On that note...

Alright, this here is the last post of 2003. I wanted to do a whole retrospective on the year, but it occurred to me that large portions of it are lost in the mists of time and alcohol fumes, making such an endeavour all but impossible. So instead, I'll leave this year with a quote from former Creem scribe Peter Laughner (via Lester Bangs):

"Here I sit, sober and perhaps even lucid, on the kind of winter's day that makes you realize a New Year is just around the corner and you've got very little to show for it, but if you are going to get anything done on this planet, you better pick it up with both hands and DO IT YOURSELF."

Happy new year.

Resolutions, numbering nine.

Making these things is a mug's game, I know, but what the fuck....

This Year I Will....

1. Quit smoking.

2. Quit drinking (at least for January).

3. Drink more water.

4. Save money.

5. Buy a goddamned proper bed.

6. Exercise regularily.

7. Read more.

8. Make new friends.

9. See the world.

I guarantee, I will shit the bed on most, if not all, of the above. But: hey!

Lists galore

The Year in Lists.

These two sides of my brain need to have a meeting.

Oh yeah: while dining at a local burger joint yesterday afternoon, I heard a disco-ized cover version of the White Stripes' "Fell In Love With A Girl". Very weird. I wonder if it's from this.

Hurrgh. Hugh.

Five days of wallowing in one's own crapulence (look it up) can really take a toll on a guy. I think I've put on 15 punds of snack-weight in the past week. Thank god the end of the year is nigh and we can consign this one to the crapper of history.

Anyway, here's a holiday recap (even though y'all were probably there).

Tuesday: TransAtlantic. Despite expecting this annual night of BritPop etc to blow, it actually ended up a good time. I got just drunk enough, danced a fair bit and they played "Hey Ya".
Wednesday: Saw "RotK" again (and noticed a few things that bugged me this time out that I missed last time.) Ate MacD's. General chillage.
Thursday: Christmas, as previously noted, was spent watching the "Band of Brothers" box set and feeling maudlin.
Friday: Boxing Day famliy fun. Drank loads of rum, ate a ton of food and then went to see Old Reliable with my friend from Vancouver. Good gig, good night.
Saturday: Cool dudes, loose moods. Shopping, lunch etc. Watched the Oilers pound Vancouver. Drank beer. Played video games.
Sunday: Went with a high school buddy to the Oilers/Flames Batttle of Alberta, which the Oilers lost. If I had paid for the seats, I'd be pissed off. Watched "Down with Love" with Ms. S from Van-city, which started promising but spiralled into self-parody. Kinda like my life.

So that's pretty much up to date. Too boring? Tough. You want funny, then go elsewhere. I'm not your goddamn fun-monkey.

Drink up and get out.

Anyway, last post before the holidays. I'll be back Monday, barring any unforseen defenestrations or other such misfortunes over the next five.

So happy fucking holidays, you fucks.

Once upon a Tuesday dreary

I've spent a good part of my morning chasing a tiny fly that is circling 'round my office. He's not precisely taunting me from his perch atop a pallid bust of Pallas, but I expect his prescence (and ability to change direction in the blink of an eye, thus avoiding hands, notebooks and full coffee cups propelled in his direction) will drive me insane nonetheless.

You know you coulda been a wonder....

As the clock ticks down towards Christmas, I must confess to feeling a wee tinge of excitement, though it has less to do with the actual event as it does with the fact that I get to spend the next five days drinking and stuffing my face.

It all starts tonight at this shithole. It's gonna be retarded.

Trouble in mind.

Just when I thought I could start climbing out of this pre-holiday funk, along comes disgraced domestic mogul and former Iraqi tyrant (no, wait: that's t'other guy. Oops.) Martha Stewart to kick me when I'm down by declaring this Christmas "...the saddest holiday ever."

Now granted, she could be speaking for herself (and to be sure, facing charges of conspiracy, securities fraud, obstruction of justice and making false statements could be enough to dampen anyone's enthusiasm for the season), but I figure if the woman who built an empire on showing bored, Xanax'd-to-the-tits suburban housewives how to craft crepe paper angel tree ornaments and brew mulled wine (psst..the secret ingredient is wine) is sour on the spectacle that is the celebration of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ's first moon landing, what hope is there for the rest of us? None, that's what.

