The Shitty, Smelly, Sweltering Bus Ride Back from Toronto to Windsor from Hell

I said earlier (last postage, whenever that was) that I would explain in detail mine and Katie's harrowing trip back to Windsore from TO on the bus ride from hell. But since it's really fucking hot, I haven't slept in two days and I'm starving - I will sum it up, or down, whathaveyou into as few of sentences as possible. Here we go: Hustling from the ticket wicket window to a bus that's about to leave we enter our stinky, sweltering, semi-filled box of chairs for the next five hours. A virtual who's who of T.O. exiting patrons. Everyone was there: Ms. bedazzled and jewelled going to Detroit older East Indian sandal-wearing lady to our left, super talkative and cackling smokey-voiced dirt ball couple going nowhere, unfortunately seated directly behind us. Up front we had twenty-somethings Ms. Black T.O going to London and Mr. Mulatto going to Windsor from Scarborough. They were all present and accounted for. But most important to the shitty-ness factor of this story, there was the damn immigrant family of 8 with the crying baby from hell. Now, the kid's whiny whimpering (which if the family had health insurance could probably be qualified as colic) was annoying and loud as fuck, and I know the parents could have done a better (any) job of comforting the little brat, but, besides being preoccupied with the rest of the brood, the Indian family of 8 were sitting directly beside the greyhounds' toilet. And this wasn't any ordinary Greyhound bus lavatory, which I'm sure even at its best isn't the cleanest or nicest of situations. This particular john, on this particular day, on this particular trip- released a hellish, sweet but revolting stench that made your stomach turn, eyes water and your nose upturn in disgust and retreat. I found that the only way to cope with these multiple disturbances (the heat, the stink and the creeps) was to immerse myself in (and occasionally bury my face in my collar) the book about cults, suicides and society that Phil lent me - which I did.

Trip to TO. Day 2 of a 3 Day Story. Skip ahead then come back and read this one... It will make more sense. Maybe.

I'm up. But barely. If you call eyes opening to somewhere - up, then yeah. My head is killing and my limbs ache. Am I still dreaming or do my eyes and fingernails hurt too? Can you feel pain in a state of REM sleep? Possibly. I'm in a blue room in a comfy bed but I feel like shit. I think I'm still in Toronto, but I'm not really sure. Katie is sprawled out next to me not looking any better. And she's sleeping. Information starts creeping back into my rocked brain and I wonder if the 47 beers and 18 shots I consumed yesterday had anything to do with my present shittiness. Shitty-ness? Shiteenis? Shit. That's how I feel and that's what someone says from somewhere outside our door when they realize we have to get up and leave soon if we're going to make it to the Jays game we plan on attending. It's 11 am and the game starts at 1. If I were laying dead in a strange bed with a face-full of sun anywhere else we'd have plenty of time. But this is anywhere but anywhere else. It's TO. Somehow we all get up, shower and leave. Not sure how, but we all exit together. Before heading to the game we bolt haphazardly and without fear (as if we'd just woken up and left the house immediately after a night of drinking) across the street to the twenty four hour Portuguese bakery. The Portuguese Bakery of all Portuguese Bakeries. And located within three minutes of our friendly innkeepers home. How Toronto you must be saying. Within two minutes of walking in any direction in Toronto you will see either a) something cool, b) something weird, c)something big, d) something gross, or e) something undefined. The Bakery was cool. And a bit exaggerated (which I think falls into the something 'big' subcategory). They had breads that looked like cakes, pastries that probably tasted like sandwiches, counters upon counters of croissants and danishes galore, yeast and cookies and donuts and pies and bread overflowing and falling onto the floor. A lot of foods I've never seen nor ever knew existed in my wildest dreams. So I bought a coffee. "Two sugars and two creams please," I say because for some reason nobody in Toronto knows what a double double means. "You want four-fresh-blueberry-swirl-topped-pound-cake-stuffed-hand-made-cheese-ball-muffin-cod-loaf-straight-from-Lisbon-extra-flaky-butter-smothered-croissants?" (had to throw a 'fish' reference in there). No. With a coffee finally in hand and a weird hankering for something warm from the oven, we're gone. We rush to Jeff's apartment driving Jeff's truck, pull up to Jeff's and a million other people's building, meet prompt as usual Mr. V-Neck and walk quickly up the stupid hill to get to the Rogers Centre. A few minutes in line and the seats are seized. We take a nice little detour around the entire building, because Jeff said I needed the exercise. He was right, but we didn't have time to dilly. Or dally. Our seats are directly behind home plate, but about a third the way up the CN Tower. I'm obviously exaggerating but we were high up in the air like a flock of Blue Jays trying desperately to escape a stranded, giant concrete spaceship. How convenient of an allegory at the time. And it was hot as hell. And I was still recovering from the self-inflicted and ingested brew-fest from the night before. And I had a hot plate mess of greasy ten dollar fries and a slimy six dollar dog waiting patiently but deadly for my soon to be churning stomach on my lap. And I was as close to the sun as I'd been in a while. And I didn't care. Play Ball! In our mad dash up the never ending concourse to our premiere seats in the sky we had missed a homer by some Cleveland nobody - but we would soon find out there were some more jacks to come. In the form of home runs. Three more to be exact. All by the Jays. All to left field. One off the foul pole. (though it's fair if it hits it so...?) But the Jays pulled one too few long balls as it turned out. By the eighth inning, we had walked down to the lower level in search of closer seats, less heat and stray foul balls we could dive head first for, and over ten seats and the roar of the crowd make an amazing jumbo-tron worthy snag in mid-air - barehanded. With a beer in one hand. And money for another in the other. And if I catch it, a ball as well. It is summer time after all. Baseball and beer go hand in hand as they say. And sun. And jumping out on the field in a football formation with the sole intent of making it to across the field. From first to third as we so perfectly concocted during last night's drunk breakfast. Now for that to be done would have taken more than just a good jump out of the box and some above average speed. We would have to avoid the players, and the umpires and the cops and the tazers. I'll follow you Phil. Promise. The game had some pace to it and the score stayed close til the Majors home run leader JoBau, pronounced Ho-Bow (as Jeffrey and I so hilariously dubbed him) came up in the bottom of the ninth with two out, one on and down by one. Pressure time. Even for Baustista the Destroyer. Even for Jose Can You See The Ball Flying Over The Fence Bautista. Even for Boom-boom-Bau. Even for a good player. I wonder if he's Portuguese? Bautista that is. Has a pure Portuguese guy who purely calls Portugal his pure home ever played in the bigs? I mean straight pure. Maybe for the Marlins? The Dolphins if he were bigger and stronger and faster. Would not the Blue Jay be the natural enemy of the Portuguese baseball player? Not if he has thirty two home runs at the end of July. But here's the situation that separates the big from the time. With the weight of a semi-decent Sunday afternoon crowd cheering down on him, the full count pitch approaches our latest local mostly unknown hero. With a swing so hard my back hurt - Ho-Bow whiffs. The legend ends. Game over. The Sky Dome weeps. Just kidding. It was a fun game and even Cleveland gets to win sometimes. What's next we say as we pour out of the stadium with the rest of the let downs. Me not so much, and my Tiger hat I was sporting at the time and always, would back me up.The natural swing of the exiting masses brought us down towards the water. Past the black guy on drums with the head set and the bucket, the same poor percussionist who's been singing and pointing and doing his little drum act in the same spot since at least 1992. "Thanks you very much!" Thank you, thank you and thank you!" Past him. Past the packed brewery and the weird tiny but to scale childrens train, pulling children, conducted by a middle aged man in a childrens train engine, around a miniature track, puffing real, thick smoke from its stack all over everything. Past that. Past the underpass. Or is it under? Past the Craziness of the Caribbean Fest, past some boats, some cool buildings, and a restaurant with a patio on an enclosed little lake designed for casual family canoeing. Past all that. And also past the outdoor, fake ice designed for real skates plastic pad area that it's users were walking on. With real skates. Outside in the sun. Past all that too. And past the free give-away but tips invited power drink and water stands, past a corner in front of a dock and stop. Turn towards the large, packed patio with the extra-sized Gallagher like umbrellas and chill. Now this is summer livin'. Pass the beer, the high-flyin' insults and the good vibrations. Our way that is. Ears are ringing in the west but we don't care. We kind of like it. This is why you go to Toronto. To not be in Windsor. It's an act of cathartic cleansing that everyone needs, craves and deserves once in a while. Just ask Hank - he'll tell ya. Four or five pitchers of beer, some juicy booze and a plate of Toront-ized nachos and we're ready to go. Coffees. We need coffees. Now bro. And naturally, some more booze for it's only the latter part of a perfect TO afternoon and there is plenty of prime boozin' light left for us to absorb. To the liquor store! Dammit. Since today is Sunday that means that the booze depository (Or LC as Lahey calls it) is operating on more restricted hours. Phil, call your more of an alcoholic friend than us (and see if he (or she, for this is 2010 after all) can direct us to some black market rum runnin' China town back alley after hours bodega. No dice. I tend to think this same informant is the same person we called the night prior for the after-party directions, if so his insider information is lacking at the moment. It's understandable. A long weekend, in the dead of summer, smack dab in the middle of a crazy Caribbean fest in one of if not Canada's most exciting, fun and busy cities. Plus he (or she) was probably drunk themselves, but that's okay b/c we had more reserves than first panicked. Moving on. The day and night ended without incident, aside from the amazing peanut butter cookie ice cream chocolate dessert contraption Mich laid on us and we crashed early. The whole weekend was a complete success and I want to go back. But this time, maybe not on the bus, for the ride back (as prefaced earlier) was a nightmare and I need an entire separate blog type blog like thing to describe that fucking ordeal. Another time. Sleep tight TO but don't get too comfortable b/c I'm coming back. I don't know when, how or where I'm going to get the money to support it - but I'm coming back.

