crate of prunes -- big juicy ones!," "flea powder," or "the meaning of life."

As punishment, my mother used to drag me, and whatever friend happened to be hanging out at the house, to the grocery store with her.

And as punishment for THAT, we would torture her by adding things to the cart when she wasn't looking. Things like: the aforementioned prunes, beets, 14 frozen pizzas, and a large plastic children's sled.

She did kind of get the final laugh on me with that though...

When I was in college, she came to the city to visit. She decided that she wanted to go to Cost Co. and that me and a buddy of mine had to go to lug crap around for her. We went. And we tossed extra crap in the cart on her. She caught most of it, but let the giant pillow-case sized bag of Hershey's Hugs slide.

My buddy and I started eating those little chocolate bastards before we even got to the car. We ate them the entire drive back to the apartment.

And then for another three hours as we sat around.

We took pockets full to a hockey game that night. Before it even started, we were surrounded by huge piles of wrappers at our feet.

We were on such a sugar high, that when my school scored it's first goal -- and AC/DC's "Thunderstruck" blared through the speakers -- I almost hit the ceiling. That was just waaaay too much sugar. And, at one point, I swear that I could see through time.

I can't even look at those candies now. And just typing this story made me twitch.

However, I don't want you to think that I'm the kind of guy that doesn't take anything serious. I know that there is a time and place for everything, you know?

For example, when I was a young Pete, I went to see an allergy doctor. My mother was sitting with me in the waiting room, while I filled out a questionnaire/form dealie. It was asking about all sorts of symptoms.

I looked up from the form and stared at my mother with a serious expression.

She looked back at me with concern on her face.

I looked down at the form and then at her again.

"What is it?," she asked.

I looked down at it one more time, then back at her and asked,

"Do you recall me complaining about any problems with my ovaries recently?"

Labels: Hershey's Hugs = Evil

I woke up this morning with an idea for a blog post.

I went through my morning routine, but by the time I got to my PC, the idea was gonzo.

I'm sure it was brilliant though. Life-changing really.

So, I'm just going to wing this.

If I don't blog for a few days, it feels like I am letting you people down. I imagine you just sitting in front of your computers, crying, drinking and hitting reload/refresh until the clouds part and I post something new.

It reminds me of that day in elementary school when I realized that when I was out sick, school went on without me. People had conversations. Teachers did work.

This was jarring for me.

I'm not kidding.

Yesterday, the incomparable Jazz posted about certain things that she judges potential mates on. One of these things was "the art on your wall."

I realized that I don't really have art on my wall.

I have pics of the ACN. (No surprise there.)

I have an autographed photo of Clint Eastwood. (He taught me everything I know about the art of asskickery.)

I have TWO autographed photos of Guy LaFleur. (Most exciting hockey player EVER.)

And I have an autographed photo of former Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau.

Growing up in my family, it would be more surprising if I wasn't a Trudeau fan.

Let's take care of the complainers first...

Many Western Canadians aren't fans.

I can see how you folks wouldn't want to share your billions of dollars from oil revenue with people in the east so that they could, you know, eat and junk. And it must be upsetting to see all that pesky french writing on government documents and signs. It must irk you that francophones have the right to converse with their government in their own language. Sonsabitches!

And the seperatists...

Meh. I can't be bothered.

Critics of his economic policies...

Yes, the debt rose. As it did in most western countries at the time.

This post is not about the complainers.

This post is not about the entertaining things Trudeau did:

- Pirouette behind the Queen
- sliding down the banister at Buckingham Palace
- flipping people off

This post is not about the kick-ass things he did:

- "Just watch me."
- sitting in the stands -- without even flinching -- while protesters hurled things at him

This is not even about his legacy, really:

- making Canada.... well, Canada
- Charter of Rights and Freedoms
- cultural impact
- gay rights
- bilingualism

This post is about hope.

The hope that comes from a leader with a vision.

The hope that comes from a leader that acts, and doesn't just react.

The hope that comes from being part of a country that can be more, that can achieve more.

And that wants to.

The hope that comes from being part of a nation that makes it a priority to take care of it's less fortunate.