Then again, upon re-reading the story in question, I musty confess to feeling no small amount of schadenfreude at Ms. Stewart's fall from grace. And, as anyone who knows me would attest, schadenfreude is pretty much my favorite thing. Even though I can't pronounce it.

Doink.

The preceding post was not particularly funny, nor all that insightful. I suggest wasting time on this instead.

2003: The year that wuz.

1. What did you do in 2003 that you'd never done before?
traveled by myself for the first time ever.

2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I'd like to think I did a good job on the "resolution" that kicked off 2003. As for the new year, I've made a few resolutions, some of which I've already broken (do they count if you break them before New Years? Ah, fuck it.)

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
No.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
No.

5. What countries did you visit?
The U.S. of A twice.

6. What would you like to have in 2004 that you lacked in 2003?
More money, internal harmony.

7. What date from 2003 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
October 25, seeing the Strokes in Seattle.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
traveling alone.

9. What was your biggest failure?
Failing to install a functioning democratic republic in Iraq.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
No, been in O.K. shape all year.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
Probably my plane ticket to Austin.

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?
Everyone who took to the streets to protest the war on Iraq and my roomie.

13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?
George W. Bush, me.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Booze, drugs, clothes, music.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Seeing the Strokes live an' loud.

16. What song will always remind you of 2003?
"Hey Ya"-Outkast: Song of the Year.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?
Sadder.

ii. thinner or fatter?
Slighty thinner, I think.

iii. richer or poorer?
Richer.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Fucking.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Drinking.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?
Watching DVDs on my couch.

22. Did you fall in love in 2003?
Nope.

23. How many one night stands?
1/3

24. What was your favourite TV programme?
The "O.C"!!!

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
Hate? No.

26. What was the best book you read?
"Psychotic Reactions..."- Lester Bangs

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
KoL. The Shins. Granddaddy. Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Black Keys

28. What did you want and get?
An Eskimos Grey Cup win.

29. What did you want and not get?
Mandy Moore.

30. What was your favourite film of this year?
"RotK"
obvs.

31. What did you do on your birthday?
Went to New City for a couple of beers.

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Mandy Moore.

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2003?
Urban casual. Whatever the fuck that means.

34. What kept you sane?
Pot. Blogging.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
I'm drawing a blank....Mandy something....

36. What political issue stirred you the most?
War.

37. Who did you miss?
Johnny Cash.

38. Who was the best new person you met?
I dunno.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2003.
There's no need to stay up till 7 a.m. Tomorrow is a new day.
Also: If it seems like a great idea at 3 a.m., it probably isn't (exhibit A: vodka shots).

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
"Things fall apart, I don't know why we bother at all."-B&S

In the latter stages, subject became erratic, violent and really funny to watch.

It's an interesting experience to go through an entire weekend without tasting the bitter fruit of a hangover. However, I expect me and my old nemesis the hangover will become reaquainted very soon.

Ah, Homestar, you've got the perscription for the daily blues.

The Greatest Blog in the World

Dude ain't just whistlin' Dixie either.

Ah, for the sweet embrace of sleep.

The only thing worse than actually having to do work is having to wait for other people to do their work so you can go home. This going out on school nights stuff is for sterner constitutions than mine. A nap is in order, as there is much to do this weekend and allah knows I'll need to keep my strength up.

I know my personal level of shit incredulousness is at an all-time high.

A classic for a reason: 73 per cent of Americans unable to believe this shit.

Me, I'd rather not give a flying fuck about the whole goddamned thing, but, as Frank said: "That's life."

Reckless, abandoned.

Oh yeah: being the lazy sod I am, I neglected to get tix for tonight's Corb Lund Band show until the last minute, only to find it was sold out. Nurtz.

I used to be sad, now I'm just bored with you.