Trip to TO. Day 1 of a 2 day Story...

Quick update on the cat situation before I get into my condensed but effective & fun Toronto trip. Rock-see is slowly but surely emerging from the corners and shadows, out from under and off on top of fridges, couches and cupboards - but slowly. Katie says she will eventually snap out of her "scared, freaked out and alone" stage - though it may take years. So, that's that. Aside from the cat fiasco and recent Cat-raiser (Katie's roaring success of a benefit for felines),last weekend Katie and I made the trip up to TO to visit some friends. More specifically - Phil & Michelle and Jeffrey. PhiJeffelle. We decided to greyhound her. The trip that is. Though it's a longer and less comfortable ride - it is much cheaper. More than half per person in cost compared to the train (with a registered Student Card, which I don't have, but they are pretty lax in their look over of one's student credentials) Another bone-ass (that's bonus spelled stupidly) about bussin' it (that is cool-speak for taking the bus) is that I don't have to worry about being stranded on the side of the 401 a la the less-reliable, though much appreciated over the years Honda - who has made the 3 and half hour north east trek many a times before. Thank you. The ride up was uneventful, which is what you're looking for when you're stuffed in a packed bus with fifty tired strangers heading to a large metropolis. Some five odd hours, two games of 'Wheel o' Hangman' and one twenty minute break at beautiful London terminal and a smaller one at the large mall outside To - we arrived there. Downtown TO that is. Jeffrey met us around 2 pm Saturday, outside the station, with a bag of sandwiches and bananas. What a guy. I think there may even have been wet naps in there too, but I'm not a hundred percent sure. Only would Jeff arrive with fresh egg, ham and cheese lettuce wraps topped with a homemade guacamole sauce, on the street in a low cut v-neck. And designer shades. And a perfect tan. Actually, maybe in TO this happens more often than not. And the more you walk around this city, the more oftens you find rather than nots. Casual greetings followed idle small talk about Jeff's new dwellings followed by a few city blocks passed, and the sandwich is fantastic by the way - besides the one time we had to wait to chew it until the demented and babbling middle aged female Native bum - was out of sight. And sound. And most importantly smell. Gotta love the dot. Anyhow. It's a beautiful, warm but breezy Saturday afternoon in one of if not Canada's busiest, liveliest and most exciting city's, so what do we do? Go to Jeff's apartment and use the washroom. It was, after all a long trip and god forbid I use the john on the bus (as I will mos def find out later) - so I have to go. Along the way we do some natural people staring, grab a coffee at a neat but one of many cafe, walk through a small but loud and defiant crowd of animal activists - one of which had an attitude, a mic and a coarse ultra-antagonizing female voice. Now, Jeff's place is located high among the action. Close to the water, the downtown and the CN Tower. His apartment (which looks like fifty other in the area and beyond) faces the Sky Dome, on Blue Jay way, nonetheless. An everyday 'so close yet so far away' scenario. That is if you want to watch the game from his tiny balcony. Because you can't. With his apartment being on the wrong side of the Rogers Centre for a clear shot, I naturally watched the Jay's battle the O's on Jeff's twenty seven inch TV as the real game went on a block away in a massive stadium I could almost peer into from the couch. So Toronto. The apartment was very sleek, white and sterile looking. Even for housing three of Leamington's finest Gino's - and one space consuming DJ booth table contraption. A quick deuce and short rest later, we were off to Philchelle's. That is a mix of Phillip and Michelle. After a thousand people, a hundred shops, and the twenty minute trip that would have taken two in Windsor - we were there. At Michilip's. That is Michelle and Phillip mixed together. I'm not saying anything psychological about their individuality as individuals - it's just funner to combine the names of couples (they're usually famous, but in Toronto, everybody's somebody famous) together to make one funnier word. Just ask Perez Hilton. He'll tell ya. Or blog ya. Anyways, back to the fascinating story about my trip to a place four hours away that I've been to many times. O ya, prior to arriving at Phichellip's, we stopped briefly at the Beer Store where I signed my receipt for some cash back with an X and a dot. The twenty-something new aged Toronto-ized Asian said that my signature was obscure but interesting. I agreed. So Toronto. Flash forward. Past the customary hellos, how are ya's and bud hugs - and we're in MiPhlipchellip's... awe... stretching...back yard. Drinking the beers I bought off of the quirky cool Asian Beer Store employee. He's probably even famous. What's next? Hmmm, small chat, dumb jokes, bull shit and queries. Good times in Michips' corner lot, above average and ginormous for TO back yard paradise. And I mean paradise in the nicest of terms. Besides the garden, lattice, crack dealers and urban quaintness, there is a shed in the back yard that might have been the first, smallest and most oddly decorated shed ever in TO. A heritage item at the end of your own grape covered car-port. Only in the City. The best thing about staying at Phil and Michelle's (I give up) pad, besides the pleasant accommodations & hospitality's, killer food, cold beer and better times - is that they live literally four minutes that way downhill from Lips' house. That's right, your second favourite (or first favourite, it's a personal choice) character in your all-time favourite culty-inspired Canadian rockumentary on an aging but determined Toronto metal band who never got their chance, but never gave up - filmed by a British Journalist turned director with a Yugoslavian name. Who just so happens to know how to play every Anvil song on the drums. Because he was Anvil's roadie for three years. Before he had a falling out with them in 1986. And after he was educated at Westminster School before reading modern history at King's College London. Just another one of life's natural progressions of change. Rhodes Scholar to Sleazy Roadie. So, off we were, to Steve Kudlow's house, (sorry, I mean Lips) a tad buzzed, but with good intentions. (I think). Standing out front of his house from the movie (and real life as it is) we called out to our momentary but local cinematic hero. He didn't answer our meek invitations to join the 'free beer and food' party down the street, and we knew he was avoiding us b/c we saw his Sebring parked out front his house. Though the little Lips Figurine must have fallen off the mirror (maybe his wife was upset that Steve wasn't being open about his family), b/c the cartoon lips were stuffed inside the panel under the stereo. The same stereo that was most definitely housing the latest rough tapes from the highly anticipated soon to be released, "Juggernaut of Justice." Another Anvil gem, I'm certain. And on CD I'm sure. If Lips still sports a fanny pack and large metal bracelets, he also still then listens to CD's. So Toronto bro. In the way that you can be so close to everything but so lost among the footsteps. Huh? That can make sense as can anything if you really want it to. That most ambiguous phrase could probably relate to bowling and doing your taxes or reciting a play. If you fashioned it to do so in your mind. And at least one other person's. It's like a hole in one. Does it still count as a hole in one if nobody is there to see it? So, the night continued, as did the flowing of pints, the harmless jabbing and the summer living in the city. In between all this hard hanging we had an intense 'winner take all' best out of seven Foosball death match. Katie decided to sit out b/c she believed that her time spent on the All-Canada Women's All-Star Foosball squad was an unfair advantage. She was the captain of the team after all and it's most decorated player of all-time. Her nick name is Foosball for god's sake. It was only fair. Out of Katie's consideration for fair play formed the teams: The Wilson's vs. the Whops. Kingsville vs. Not from Kingsville. Mungy-cakes vs. the Guidos. Unnecessary but funny ethnophaulisms vs. funny but unnecessary ethnophaulisms. Good vs. Evil. Anyways, for a number of reasons, evil won. Or did they lose? It wasn't out of a lack of will, determination or skill for the teams were fairly, evenly matched but maybe our overconfidence at times got in the way of what seemed like sure victory. Taking nothing away from the Italian Stallions, but maybe it was the beer. It was either too much or too little, but whatever it was - we lost. And it still stings. Michelle said that it was most competitive game they have had thus far on the Foosball table in the basement. And I have to agree. I think Jeff and Phil would also. From the sidelines, Katie was scoffing at our inferior play. The night continued. We decided to then go out and check out an indie band's Toronto cd release party. Phil looked them up on the Internet and we were gone. The bar was packed, the bands were eclectically talented with female pianists, and you could tell within five seconds that Katie and I were not from Toronto. Which is fine, because we aren't, but I thought for sure that at least one other person would be wearing a sleeveless shirt, shorts or ball cap - besides me. Not one of the three existed, let alone any known combination of the three. So Churana. I know that this was a 'scene' I was walking into, but c'mon man - not one god dang Blue Jay hat. Or a pair of ripped up Dickie's? A 'The Misfits' wife beater? Nope. None. Zero. Tight jeans, tighter t's and tight TO do's. Messy-chic-look-at-me-careless. After more deliberating and sidewalk surveying I also decided that I may have been the fattest guy in Toronto. I probably wasn't but dang - this is a skinny city. From what I gathered from my whole eight hours of being in Toronto, that is. Phil actually pointed out to us a Top 10 Finalist in "Toronto's Skinniest Male in Toronto Contest." Though he probably didn't even qualify for the bi-annual competition - meaning that there are probably even skinnier people than the stick in tapered jeans we saw. But imagine, a top qualifier in a made up contest walking right across the street, right in front of us as we wait at a light. Only in the Dot. After much more beer, some shots, talks, laughs, seeing the lead singer from Cocked Guns, trips outside and back in the bar, and some cool-ass indie rock - we were gone. To another bar, two doors down. This bar was different than the other. Almost in every way. From the decor to the patrons. To the lack of space to the lack of light. It didn't have a stage, but it did have a very small room in the back to dance in. And it didn't have a band, but it did have a juke box that didn't work. It didn't have a stage or dance floor but there was a DJ crammed into the corner of a back room converted into the smallest dance club on earth. There was also no pool table or table whatsoever, but there was a vintage couch and other mish mash of second-hand, weird but perceived as rad decorations. After clearing the world's smallest dance floor with some new and innovative dance moves and a deep but shallow conversation outside the washroom where I learned that an ellipses is actually a punctuation - we were gone again. Another newly discovered fact: Not only are people in Toronto very stylish and physically fit but they are also very smart. So, we thought, what's next to do in the city that has so much to do. People watch? Check. Eat while walking? Check. Feel weird watching a guy standing still on a bucket pretending to be a statue? Check. See said weird human guy sculpture thing move slightly and feel weirder? Check. Admire the hustle and bustle from a top a cool downtown balcony? Check. Drive through the madness that is Toronto traffic? Check. Drink Beer? Check. Stalk a national legend who lives down the street that nobody knows? Check. Drink Beer? Check. Watch half a documentary about Jack Black's quirkiness, The Edge's obsession with effects and Jimmy Page's kissy lips guitar face? Check. Eat the best battered peanuts ever bought just outside of Toronto? Check. Try and find the after-party? Phil checked. Hit up a twenty four hour breakfast joint packed with drunk, hip Toronto twenty somethings? Check. So Cool. So Toronto. So where you want to be at this exact time of night. After taking down Toronto's version of a 3 am breakfast, we were off. How does one top off an afternoon and night such as this? Of course. Cash-cab. Unfortunately we didn't hail the semi-popular, mostly unknown, Toronto-based game show. That is held in a cab. With unknown but always enthused fares. I mean contestants. But that didn't stop me from flicking the interior lights on and off and yelling 'Cash Cab' while demanding the driver to ask me random questions for money. Sort of like reverse-drink-inspired-nonsensical-cash-cab-for-losers. After ten odd minutes of this we were home. And passed out. Day 1 in Toronto was a success. But what will Day Two bring? Stay tuned to find out...