The hope that comes from being part of a country that leads the world by example.

Not by force.

The hope, and pride, that comes from being part of a country that stayed out of Iraq. (Which was decided by Jean Chretien, who was a minister under Trudeau.)

This post is also about the fact that our current leader doesn't provide hope.

Though the Liberal leadership convention provided some hope.

Ken Dryden (former teammate of the aforementioned Guy LaFleur) gave a hopeful speech on "My Canada" that reminded me of the great things about being Canadian.

Eventual winner Stephane Dion gave me hope that Canada will be a leader with regards to combating global warming. Even if his charisma didn't win me over.

This post is also about one of the young newcomers to the Liberal Party that will be looking for a seat under Stephane Dion.

He is Justin Trudeau.

Son of Pierre Trudeau.

He is hope.

This post is about Canada.

This post is about hope.

This post is also about my wall.

Or it was.

Labels: ACN, art, Canada, rambling

I spent the weekend hanging out with the ACN. And, as usual, we had a blast.

She was very excited when she arrived and was wearing her "Star of the Week" necklace from school. But, with such power also comes responsibility. As the star, she got to take the class stuffed animal, a leopard named "Spot," home for the weekend.

Spot brought her journal with her. And at the end of the weekend, the ACN and I had to write her journal entry.

When they first arrived, the ACN was very excited about this idea. But, she soon realized that Spot might be getting a bit too much attention. She started shooting the leopard dirty looks.

Spot WAS allowed to sleep in her bed though. And, after a half hour of re-arranging, she even got a prime spot between E.T. and "Clifford The Watch Puppy." She decided that since it was Spot's first night, that she should be with a couple of veterans of ACN slumber parties.

On Saturday morning ACN even agreed to pose for a picture with Spot. The other kids all put pics of themselves with Spot in her journal.



But, then the ACN started losing interest in Spot.

Spot went for a drive to the store, but wasn't allowed to go in.

Spot went to McDonald's, but had to wait in the car.

The ACN was the star of the week, and didn't need no furry spotted nuisance stealing any of her thunder.

Spot was ignored for the rest of the weekend.

I tried to include Spot in activities, but the ACN was having none of it.

Yesterday morning, the ACN and I worked on Spot's journal. And, as can be expected, the ACN had some very strong feelings about my choice of words, phrases and stories.

She did, however, LOVE the story about Spot and the ACN sending me to time-out for being bad.

The ACN was very excited about getting to hear her teacher read that part in school today.

The ACN wanted me to write, "[The ACN] doesn't like Spot and didn't take very good care of her."

The ACN howled with laughter at that. But, I eventually talked her out of including it.

At some point, she started thinking that maybe this journal entry was going to make her look bad, so when I was writing the part about Spot not going to McDonald's, I asked the ACN if she wanted me to say that she brought Spot out a Chicken McNugget.

"Yeah!" She replied.

"But, you didn't bring Spot a nugget."

The ACN grinned.

"So, we are going to fib?"

"Yeeeeeah!" And then some hee hee hees.

Spot's journal entry turned out pretty cute.

*****

Saturday evening, the ACN didn't like either of the two pairs of jammies I was offering.

"Pink with Minnie Mouse?"

She shook her head.

"Blue with Penguins?"

Nopers.

I offered each again.

Still no.

Then it hit me...

"Munchkin, how about the blue pants with the pink top?"

She just looked at me. I could tell that she was intrigued.

Then I said, "Hmmmm... Your Mommy would have a stroke."

That tipped the scale.

"Yeeeaaaah!"

*****

At some point during the weekend, the ACN decided that my new name was "Uncle Stella."

She also decided that it was the highest of high comedy when I'd bellow, "Steeeelllllllllllllllllllllllaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!"

Cracked her up. Every. Time.

She also decided that, for a while anyway, her name was going to be "Dora."

I asked, "Is that because you are adorable?"

She smiled and gave me a sweet little, "Yeeeeeeaaaah."

I wonder if I am still Uncle Stella.

It could be worse, she re-named her Mommy as "Farty Farty Stinky Butt."

Ouch.

Labels: ACN, blogging with a cold