So why, despite last night's mostly successful experiment with moderation (that, like all things, being a purely relative concept), why do I still feel like 30 miles of muddy road this morning? Doubtless the combo of too much rye and not near enough sleep are culprits, but I suspect the ringleader of this merry band of ills is none other than my old friend cigarettes. Cigarettes and I have what can best be described as a love/hate relationship. There are periods where I smoke entirely too much in a go, only to regret it later when I awake with a hacking cough that ejects a rainbow-coloured assortment of fluids from my lungs and a dull pounding in my head. And the sniffles. And don't get me started on the cancer. Altogether, that's simply too steep a price to pay for a few microseconds of nicotine-laced pleasure. So, having smoked a good half a pack last night, I can say that I hope I never touch cigarettes again (though it should be noted that the preceeding statement comes in the form of a wish and not a declaration). Some bad habits are best left by the wayside before they can do any more damage than they've already inflicted.

You don't jump away from a situation- you fuckin' confront the hell out of it!

Today's the kind of day where anything can happen if you keep your foot stuck up in the air long enough.

You'll be doing alright with your Christmas of white...

It's official: X-mas wil be a strictly solo joint this year. The pater familias is going to be out of town and, therefore, unable to feed me. So it's simply a matter of rustling up the "Band of Brothers" box set, a couple of bottles of Chilean red, some KFC and pot. Merry fucking Christmas indeed.

Comes the hour, comes the man.

For every man, there comes a time when it seems the threads of his life's tapestry lie torn and frayed, where dreams are shattered and he finds himself alone against the furious assault of the cruelties and insult of the world. It is at this time, when hope seems as faint as fog on the breeze, that but one thing can pull him back from the brink of disaster.

It's time to grow a moustasche.

Outtamind, Outtasite

Holy shit. "Return of the King" is 10 pounds of awesome in a five pound bag. I'm not sure where to really begin as the movie is just so fucking huge and so fucking intense in the way it comes at you with breathtaking landscapes, big fucking trolls and orcses, thousands of orcses that you can't help but overlook the inherent silliness of the whole swords'n'sorcerers genre, the clunky dialogue and the lame deus ex machina ghost army and just sit back and grin like an idiot for the whole three plus hours. The way Peter Jackson moves the film seamlessly from moments of epic grandeur to up close and personal humanity is remarkable. Purists will no doubt sneer at the liberties Jackson and company have taken with Tolkein's story, but then the books were bloated messes anyway. The films have managed to bring out the books' core ideas and characters, giving us the essence of a mammoth story that not only touches on some Big Themes, but also kicks fucking ass. So good.

Mostly irrelevant, but how cool would it be to work at the Beer Institute?

I lifted this from TMFTML (from whom I've also totally ganked my writing style; call it blogger's envy). All I can add is that "Beer Institute" would look pretty fucking sweet on a business card.

Muddling through.

Anyone who has dared ventured down into the depths of the past week's posts will know I have a special dislike for this time of year. For various reasons (which I shan't burden anyone with), I, at best, don't give a shit about Christmas and, at worst, fucking loathe it. Now, the holidays are a difficult time for many and I'm certainly a member of that particular group. That said, I have a sneaking feeling that the 2003 edition is going to be extra-super gay (in the Grade 6 sense of the word, that is). I don't know what it is, but I feel an extra-large sense of impending doom as the whole Christmas-New Year's double team inches inexorably closer.

Now, normally, I'd figure on simply drinking myself into a state of near-unconsciousness, but I think moderation will be the watchword in that regard this season. See, the secret is to get just drunk enough. Your average amateur drunk will, upon finding themselves blessed with a decent buzz, simply try to consume more to keep things rolling (a sin I myself was guilty of on Saturday night,with disastrous consequences). The key, as I'm sure Frank would tell you if he wasn't, you know, dead, is you gotta know when to say when. So there you have it: a kinder, gentler, less vomity drunk holiday season it will be. And if that doesn't numb the pain, there's always hard drugs.