QUiDbiT

Yes. A quick report to report on. Quickly. The cat has only since yesterday (the 30th?) emerged from solitary confinement by her own devise. Only slightly, unsure and still a bit afraid - but she has given my apartment and me a chance. Only slightly. She is still very timid, and you must be very careful not to startle her, but last night she nonchalantly strolled into the living room, plopped down on the floor and began cleaning herself. Rolling, licking, having a good time. Until Katie stood up. Bolt. Gone like Usain into the cover of the darkness of the other room.

POST # ONE HUNDRED AND SOMETHING

Day Three of Rocksee the cat vs. her new environment vs herself vs. me vs. the purpose of life's very existence itself. Very little progress to report. Other than a few nibbles of tuna here and a late night stealth mission upstairs to the litter box here (and I only know that b/c of the little puddle and foot steps in the sand) - Rocksee is still keeping mostly to herself. (If you call never coming out into the open whatsoever 'mostly,' then yes, mostly). However, she has discovered yet another out of sight but not out of house (and definitely not out of mind) fortress of solitude. Perched high atop the nightmare that is here now, tucked away snug between the ten inches of the bottom of the shelving and the top of the fridge - Rocksee sits and waits (for what, only no one knows). I came home today and at the advice of Katie, (who had come to my apartment earlier in the day to visit the cat) grabbed a chair, put it in front of the fridge, stood on it and pet the cat. I also tried to feed her tuna, dry food, treats and some water. I think I was giving it too much attention, b/c after a few minutes Rocksee bolted from her nest, jumped off the counter and ran straight under old faithful. Mr. Couch. There she remains as of now...check in again later some time soon in the future.

There is a cat somewhere in my apartment

...Time...passing...So, Rocksee the Cat is still in hiding/freak-out/shaking/doesn't know what's going on mode - big time. Places she has hidden in fear since arriving yesterday afternoon: under the couch (the most obvious and convenient choice), squeezed head-first in between the fridge and the wall (a most uncomfortable and awkward looking choice), blended into the shadows beneath a table up against the wall (a wide-open but legitimate choice), tucked up against the wall between the bed and the wall (another 'in between' choice), wedged behind the bathroom door (a slightly dangerous and vulnerable choice) and lastly - behind the toilet (does this choice need to be defined further?). No, it doesn't. She has since come full circle hiding crazy, up-stairs, downstairs - going into hiding back under the couch. Slinking low like a terrified snake cat let loose in a house of unknown, unseen but ever present terror. A box. The snake cats' worst enemy. With a mouth gaped open looking for air or a way out, the reptilian feline searches for a new and even more impossible to get at nook or cranny. Wanting desperately to flee this place and return home - but frozen with too much fear to try any sort of half-baked escape. The snake cat must learn to adapt to this new home. Like the animal that it is. That I know it can be. I have learned however, that Rocksee loves back-to-bum rubs and soon she'll [Rocksee] realize where she has been swept up and brought to in a flash and without warning. Cat Paradise. That's right. Multiple access to crazy outside world viewing via the many windows facing different directions. Mountains and caverns to explore and conquer cut out through the different furniture around the apartment's landscape. Padding, bedding, walls, paper, carpet, and shower curtains galore to tear and rip with her deadly claws (and the two holes in my upper arm can attest to their sharpness). An empty room with a closet. The fun can be endless. What else does a cat need? Okay, maybe the comfy confines of the only home she'd ever known and her countless best friends and buddies at her side would be alright too. But this is all I got. Honestly, if a cat can find hours of enjoyment with only a piece of paper and some paws - then surely Rocksee will have a blast here at Campbell Cat Palace 'o Fun and Good Times. I feel like a tea.

...Time...Passing...