No choice now, it's too late

Jesus Christ, I'm tired this morning. It's bad enough actually being at work, but being at work and sitting through two and a half hours of pointless "training" (especially when I have a shitload of real work to do today) is decidedly not what the doctor ordered.

I do, however, have two tix to an afternoon showing of "RotmfK", after which I might as just lay down and die.

But I don't even believe in Jebus!

As we are in the midst of the season celebrating the birth of Christ, it's important to remember that you're all going to fucking burn in hell. Thank you.

If you can keep your head when those about you are losing theirs, you probably have no idea how totally fucked you really are.

Just when it seems like my life is crumbling to teeny-tiny pieces before my very eyes, along come the evil geniuses at the the Black Table with another Black List. This week, the list even gives a shout-out to Maggie Gyllenhaal, who I will never mistake for Tobey Maguire.

As for the rest of today: fuck it.

Okay!

Mystery solved. My long lost Grandaddy CD just appeared, lodged in the case with the White Stripes CD I lent out a month ago and just got back. So I got one thing going for me today.

Gone are the days.

With your faithful correspondent mired in what can only be called a full-on case of the winter blues, it's as good a time as any to try to scrape through the slush and snow in search superficial distractions (superficiality, after all, being the true spirit of the season). So bottoms up, you bastards.

Dec. 17: "RotK" premiere
Dec. 19: Corb Lund Band @Ukranian Cultural Centre
Dec. 23: TransAtlantic @New City Suburbs
Dec. 26: Annual Boxing Day piss up (Black Dog Freehouse)/Old Reliable 9th Anniversary show @ New City)
Dec. 31: New Years Sucks @New City Suburbs

I neglected to include "drinking alone on Christmas Day" as that should go more or less without saying.

Soon there will be a fucking PILE OF FACES around my foot.

I am contemplating buying Chrismukkah gifts, but I don't know if any of the ingrates I know deserve anything short of an ass-kicking. I know I should probably be beaten up this year. This whole holiday business is a big fucking scam anyway: one month (give or take) of forced good-will, which does nothing but make the hypocricy of the other 11 months even more rank and the abuses we commit against our fellow man on a daily basis even more egregious. "Over there" they're eating dust and cockroach shit while we grow fat and stupid. And what have we done to deserve any of this? Fuck all. We fluked out is all. So the next time you agonize over Christmas presents, bitch about the lack of convenient parking spaces at the mall or lament having to spend time with your (no doubt) execrable relatives, think about those other folks whose day-to-day "to-do" list is usually topped by "not fucking die".

Jesus. This wasn't going to be a manifesto, but a guy can only take so many Wal-Mart commercials and smug jingoism in a day before something inside snaps. That also means it's time to just go home.

My slow descent.

Dear Saturday Night:

I know we had some good times together, but the way you treated me at the end was disgraceful and embarrassing to us both. Please give me back the two hours you stole from me and I promise I will never speak of this, or touch Jagermeister, again.

Thank you.

PS: On second thought, keep the two hours. I'm probably better off not knowing.

When it's time to party, we will always party hard.

You know things are shaping up for a good party when a hot and statuesque aquaintance sends an e-mail confirming her attendance with the following epilogue:

"I'll try my bestest to round up the sluts!"

Please, god... come through for me on this one. Just this once.

I think I'm going to prep on Saturday by throwing on the AWK and smashing stuff.

We're talented and bright, we're lonely and uptight.

Total yawner today. (Surprise? No.)

The path to a impromptu long weekend was smoothed considerably by me shuffling around the office and groaning quietly. People are even telling me to go home. I'd like to thank the Academy...

(Now, watch me get sick for reals and miss out on all the fun and frivolity. That would so fucking suck.)

Interestingly enough, I reckon I've used the word "fuck" or one of it's variants or derivatives in each and every post on this bizzitch. I deserve a cookie or something. Sorry: a fucking cookie.

I'm hooked on e-mails. I regularly correspond with about three people during the day. In fact, most days, that's all I do. Today, however, two are M.I.A., leaving me with a yawning emptiness in my Inbox. It's got to be so bad that the appearance of new mail causes a Pavlovian reaction of pure delight, which is invariably followed by crushing disappointment when I see it's just a random update from the IT people or a reminder to buy tickets for the holiday party. Fuck that. (See? I did it again!)

C'mon 4:30...there's rye and cokes to drink.

(Another factoid: on the Blogger spellcheck, "fuck" appears as "Fuji". So Fuji off, motherFujier.)

One last thing: I had two cigarettes last night, my first since Saturday. The first one was awesome. the second not so much. Lesson learned.

Everybody wants to be a showman.

Sunterra's pecan squares are so good, I could eat an entire tray, lapse into a sugar coma and spend the rest of my days in a happy fantasy land in my head dancing with giant, anthropomorphic pecans and be content.

Kings of Leon: "California Waiting"= so good.

A bit I wrote and have to post or else delete.

The snow has been falling for days. Last night, you ran down the sidewalk, catching the fat white flakes on your tongue, flinching ever so slightly at the sharp, cold bite that lasted an instant before fading like a memory. You were drunk then and today the light snowflakes weigh a hundred pounds as you shake them off your coat and sit down at a booth near the back, next to the stack of week old newspapers and empty ashtrays on the bar. You pat your flushed cheeks and idly stare at the menu, all the while silently cursing the dull ache in your skull and the unease in your stomach. You consider orange juice, but when the waitress arrives, you order coffee instead. She's small and pretty, with dark hair and circles under her eyes. She doesn't smile. Neither do you.
You don't know if he's going to show up or not. Your not even sure why you agreed to meet, but he seemed so earnest and so desperate, like a lost dog begging for scraps at the back door, that you decided the least you could do was hear him out. You'd had too much to drink the night before and something about the cold and gray of the passing days made you crave something warm and familiar. Today, though all you can think about is how you wish you'd stayed in bed and how much he let you down. The waitress returns, smiling now with a cup of coffee and an apology for the wait. You smile back, and can see sadness in her eyes and, for a moment, you're unsure if it's her or your own reflected back.
You sigh and reach for the cream and sugar as the door opens and he walks in.

From the black of the night to the red morning light.

Holy shit. It's so cold this morning that my nuts have taken up a residency somewhere under my liver. Brrr. No wonder I was a half hour late for goddamn work this morning: who the fuck wants to get out of bed for this shit? I feel a "sick" day coming on.

I just picked up Martin Brodeur and Todd Bertuzzi in a blockbuster deal in my hockey pool. Hope it helps. Those Canucks old-school unis? Schweet.

Oilers GM Kevin Lowe has balls. He won't pull the trigger on a deal with Anaheim for holdout and malcontent Mike Comrie until the pipsqueak coughs up $2.5 million of his own money. Nice.

Saturday's party has been upgraded from "shindig" to "hootenany" with a possibility of "debacle" later in the evening.

Y'know, for a guy whose all about "fair trade" this and "peace" that, Chirs Martin (of Coldplay) is a real douchebag.

These little problems, they're not yours, they're mine

So there's this girl who works as the receptionist over at HR. I'd like to have the sex with her. (I tried to think of some more clever way to say that, but " I wanna show her my 'human resources'" sounded, well, fucking retarded.)

All the cool kids today have iPods. Now I want one so I can be cool too. Can I get one PLEEEEEEZE?!

This has got to be the slowest week in history. I can't believe it's only Wednesday when it feels like last Tuesday. I'm excited about my party. I hope it blows up like high school. Well, not my high school, because my high school was L-A-M-E. TV high school, then. Da-donka-donk-donk.

You know how, on "Star Trek" and shit, spaceships always come with self-destruct mechanisms (though I've never really understood why)? Wouldn't it be rad if people had those, complete with the chick computer voice going "Warning: this unit will self-destruct in 10...9...8..."? That'd be cool and it would give you a lot more time to get clear before they go BOOM!

I'm wondering how many people are going to show up at my little soiree either on coke or carrying. I'm betting at least two. I just hope they bring enough for the whole class.