Today is Saturday. It is gray, raining, hot and wet... How predictable. The entire week has been a blur of humid, sticky wet film. But today I am happy, despite the shit weather. For I am to foster a new little kitty from the shelter Katie volunteers at (or volunteered at, since they have recently been evicted from their dwellings b/c of lack of funds- five months behind rent to be exact, and a smell of shit, fur and piss that will never evict) - and I am excited. Her name is Roxy. Roxie? Rocksee? Rocky Balboa? Not sure, but I do know it is a girl. A semi-short haired orange, white and gray five year old cat. I am nervous but excited. It is fitting that her name is Roxy/Roxie/Rocksee/Rocky Balboa? - fitting for me and the few who know - but I will tell you... I once ten years ago rescued a lab/Shepard mix from a box outside a Soo Ste. Marie Zellers - but b/c of undesirable circumstances - I subsequently gave her up (though I know she was taken in b/c I followed up). What was her name you ask? Roxy. So, I hope this all works out b/c I am sometimes lonely here all alone by myself on my own. Here. At this place. After a long, combating and frustrating day at the office, it will be nice to come home to something other than stale air and disagreeable sports talk radio. Having a little cat friend could cheer me up I presume on those days when I alone can not do it by myself. Or drive me nuts. Probably a nice little mix of both. And don't worry, I'm not trying to replace Coppertoes, he'll always be both the coolest cat and person I've ever met - but it's time to move on! Coppertoes would have wanted it so. Okay. Katie has arrived. We are now going to pick up Roxie/Roxy/Rocksea/Rocky Balboa...time...passing...Back. We're back from picking up Roxie the curious but scared cat who's never been away from her many roommates and out of the friendly confines of her five year old home - ever. R-o-x-i-e. As I've now discovered that to be the correct spelling of her name. Though, I will still technically in my head and if anyone asks from here on out spell her name as such: R-O-C-K-S-E-E. Moving on. The cat (I mean Rocksee, as I earlier predicted) upon arriving to Campbell promptly jettisoned out of the cage and directly under the couch. How predictable. It has yet to emerge. Stay tuned for more postings on this situation.

The air is thick. And heat is here. But the patience is thin and sweat appears.

Howdy there partners!! It's me. Kowboy Kieran. Hee-haah. What? Okay. I'm back. Not on a horse. For, I've never really been on a horse before. Or wore a dress in a store. I Swore I'd always do my chores. If Dr. Seuss were keeping score. Unless you count the donkey at Colasanti's (back to the never have ridden a horse thing) that my sister and Blake and I think Sean as well, escorted in circles and dirt with many other countless and desperate for petty cash teens. On weekends. All wearing colourful Florida bird shirts. Inside a very lucrative greenhouse operation. In Ruthven. Huh? I'm back I say. Back again like an aging boy band, a trendy-contemporary-vintage-fad-on-a-circular-path-and-back-happening, a damn nagging cold, a center fielder at the track, annoying-slutty and trashed non-celebrity-party-whore-celebutants, Aahh-nold, the cat... you get it. I haven't been back, I mean I've been gone so long, for such a long time have I been, that... what??. Start over. Simplify. Slow down. Blog. Me. No. Do. For. Such. Long. Time. That. Blogger. Look. Different. That's right, I have changed the layout of my blog because the option to is easy, fast and accessible. Yay. Okay. How long has she been since last have I bloginated? I don't know. Actually, do I? Around my b-day I believe. So, a few months ago. Yes. Time for a token list of what I have been up to since last listed have I. Ready? Yes. Go. Jumped back on the Kingsville to Windsor train. Got off in K-ille. For a month. Hung out with the 'rents. Took the return trolley home to Windsor. Have only been back to the town of my youth for the odd weekend visit. Though with the folks being up north doing all kinds of fun things at a cool place and even sweeter pace- Bart, is my only greeter. Which is cool, but boy is he happy to see a person in his presence. Been Honda-ing it lately as well. The '93, EX, four-door, lone sticker left standing, brown Accord have I been driving. Though, I'll admit (and any poor passengers surely), that the cruising could be a whole lot sweeter (and cooler as you'd see) if the two front windows went down. And the air conditioning shot out something other than super hot, hairdryer air. And the back side-smaller-triangle-shaped-window (I'm mean non-window)wasn't covered by only some paper and tape and glue. Literally. It is. Those exact ingredients. And in that precise order of application did I apply. (I mean Katie) Movin' on...Yes, I have recently gotten involved in the philanthropy business. Verbal-in-person-details only for now, please. Thank you. I've spent most of these earned checks from said job feeding a resurrected golf habit that, only until recently have I actually seen improvement in. (I hope. You never really know with this game it seems) Though, realistically it has been ten plus years since I last played this much stick and ball. I mean tee and club. Or is it putt and drive? Slice into the woods, lose, get pissed and drop? Tee-off, approach-shot, and ten-foot drain? (hopefully) Or...Knickers, diamond designed blue and red tall socks and those corduroy golf hats with the cute little button on the front? Many good, irrelevant and useless options. Ala Payne Stewart. The old-school Scottish sheep herder outfit that is. A golfer who died in a plane crash. That always seemed odd to me. Not sure why. Or Ten plus plus years probably. Huh? Right, time since I last golfed on this consistent of a basis. Though, the consistency is not super-often, but rather a lower to middle half semi-kind of often. However, it has been longer than I first guessed. More than ten, not less than nine and probably over twelve. Years that is. Because, I forgot about the, "I'm getting so old now, that I always have to add five years onto the recollection and dating of a memory - because of my lack of memory in regards to quantities of time, my status of my brain and events in my life. I'm sure environment, the ecoonmy and technology are factors as well- but so are a lot of other things. Could someone cue Scott Bakula please. And his weird little cigar smoking buddy- who I don't know by name but have seen more times than I remember. Damn brain again. And Al Gore. A Saturday afternoon Movie legend was this sidekick of Bakula. 'His name is actually Dean Stockwell (thanks the Internet. Ask and ya'll shall receive - if you got the time...yah, that's pretty much it. Also, Deaner has been in almost 200 different television shows and films combined. Though I'm sure the whereabouts of these 'gems' aren't the easiest to locate. "Can I help you find something sir? Yes, actually, do you have the 1946 crime thriller 'Home Sweet Homicide" or "The Flunker," or how about the second season of the Tony Danza show?" No. Okay, 'cause I'm about to make a quantum leap out of reality and directly into one of those 1980's futuristic space ship scenes- smokey, shaking, buzzing, beeping, flashing, strobing, hilarious. Or a time travel scene. Space time continuum. Yes, golf. I'll perhaps get into that a little later. Next. Hmmm. Let's see. Rest of list to follow soon. (hopefully)

HERE I AM - THIS IS NOW - WOW

Well, I'm back. I figured what better time to get back into bloggin' than right now - while I sit alone on my first full day awake as a thirty year old in an empty Wallaceburg hotel room. Aahh! Perfect blogging conditions. The first day of the Stanley Cup Play-offs. A beautiful mid April afternoon. At the Oaks Inn, on Katie's little laptop in an out-dated, but comfy late 70's hotel room. A lot has happened since we last spoke. Or typed. Or exchanged on-line correspondences. Whatever. I've been very busy but doing nothing at all. How is that possible you ask? Well, hold your breath because I will answer you now. Before I give you a nice little list of my prior month's activities, let us stay in the present. In Wallaceburg. At first glance Wah-burg (as I and no one else like to call it) looks like your average, everyday, run-of-the-mill South western Ontario farming town. But it is anything but and more. Or less? There are many more natives (or is it aboriginals, or Indians?), large tractors hogging the road, mohawks, road-engulfing smoke and road-side smokes (the last three perhaps b/c of the 'burg's proximity to Walpole Island?). The beer store never closes and neither the bus nor train come through. What a place. And the Oaks Inn is even better. The room is outfitted with late 70's -> early 80's beige and yellow everything, such as: dressers with digital clock radios/kleenex & toilet paper dispensers built into them, stoves built into mini fridges built into sinks. And for some reason there is the bottom half of a blender sitting on the night table beside the bed. You never know when you're going to want to make a smoothie but aren't able to. Talk about options. Wow. And that's not all. The television is actually sitting on a swivelled television stand. Awesome. Totally. The salt-water pool and sauna area are magical, though the sauna isn't hot enough. For a guy who can sweat profusely in a cooler packed solid with frozen meat - I need more heat. Moving on. The hotel pub is amazing. Simply. Complete with salad bar, Kent County's first ever big screen TV and thirty year old stained pennants tacked to wooden panel walls. Needless to say, I felt quite at home there. And the two dollar pints and friendly bartender didn't hurt either. Now it is list time. In the past two weeks since I have last bloginated I have: Moved back to 96 Lansdowne Ave. (the third and last time says the for sale sign on the front lawn), applied for and went to my first 'real' interview related to my degree, wrote my last exam (hence the communications studies-like 'view), and last essay. That is all for now. Catch me soon for some more semi-sort-of-up-to-date entries on my life as a person. Bye.

SOME...

I'm back. Though I did not go anywhere too far (besides Kingsville, Katie's, Nana's, Jeff's, the U and downtown Windsor) in the physical sense and during my 'time off' I did frequent the computer area and think of things during semi-long bike rides along the river on semi-nice days - I just didn't blog about it. During the time in which I last bloginated a few things have occurred: Another (very surprising) double murder suicide tragedy devastation involving middle aged suburban Leamington immigrants was followed by yet another celebrity death (Corey Haim), that was, really - less surprising. A fallen star has a much better chance at accidentally overdosing as they do ever regaining control of their dissolving orbit through the sky. Let's see here, what else? I started a two-person-three-piece-anything-goes-and-anyone-can-join band called The Donkees. That's right. The Donkees, spelled different with two e's, similar to that of The Beatles or The Monkees - except we are way less talented with less members (than the former) and more talented (than the latter) but still with less members. I will try to get back with some more info on my super-exciting-more-than-full life. See ya then, faithful followers!

TODAY, TOMORROW & A PORTUGUESE GUY

What a beut out there. The last few days even, have been so nice as to make us believe that winter is over. I Believe. My new "Own the Patio" campaign is finally cashing in. That it is not officially not winter until March 21st (right?) and not unofficially until I officially stop wearing pants for the rest of the year (huh?) - unofficially, that is. Though today I did go for my first official bike ride of '010. The river-side area was adequately sprinkled with nice-weather goers, warm-sun seekers and those wanting desperately to get the heck outside: mostly walkers & groups, some bladers, a few bikers, Jesse from Who Shot Jr., two or more joggers, some picture-takers, winter-haters and work-out fakers, not to mention the elderly, the young, many immigrants and all in between. It was still a tad too windy going one way but pleasant nonetheless. The sun felt forever missed and I soaked it up, through my scalp, face neck and hands as I cruised through puddles as the snow melted and drained, hanging on as it does on the corner of lawns, under trees and piled along curbs. I got a free McDonnie's (McDonalds' version of Timmies?) coffee (great promotion, by the way), and sat across from the now also melting and closed for the season downtown, outdoor ice-rink. (which Katie & I frequented once this season) I got to looking and then thinking, sipping, then contemplating & comparing, drinking - then worrying. And sipping some more. With warm weather comes the end of cold weather. Soups for bbq's. Boots for sandals. Skates for shorts. Snow blowers for lawn mowers. Summer sports for winter sports. Hockey for...? What can I do in comparison to the intensity, fun and overall work-out I receive from my bi-weekly shinny games? At this moment of typing (though I could search on-line) I know only of one arena that stays open throughout the summer - And Mike said the Ice Park in the summer is even worse than the Ice Park in the Winter. And I believe him. Tennis is fun, sweaty and can be exciting (if the match-up is competitive, the court is free and the wind is low), but my feet hurt and I usually quit before I can get the full effect, cardio-wise. Squash is the same, but much more expensive and a little too 'upper class' for me (though I do enjoy the court side draughts) Bike riding is too leisurely (though time-filling and good for people watching and generating blog ideas) and walking too boring. Power Walking. Too odd looking. Softball is more about drinking beer and socializing, whereas hockey is more demanding - all about water bottles, ice time, staying alive and doing anything productive. The obvious alternative but impossible when thought about for many reasons most importantly being that I am thirty and not fifteen would be road and or floor hockey. Though hockey is all that and more to me, it is (in comparison to all work-outs except maybe any membership plan) an expensive exercise regiment - even at only twice a week (3-4 hours). I've spent at least fifteen dollars per week since November to play and have sharpened my skates (which I had to buy at the beginning of the season) three or four times at five bucks a pop. You do the math. I had to buy a forty dollar stick (because wooden ones are so passe - and when you use a composite you understand why)and another (thanks Dad) after that one broke. What I'm saying is that I spend most of my money on pick-up hockey games. One of the best things about my return to semi-competitive hockey is the different types of games/personalities/talent/old friends/and dressing rooms Mike, Jeff & I have walked into these past few months. Mike's fifty minute Sunday night game at South Windsor Arena was always fun, but subject to weird happenings, stupid people and complaints of not enough ice time, "Hatties!" and useless and chatty Lumberjacks - which is why I only went three or four times. The Ice-Park is the Ice-Park. Seven bucks for two hours of ice-time at twelve noon on a Friday in central Windsor is guaranteed to attract every puck yahoo this side of Lauzon - but it is hands-down the best bang for your buck. Tuesday night in Wheatley was good while it lasted. Very competitive and fast and fun (almost too much so for me), but it sort of stopped happening just prior to the organizer's trip to Mexico and is now turning into a memory. Friday afternoons and nights at H.J. Heinz arena in Leamington were good, until Dave Orshinsky halted the 12 o'clock, though we may still be able to hit the late-night Church league match-up (the one where we say a prayer at center ice beforehand) that is if it's still going on as well. The newest game we've found is via Kajiji at the WFCU's Windsor Star Arena. There is always two goalies, two benches full of fun-loving (some crazy) and loud Gino's, a few strays like us and as much after-game, dance-music accompanied ice-time as desired. I usually get off the ice when I can't stand up anymore and my back hurts too much from practicing one-timers (which I have yet to utilize in a real game) I love it when I determine when I get off the ice and not some fat guy on a zamboni turning off the lights. And of course, the two Winter Classic games at Lansbury Park on Ottawa street were a blast, but the out-door season ends even before the thaw begins. Yesterday to be exact. It was much fun again despite the seven foot strip of watery, melting ice up the entire sun-soaked north side. Jogging. Yes, jogging could be a legitimate alternative to hockey, as it is cheap, strenuous as hell, extremely effective but extremely not fun. (at least to me, and by the looks of most people's faces I see running - most people) I repeat. Not fun for most people. When I was a grade school kid I used to do cross-country, just because I did everything else so I figured, why not do this running thing, how hard could running around without stopping for a long time be? Freakin' hard, I answer myself now and then. Impossible to me unless you're born with everything vital to being a good runner, if you're missing one thing, you can't do it: extra large lung capacity, supreme leg strength, and animal like endurance, desire and breathing techniques. Too bad cross-country skiing doesn't involve throwing a baseball fairly hard, because then I'd be a pretty decent runner. This reminds me of one of my only St. Louis Crusader cross-country memories that doesn't involve pain, shortness of breath, more pain, sweat and pain. Though this one is also painful. Grade 7. 1991sh. Nearing the end of the grueling final meet, one which I expected nothing but hopefully just to finish, I found myself in a race to the finish line with a fellow Crusader - and neither of us wanted to lose to the other. Actually, I don't even know if he knew I was behind him, but I was, and I was gaining. Until poof! I was 'snatched up' meters from the finish line by a former Portuguese student coach who said something like "We can't mess up the numbers, you know, but great race. You tried really hard!" You can imagine my surprise. I was like (in my head because I was unable to breath let alone talk, plus I was being bear-hugged by a weirdo) "C'mon man, I was so close. Just let me finish! Nobody cares about the guy who comes in 158th! Goddamit." I didn't say that because I was attending a catholic school, but man was I pissed. Cross-country running has never been the same for me since. Just kidding, but I really do hate it.

C'EST LA VIE. BABY. TBC...