Oh I forgot my favorite moment from the weekend. See, we've had this planter on our balcony for several months, the plant inside having shuffled off this mortal coil a long time ago. Since then, it's been serving mainly as an ashtray and a testament to me and the roommate's laziness. Anyway, Friday night, I'm enjoying a cigarette and ashing into Mr. Planter, when I turn to the roommate and say "Ya know, we should really throw this fucking thing out one of these days." No sooner had the words left my lips than buddy was out on the balcony like a shot, grabbing the planter and, in one smooth motion, whipping it off the balcony and into the winter air, where it hurtled into the alleyway behind our place, missed a parked car by a couple of feet, and shattered into a bizzilion pieces against the asphalt. Now, you probably had to be there (and drunk) to fully appreciate the hilarity, but the real moral of all this is: if you don't think throwing crap off balconies be funny, you are no friend of mine.

I just found out this thing has a spell check function. How long has it been there and how long have I been giving people the impression I'm a 'tard with my fucked up spelling and mangled syntax?

Just ask this scientician.

Inneresting....

This article says that more and more 20-30-somethings are putting off taking on the traditional trappings of grown-updom (marriage, spawning) in favor of "bonding and maturing together in 'urban tribes.'" (Psst...that's "friends" to the rest of us.)

Which isn't a revelation of epic proportions, as this is a phenomenon I've observed first hand from watching my friends and, to a lesser extent, the television program, also called "Friends."

My question is, what happens when these "tribes" go to war?

I can't think 'cause I'm just way too tired.

I've been having a bitch of a time getting out of bed in the morning of late. Which is weird, since I've been going to bed extra early these days. Bah. Also: humbug.

Worry not, dear reader: these lamentations of boredom will no doubt soon be replaced by complaining about being tired/hungover/still drunk/dead.

Ryan Adams' "Rock N Roll" is kinda growing on me. I mean, it's still too Bryan Adams for my liking (see what I did there?), but there's some songs and bits of others that are pretty sweet. It's frustrating being an R.A. fan because, ever since the almost-perfect "Heartbreaker", we've been getting nothing but hints and teases of the man's talents. However, these are usually obscured by overt homages to his influences and total throwaways. I mean, c'mon dude: you're better than that. (Thing is, I just know I'm gonna pick up "Love Is Hell Vol. 2". 'cuz I'm a chump, yo.)

Uhm. More shinny hockey in the offing tonight (this time with actual sharp skates! Yay!), this time with my cuh-cuh-cuh-razay friend Josh, who, when I invited him to the party this weekend, asked if he could "bring his moustasche." Of course, anyone ballsy enough to sport a 'tasche can throw down at any party of mine any day. Then it's Stella time!

It’s always worth living at least for a while.

It occurred to be last night as I sat on the couch watching "The Simple Life" (the novelty of which has worn off after just three episodes) that I really, really need to get out more.

What happened to me? I used to be fun.

-

I don't remember the last time I saw the sun. I hate this time of year for that. We get all of six hours of daylight here, so most days, the only time I see sunshine is through the windows of the office (assuming it's not obscured by the ever-present layer of slate-coloured cloud). It's fucking depressing.

By the way, if you are reading this (and you know who you are), the third track on the new Belle and Sebastian always reminds me of you.

Dead in the water.

I'm going to miss the Supersuckers tonight since it's $17 and I'm poor. Well, not poor. I'd just rather spend that $17 on liquor. Don't judge.

I am looking forward to the arrival of friends from near and far over the next couple of weeks, mostly because my friends here are all fuckin' jerks.

Just kiddin'.

Kind of.

Strictly television.

What the fuck happened to "The O.C." last night? I don't remember asking for a shot of the horrible and inexplicably popular "C.S.I.", yet that's what I got. Fuck that.

At least "Newlyweds" and "The Simple Life" are on tonight.

T.V. has taken my soul. And it feels great.

Eww.

Someone here at work (I think it's my boss) regularly brings in soup that fills the whole office with a scent somewhere between wet cabbage and a dank armpit. It's fucking gross.