Sorry about the long nothing in between even more emptiness, my oh so faithful readers. Let me get you up to speed as to what I've been up to and what has happened since we last spoke. Canada won the Gold and many others. I enjoyed as much ice time as wanted and had even more fun at our new Tuesday night WFCU game on the Windsor Star Arena. Because of excess forwards I played defence and realized quickly that I hadn't skated backwards in a while. I wrote and finished a take home politics exam, submitted some on-line discussions and worked on sosh. (that is cool & short-formed U speak for sociology, because I can't be bothered) Let's see what else: I've been busy playing NHL 10 and getting pretty decent at it(the only move I can't do is the spinneramma - but I've never really tried to learn it and I question its effectiveness anyways), experiencing and enjoying Windsor's hottest and newest nightclubs, and letting my beard grow out and my thinning hair stubble up. (I've since cleaned up my appearance, the best I can anyways). Also have I settled into watching the rest of the NHL season unfold - though it is hard going back to watching such 'inferior' play in comparison to the stellar Vancouver tournament that was. Some more big news? Hmmm. Yes. Dave Orshinsky had a change of heart and Friday morning Heinz rink hockey is back on. However, I did not play Friday morning hockey today because I blistered my toe while I was Interpretive Rock Dancing two nights ago, besides, I want to play tomorrow in the 2nd bi-annual Winter Classic #2, so I am resting up tonight - plus I did not have a ride to Leamington. Not only have many exciting and life-changing moments occurred in the few days since we last communicated via my brain waves + limbs & fingers + keyboard strikes = published post, but I would also like to take a stroll down memory lane and chronicle my past year and a bit of my living here on Campbell Street. For the exodus is near. It started out fine and dandy. Got a little weird. Then stable again. Fun. Fun. Slowing down. Exodus Looms. Though the apartment was a bit over furnished with out-dated and ugly wooden tables and such (a collection of past tenants left-behind junk), and the bathroom was sprinkled with a nice blanket of the last tenants pubes, and even if the basement was a dank dungeon with a cemetery crawlspace basement of doom that Coppertoes kept trying to get into to do his business (which he did until I shut him out,) - I really liked my new, little but plenty of room, two bed-room $400/month apartment. But I didn't like my soon-to-be middle apartment neighbours - an experience I will get into some other time because today is a happy day. And I can't be bothered. Not to mention the fact that I was constantly 'warned' about the guaranteed possibility of maybe being subjected to living with a strange, unknown to me room-mate, but never was - though twice, people were 'surely' moving in so beware (Mike's brother would have been fine, surely), but to no avail. Besides those few annoyances (one of which was in the form of a 350 pound, slightly askew hanger-on with noticeable and potentially dangerous social problems and anger issues) Phwew! Of course there are plenty of other expected but unexpected minor annoyances that come with the west-side territory, land over-run with an old, barren an extremely unkempt house built in the '20's. Such as: an old and poorly working furnace, bad circulation, mice, clogged drains, running & leaky toilets, and a jammed door knob) Regardless of such nuisances, I thoroughly enjoyed my time here. My Novemember '09 move-in brought with it a shorter distance to school, a cell-phone, the internet, a nice little kitchen and much fun. Coppertoes came along too. And who can forget the intensity and popularity of Sega Genesis' NHL 94 which Brian and I played feverishly (1 remote total, meant 1 period each) while drinking Budweiser in the front room on my hastily built yet reliable four year old PC. Yes, the same NHL 1994 that me and my old neighbours Dave and Pat McIntyre thoroughly enjoyed playing on their Genesis -in their house. (even though their Mom didn't really approve of us playing. I have theories as to why). Back to reality. I mean 1994. I mean 2009. Who knew that no-name Jeff Daniels (not the Dumb & Dumber Michigander) of the Pittsburgh Penguins would be the best player ever and hard-nosed grinder Dave Manson would have scored the greatest goal of all time. (Check out the footage for proof) We once won the Cup with the San Jose Sharks - the third year in existence 1994 Sharks, the same one's who upset the heavily favoured Red Wings in the first round of that year's play-offs. The 1994 San Jose Sharks were led by: Ulf Dahlen, Ray Whitney (who still plays) and Arturs "The Wall" Irbe, who net-minded an NHL record 4412 minutes. Though the real NHL of '94 only played a strike shortened 48 games, we, in my house, on my chairs using my power and computer could play as many games as we wanted to. Some games and time later...NHL 94 for PC naturally led to NHL 2007 for X-Box, which also attracted more players - Mike, Jeff, Ryan. And later, Henry, Pistol Pete, Danny Dib and surely others. Two on two became a must. After we tired of the arcade style and not so realistic EA Sports NHL '07 , (which still, was crazy different and progressive in terms of graphics, details, over-all quality, realistic-ness - everything, in comparison to the now-ancient Sega games)- we met Him. I mean Her. A short time later Mr. (or Mrs.) NHL '09 for 360 walked in, sat down and powered up. And that's when our lives changed. Reading back what I am typing and understanding that what's written is the truth (though a bit strange) - I am taken aback, for never could I ever have thought I could think in such a way. About video games. About one specific video game. About a video game being a hermaphrodite. What? But like Mike said, "I wouldn't doubt if playing this game makes us smarter." I almost fully think I one hundred percent possibly agree with him. "It's in the game." That's right Mr. and Mrs. EA. If it's in the game, it's in the game. Never have I (and safe to say neither have my fellow opponents, teammates and friends) ever so been into a single one video game in our respective lives, let alone with such passion and admiration for the quality, realistic-ness and unrivaled fun associated with '09. But the best was yet to come because soon then did '010, the mecca of hockey video games - came in to the picture, even though we were still officially and according to the calender in 2009. (you know how newer models and dates work). We thought the last version of the game was amazing. We were wrong. Dead wrong. What little we thought was inaccurate with the '09 (realistic-ness of shots, accurate passing was too easy, and what few elements were missing (deking/specialty moves, etc.) was fixed in '010 - plus many other unthinkable features added that only 'real' hockey people would notice. And create. And sell for seventy dollars to people like us. This love of one video-game, went hand-in-hand with our hatred of the X-Box system itself. Surprising, weird, pain-in-the-ass unsolvable problems that not even X-Box Joe from Kajiji could figure out, got in the way of our enjoyment - though I bet he wishes he didn't offer the year long guarantee. We've since kibashed the problem because Ryan has a functioning system and has thankfully lived next door since November - and the fun is still strong, as much if not more so today, in early '010 as it was so long ago in October of last year. What else has been taking up my time? Or had been taking up my time I should say. Threat Level Midnight. After a summer of jamming on Reedmeere, and coming up with ten or so songs and discarding just as many, then playing five or six different, some packed-some not, but always fun shows - we stopped playing altogether. Though it was super fun and produced good times and cool tunes, I admittedly could feel the ending of the band approaching, (even though it would have had to happen soon enough anyhow) but still wanted it to go. C'est la vie. Baby. Maybe that was the reason behind all those cracked tooth dreams. Maybe not. Yes. Let's see. A few Campbell and Campbell-related experiences: The tv on a tv table on a regular table in my living room. Playing catch, talkin', laughin', and bbq'in' in the front-yard/porch (the back yard once), breaking cheap ass and tacky plastic and shit garden lights (1 of many reasons why I stayed in the front) and biking everywhere. The last year and a half. Hmmm. So many things to discuss, yet so little time to recall and record it. A Garbage Strike. Skunks, Racoons, Squirrels and Cats. One old dog. Jammin' in the upstairs bedroom for a minute. It was weird bouncin' around and rockin' out on a second floor, looking out a window. At people walking by. As they watched and stared. But Big Psycho T and his cronie were soon to move in, and despite him saying that he would have been cool with us jamming next door (I say this [in my head] as I laugh [out loud] in a non-funny way) - we halted business, and booked it to Ryman's basement, formed TLM - but which in turn led to it's own, more hostile and mean confrontation with a few rude and perhaps drunk older people, specifically one older gentleman with a chip on his shoulder and a big mouth to boot. "It would be one thing if you were playing music, but that's just a racket. Pure trash." Wowzers, I thought after walking into Ryan and him involved in a going no-where, some-what loud, face to face, generation-gapped debate over common courtesy, noise laws and personal tastes in 'good' music. Considering we only usually practiced once a week (twice rarely) for only a few hours at a time, and the basement was padded with foam and that compared to most music being played in Windsor basements - TLM's rock and synth sound wasn't that hard to 'handle,' was it? Mind you, the steaming and sore seniors probably spent their days sitting quietly, drinking tea and reading the paper in a tv-less room beside the large window situated directly next to side of the basement we practiced in so, but still... Do you have to insult us? Me personally? And put down my creative outlet for life itself? A part of me that is very important, brings me joy, and company - a huge self-identifying part of all that is KPW? There are a lot other worse things we could have been doing with our time. Despite what you said (in cruel fashion and with such contempt) I am creative enough to come up with some fairly creative ways in which we could have been spending our time. With the Motley Crue that was us - we could have f'd shit up. Though, we didn't. We just played some music, had some fun, hurt nobody (on purpose) and innocently hung out as friends always do. Pick-up hockey. Yes, hockey became a big part of my life. On ice, with my thumbs and on the tube. In the winter of '09 with the push from Katie, the equipment from Dad, a stick from Mom (and later Dad) and the opportunities and lifts to arenas from Jeff, and Mikey Bizzel - I hit the ice. Literally. It was tough (and still very much is) but a great way to blow some steam, get some exercise and shoot a rubber puck as hard as I can at a guy standing in front of a net. Just I did as a kid. Potato Disasters. Yes. Much food was eaten on Campbell. Though the variety left something to be desired. But it was consumed nonetheless. Rice Surprises. Awesome Tuna Salad. Salads. Slop combinations of any many kinds. Canadian Lasagna (any sort of pasta with corn added) and cabbage. Vegetables. Ground beef, double-doubles and home-made Christmas cards. C'est la vie. To be continued... Baby.

Five days Later

Back, back, way back... Gone! Hi, unlike that baseball I just faked cranked out of the ballpark in my mind - I am not going anywhere - into the hands, an outstretched glove, the stands or skidding in between a row of empty seats. You can't throw me back onto the field in disgust and/or pleasure or put me in a glass box on a shelf. Nope, with the hype, hurrah and coverage of the Olympics now a fast fading memory, the NHL cruising in on the back-side of its schedule, and the taste of springy air and melting snow in the air - it is time to move on. Not me physically (yet), but my vested emotions in winter and all it has entailed this year. There is no more Friday morning pick-up hockey in Leamington because Dave Orshinsky can't justify to the Complex brass (Frank T. Sherk III?) the turning on of the H.J Heinz Arena lights for only ten skaters. It is just not economically viable, he says. My time on Campbell is also winding down. Four weeks left and counting. That's okay. As the cell-phone commercial voice over so eloquently says as the talent smashes his four hundred dollar black-berry with a bat, "When the love is gone, move on." Well, I plan (I use the word 'plan' loosely, it's more like what I'm going to do next, at this point in time)on moving back home with the folks for a few months, but I don't really consider that 'moving on.' It's more like 'moving home again.' Actually, if everything goes according to plan (there is that word again) I will celebrate my thirtieth birthday in my parent's basement (if they had one) on the street I grew up on (from five years onward) in a house I've moved in and out of four (or is it five?) different times. Let's see here. From ages 5-19 I lived in Kingsville. On Lansdowne. 19-22: Windsor. 22-24: Kingsville. 24-27: Windsor. 27-28: Kingsville and from 28 til now: Windsor. On Campbell. The last year or so has been interesting, fun, exciting at times, boring at others, sometimes crappy, but mostly comfortable, somewhat warm and enjoyable. Read on to know more.

LIONS, TIGERS, AND RUSSIANS - OH MY!

As I type this out, the US just shut out the Swiss and Carmen on Channel 4 just alerted me that one of Sea World's most experienced and veteran trainers - just got killed by a whale. Really? Do things like that ever come as a surprise to anyone who is not insane or oblivious to the way things work? When the burly, 'one with nature' and kaki-ed Aussie with a beard gets his face ripped off by his 500 pound pet BEAR - how shocking is that, really? Especially that it happened while Mr. Burly Man was SLEEPING in the same bed at night with his furry little buddy - who is know his murderer and only surviving family member. Weird, disturbing, gruesome and TOTALLY AVOIDABLE! He is as close to nature now as one can be - dead and in it's stomach. But, who can forget about Mrs. Naive and Dumb Television Reporter, the same one who, during a live broadcast enjoys petting an even more alive and aggressive and large and dangerous lion. That's right a ferocious and un-caged LIVE LION - on set, under the lights, feeling the pressure of live TV and, really, really pissed. The 'interview' would have been fine and dandy if the live lion had not been hungry, agitated by the reporter's perfume and condescending tone, or if it had not been a LIVE LION. Tip # 248 in my "If you want to stay alive," series - Do not sleep with bears, interview lions, dance with snakes (unless you are a middle Eastern toddler), water ski with sharks, play piano with elephants, try out your stand-up routine on a pack of hyenas, race tigers or cheetahs, paint with leopards or giraffes, perform exorcisms on Tasmanian devils, and definitely, most importantly, never should you ever try to engage in 'civilized' people and person strict activities with 'wild' undomesticated and very 'real' live animals - you know, the ones with fangs, claws, huge mass, and an insatiable and natural appetite for blood. If you want to stay alive that is. But, if it's excitement, screaming and yelling, rough and tumble action you're looking for - turn on your TV, around 7:30, to the channel showing the game. The Hockey Game. Yes, we're back to hockey. Earlier today, like I mentioned before, the US narrowly beat Jonas Hiller and the Swiss, in an exciting 2-0 nail-biter to go to the Final Four of the Olympics. A position Canada can get itself into if they come up with a big quarter-final win vs. Alex 'The Jagr Killer' and the rest of his soviet buds. Hockey has to be the most intense sport of the games, quite simply because the format encourages equal opportunity - One solid game, one exceptional goat-tender, one timely goal - and you're in. With the present format, an underdog like the Swiss can sneak into a medal game (though they didn't) - allowing for much intrigue and the mear length of the tournament guarantees even more drama and exciting action. I expect all this and more in tonight's Canada-Russia game - I just hope the outcome is favourable. GO CANADA!

CANADA VS. CANADA VS. RYAN MILLER

What a game last night. It had it all - quick goals, diving blocks, a diving open net goal, big hits, screened shots, no-rebounds, big rebounds, no-touch icing, untimely penalties, unlikely heroes, a goalie on his head, a goalie out of his head, major hustle, pressure-packed sequences, seriously-good chances, a hushed/nervous/and rambunctious red and white crowd and one defining loss - all played at lighting speed and in such patriotic intensity that I was drawn from my seat towards the action like a red and white mosquito to a striped star in net. What I mean is - that white fluffy stuff that's been falling outside non-stop since last night around ten isn't snow. No, it's Canada's tears.


"It was a lot of pressure knowing that everyone around the country was watching this game," he said. "Tomorrow it's going to be a really sad day, but it's what we needed. It's going to be a wake up call." - Thanks, Bob from Newmarket. Really? I thought the wake up call was that already-way-too-close-and-hard-to-watch-narrow-shoot-out-victory against the neutral zone trappings of the always neutral Swiss. I thought we would have been awake and out of bed since then and last night everyone seemed to be mostly alert - accept Babe Ruth - I mean, free-swingin' Marty "Baseball Bat" Brodeur and his called shot heard 'round the world - and a few other slightly bone-headed moves. He seemed so alert that it became a problem. C'mon Marty, you ain't no Ron Hextall and that wasn't no exhibition game against the Springfield Falcons of the AHL. Nope. This was Canada vs. the USA. A game that will be talked about for years to come - and on American sports talk stations I pick up at my home. A fairly big game if you are from either country (the most northern of the south one), are a hockey fan, or both - so yeah, a lot of people were probably watching this one on their TV's, big & small, HD or not, with their friends & family, at a bar, on a scoreboard, while on a chair, standing up or laying down. But how could you fall asleep during that one? Whatever position you were in, if you are Canadian, you were excited, then confused 41 seconds later, then anxious, excited, confused, anxious, super-excited, mad, nervous, happy, and then confused again. Put these emotions on repeat for 2 and some odd hours and you have how most of us probably felt. I'm not so much sad Bob, like I said, I'm mostly confused at this point.

"Canada played hard, they just about had it, but all in all, the Americans, they were the better team," said Brandon Hill of Ladysmith, B.C., who soon led his friends through a "Lu-on-go!" chant. Very true Brandon. Except that by Americans do you mean Brian Rafalski and Ryan Miller? Canada out shot the Americans two to one. And out chanced them by much more. Canada didn't lose. Miller won - with a little help from tricky Martin Brodeur and an amazing empty net goal by Ryan Kessler, who before the game said he, "hates, 'em" [the Canadian team]. Miller is known as a 'hybrid' goalie (stand-up & butterfly tendencies) and the scouting report on him says to go high. He's the kind of goalie that wins games. Steals them on occasion as well. Sure, Canada had a kazillion chances, (especially that 45 second flurry at the end of the game - I thought they had pulled their goalie, but the US was just really tired) yet they couldn't get it up and in. Almost all of their shots were blocked by Miller's chest, or his glove, his pads, stick and even his face once. Their inability to bury the puck testifies to the speed of the game, when even a superstar hockey player doesn't have enough time to do what he wants to and knows he can do - especially when the goalie is a thief from East Lansing, Michigan.