And people 'round here wonder why I always have my door closed.

Say "Oh my!" and a "Boo-hoo."

See, just when you think you've got me all figured out, *WHAM!*: I bust out on the old school Stooges tip. Iggy's old posse gets the nod this a.m. 'cause of this little tidbit, which raises out the possibility of a Stooges/Jack White/Rick Rubin collaboration. So badass.

Owned!

Totally gangsta: Clic!

Apeshit: y'know, sitting around the campfire... Apeshit!

Amazing how this blog, moribund for so long, has been revitalized with the nigh-ness of the holiday season. That and the fact that I've no desire to tackle the crap work sitting on my desk right now, its very prescence like a bleak harbringer of doom.

After viewing back to back installments of the Lord of the Rings trilogy (extended editions, no less), I'm finding it difficult to relate to the world in non-Middle Earth terms. For instance, I was earlier contemplating how awesome it would be to send a meal back at a restaurant with the instructions to "cast this back into the kitchen from whence it came". Or something.

I also can't wait for "RotK" to come out, if for no other reason than it'll stomp the truly Godawful-looking "Mona Lisa Smile" into celluloid mush. Seriously, I expect that kind of trite, mass-market, focus-grouped to death paplum from Roberts and Stiles, but Maggie G.? Say it ain't so.

Maybe I'll go see "The Last Samurai" this week (samurai being almost as cool as wizards) or perhaps the Coen brothers-produced "Bad Santa". I thought Billy Bob Thornton was the best thing about "Intolerable Cruelty" and I'm sure as shit not gonna pass up a chance to see Lauren Graham play a sex kitten.

The U.S. Secret Service is looking into a alleged Eminem lyric to determine if it constitutes a threat to Semi-President Bush.
NME Hmm. Someone should keep an eye on Fiddy.

Girls act too much and boys act too tough.

Enough is enough.

Decent weekend, it was nice to escape for a while. Friday night was something of a return to form, with much boozeahol consumed (and props to my man Ay-ron for all them free beers. It helped the weekend go smoove). Took the roomie to the Savoy where we hooked up with soem friends, rolled to the Strat for cheap draught, then back to the casa for more drinking, Suede on the stereo, me chasing the roomie 'round the kitchen with my ass and table dancing.
Saturday was Hangover Central, so I took it easy most of the day. We watched most of "The Fellowship of the Ring" and "FUBAR" called it an early night. Sunday was steak'n'eggs for brekker with Liam (who is heading back across the pond tomorrow. Boo.) and lots of loafing. Finished "Fellowship..." started in on "The Two Towers" before I headed off for dinner with Liam's folks who put out a sweet spread of fine wine, prime rib and tiramasu. Yum. So, feeling slightly stuffed, I went home, finished "TTT", which leaves me breathless in anticipation of "RotMFK" (Return of the Mother Fucking King", yo.)

And now I'm at work and hating every minute of it.

This weekend, I came up with a couple of pre-New Year's resolutions to guide me through the Chrismukkah season.
For starters, I've decided to knock the smoking on the head (finally: Friday was the last straw). Secondly, I've decided to stop indulging (and engaging) in the juvenile, high-school bullshit that keeps fucking things up in my circle of friends. Which ties nicely into the final Chrismukkah resolution, which is to treat people as they deserve to be treated. That means sunshine and lollipops for some, full-on, sneering contempt for others. Yay! Contempt!

So, no sooner are we shipping the Ginger off, than Big Irish Easy rolls into town, an event I'm looking forward to with a mix of excitement and dread. Belfast's loss is our gain for the next three weeks. I just hope my sofa can survive the experience.

Finally, this Saturday is the first ever 509ers' Chrismukkah bash. It should be pretty juicy, provided that we don't get shut down early by the landlord. There will be much consumption of boozeahol and no doubt a fair amount of drama. Me, I'm just planning on drinking my weight in Heineken and telling random people to go fuck themselves.

The soul of wit?

"Fat fuck, hit in nuts. Then rolling down hill."

My hat's off to Big Irish Easy for his definition of comedy. I stand in awe.

Music of the mo':
Rolling Stones: "Dead Flowers"

Historical tidbit or allegory for my life at this moment?

The Chinese Cultural Revolution in 1965 was a comprehensive reform movement to eliminate counterrevolutionary elements in the country's institutions and leadership. It was characterized by political zealotry, purges of intellectuals, and social and economic chaos.

Big ups to the American Undershirt for the factoid.

Red-eyed and blue.

Blah blah blah.

So, the boss man sticks me with a big fucking project, lots of "responsibility" and all that other crap. However...

A) It's bullshit busywork.
B) It's not something my area, let alone my department, should even be touching with a ten-foot pole.

This week has totally licked balls. And not, you know, in the friendly way.

An offer you can't refuse.

L:"Say, would you be interested in coming for dinner on Sunday? There'll be prime rib and a 20-year-old bottle of wine."

Me: "Yes. Yes I would."

Things fall apart, I don't know why we bother at all.

Dusted myself off after shinny last night (no goals, but some good chances; added bonus: I didn't vomit!) and dragged my ass out for a few Stellas at the usual haunt. Had a pretty good chat with my pal Buck last night, which led to more pondering...but shit, I have a diary for that b.s.: this is about fun.

Uh...

Alright, no fun right now. Carry on...

Faced with a rush of options, boy's mind blows.

So, I followed through on my plan of yesterday which, I have to say, was a smashing success. A bottle of Concho Y Toro, combined with a pack'o'Camels is like an enema for the brain. Plus, watched Monday's "The O.C." on tape, which was, of course, awesome. "Chrismukkah" is the most brilliant holiday idea since Festivus for the rest of us.

Uh, work blows ass today and things aren't so shit-hot as far as the rest of it (meaning life) goes. But I'm going to go play hockey tonight and then maybe go for pints, so maybe the world will be a better place after that.

Fuck you, Mandy Moore: this is how to deal.

If there's ever been a day where staying at home and killing a bottle of vino is a Fucking Great Idea, it's this one. I can't wait to see the look on my roomate's face when he comes home to find me sauced up Merlot-style. If you motherfuckers think I'm taking on tonight's "The Simple Life" premiere with a clear head, you're sadly mistaken.


P.S: Mandy, you know I didn't mean it, baby. Give us a hug....

Oooh: lists!

Let's say, oh, the Top Seven Albums of 2003...

1. The Strokes: Room on Fire

The sophmore effort from New York rock saviours finds the patented Strokes sound enfused with synth-y guitar licks, cheeky handclaps and hooks galore. Familiar, yet refreshing.

2. Kings of Leon: Youth and Young Manhood
Derivative? Yeah, sure, but here southern boogie rock is dragged through the gutter for a much needed makeover. Past the moustaches and backstory is a solid collection of rock and roll songs. What more do you want?

3. The Shins: Chutes Too Narrow
The follow-up to the much hearalded "Oh Inverted World" finds the Shins still mining pure A.M. gold from the remenants of the Beach Boys on down to Pavement.

4. Belle and Sebastian: Dear Catastrophe Waitress
A new producer and a new focus for the rainy-day Scots results in a re-invigorated colelction of pop Nuggets.

5. White Stripes: Elephant
Would have been higher, but for the fact they ripped off their own stuff twice on the same album. Otherwise: huge.

6. Yeah Yeah Yeahs: Fever to Tell
Though mired in art-fag pretension, still kicks you in the junk harder than just about any record this year.

7. Grandaddy: Sumday
The spiritual descendant of Wilco's "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" is all electro bloops and guitar twang, but it's the tales of broken robots and office workers lost in the forest that make it better than good.

It's all a bunch of shit.

Yeah, Ryan Adams' "Wish You Were here" is a pretty good song. I'm man enough to admit that. There's something about the line "It's totally fucked up/I'm totally fucked up" that's so insanely great in it's simplicity that I just can't help but nod and say "Fucking-A. You said it, man."

Oh, I have -$25 in my bank account today. I have no idea where my fucking money went.