"That's exactly what I'm thinking - that they're going to be out way before they should be out." - Brenda from Moose Jaw. They now have a little longer road to the Gold that starts with Germany and should lead them to the quarters against Russia - a much earlier than anticipated (and wanted) match-up versus the dreaded Reds. Ovechkin, Malkin, Datsuk and the rest of the boys from the Federation are waiting to pounce on and roll over the Canadians. One thing is for sure - Russia always seems loose, determined and focused - three attributes Brodeur (and a few other veteran Canadian players) lacked last night. And you can't win when you're down a man (as Canada was much of the first half of the third period) - even against the Springfield Falcons of the AHL, and especially against a team as equally talented as your own - on the world' biggest hockey stage to boot. The younger guys seemed to step up for Canada, as did the entire US team, which is young. (avg player is 25) Canada has a huge bulls-eye on their back, painted on in red and white and for teams like Germany, Norway and the Swiss, their game against a team like Canada is treated with the same intensity and respect as a gold medal game. Who knows, the defensive minded Germany might get lucky and send Canada home - well, at least they don't have far to go. Perhaps Germany and its famous engineering could engineer an amazingly crazy upset over Canada and put them to bed even earlier than even Brenda thought they would.

"It's obviously disappointing on home soil, but I think in the end, we're going to prevail," said Chris Jackson, a 27-year-old from Toronto who was wearing a Canadian flag as a cape. "I think you're going to see Canada in the gold medal (game)." I sure as shit hope you are right Chris Jackson from Toronto, because so far, these insanely anticipated and enthusiastically produced Vancouver games haven't been as illustrious and lucrative as hoped for - in terms of Canadian medal count, that is. (9 total medals to US's leading 24) So, we're riding on the wave that is the crashing Canadian hockey team. I believe they can overcome this, because I have to and want to - but will they? Team Canada head coach Mike Babcock (the only coach to win a Stanley Cup and World Junior/World Championship/and Olympic Gold) said that he will review the tapes "without emotion" and make a decision on the goal tending situation. I think it's a pretty safe bet that Mr. Luongo will make the next start. Things should be fine, unless they skate into another head-standing, goal-robbing net-minder. Maybe "Lu-on-go!" can be that guy.

CANADA VS. USA

As Katie and I sipped on coffees and sweet-less iced teas respectively, while cruising along slowly down Tecumseh, heading due West towards Campbell - we were listening to, rather grimacing as 97.1 The Ticket's Pat Caputo grumbled into his mic, complaining about, "Hockey Canada's Elitist Attitude." I know, funny, eh? Now, I usually don't mind the Detroit sports talk radio hosts because they usually know more than me, and I understand they have a tough job to do - creating a viable forum for debate regardless of their opinion, keeping the listeners interested even on a slow sports day, and allowing any yahoo to come on-air and challenge them both professionally and personally - but I can't stand it when those in supposed positions of authority, especially those in the public's ear chirp off about issues they don't understand, or even want to understand. Because that idiot from Sandusky is going to believe you. Or that moron in Mount Clemons. Caputo is a Lions and Tiger guy, he doesn't even cover the Wings! I don't pretend to know or care about college football, the economy, International Relations, Taiwanese Hakka mountain songs known as Shan'ge music, croqueting, the art of skiing the moguls, the difference between and the positives for and against fuel-injected or carburation, how the Internet works, how my body works, or why so many privileged Hollywood stars are so darn miserable. Do I? These are things I don't know about, so I'm not going to talk about them like I do. Period. Mr. Caputo was ripping into how important hockey is to Canada (yes, it is), and how superior we think we are as a country in comparison to others (yes, we are) - in hockey that is. In not much else and not as much as we used to be, but we still have the most players (52.3%) in the NHL, and definitely the best. The U.S. is next (total wise) with 22 percent. He also said that the Canadians are taking the upcoming game vs. the U.S. today very personally, pursuing it as if it were some sort of symbolic victory against the hated Americans on a more personal level than just Olympic hockey competition. We sure are. But, we're not the only ones who hate you, Mr. Caputo. Every other country that ever plays against, is in war with, or has relations of any sort with the U.S. wants to win, destroy and embarrass the all-hated and powerful monster that is you. That's just the way it is. He also went on to say, as an unsupported jab I think, that the best player in the world isn't even from Canada, so we have no right to think so highly of ourselves in terms of hockey greatness. He claims Alexander Ovechkin is better than Sidney Crosby. Does he also think that Borje Salming was better than Wayne Gretzky or that Mr. Hockey had no more skill than Mr. Zero, Frank Brimsek? We will delve into the Sid vs. Alex one in a bit. However, he ended his little tirade saying that Canada should destroy the American team tonight (covering up for himself if the U.S. loses), but that if they didn't there would be some serious belly-aching and backlash from his hockey crazy northern neighbours (allowing him an 'in' if they win). So, let's get this straight. He hates that we are so passionate about something we claim to be Canadian and that is. He hates that we hate Americans as do everyone else. And he hates Sidney Crosby though he is the best player in hockey. First off, is it such a crime to be passionate about something - about a sport born on the snow and ice of Eastern Canada and Montreal - and one that many of our 30 million plus hockey crazy citizens enjoy and play on a regular basis? (I wish I had the stats, but I'm going with my gut on this one) Similar to the U.S's obsession with guns and power, political corruptness, sex scandals, disasters, racial divides, crack and ice problems, ignorance towards other countries especially their own and obesity. How many people in the States play or even know what hockey is? Let's ask that guy in Nashville who doesn't go to Predators games and thinks a power play is a new size option at McDonald's or a Penalty Kill the latest Nick Cage movie. "Hockey? You mean that stupid game Canadians and Europeans play on ice with that stick and those skates, chasing a rubber thingy around a net with the red laser shooting out of it." Yeah, an American can't even follow the puck on television, let alone understand or enjoy what is happening in any aspect of the game. I understand why Petty pitted. Because he needed new tires and gas. I know why Kobe didn't get called for travelling. Because he gets superstar treatment. And you don't have to explain to me why you love to bring down a Tiger Woods but can't wait til he comes back. In hockey there are no end zone dances, extravagant half-time shows, explosions, flamboyant and disrespectful felons, I mean players, or half-nude cheerleaders (though a few American teams have pathetically and without success tried the cheerleader gimmick) - so I can see why no one would care. Instead of all the ritz and glitz we we have face-offs, black-eyes, fourth line checkers, broken glass, Europeans, and zambonis. Our most famous players are some kid from Cole Harbour, Nova Scotia and a toothless clown from Russia - who happens to be the closest thing the NHL has to a prima donna, and he seems like a pretty nice guy - with one hell of a shot. The NBA has desperate housewife Eva Longoria and a trashy Kardashian while the NHL has girls next door Elisha Cuthbert and Carrie Underwood. Edmonton has a last placed team that sells out and L.A has a first place team nobody watches. Nobody except Martin Short and Kiefer Sutherland. There is no hockey tradition in America (outside of Minnesota or Boston), just like we could care less about Nascar, guns, dog fighting and Republicans. But that's okay. Some people, because of where they live or how they were raised are just not meant to understand and like things. Geographically, sociologically, and all that. Even some Canadians (gasp!) don't understand and or/like hockey. Probably because their parents didn't understand and or/like hockey. Or they immigrated from another country and have never even seen snow, let alone a back check or a one-timer. Even though I've played pick-up hockey with at least two different Asian guys, some Arabs, a whole bunch of Italians and everyone in between. Just give the cultural mosaic time to melt the pot. Huh? I don't know too many people who play full-contact and uniform, real, bust your teeth out tackle football. (Though in shinny, I knocked some guys screw out of his helmet, bruised my ribs three times, took a puck off the face and got a mean ass blister). We don't play football, drive cars in circles or fight dogs - because it's not as important to us here. (aside from football in the Prairies, but what else are they supposed to do?) It's understandable, anything is. But in the States? It seems if something is not in the States now, it will be soon. They take everything they want to from everyone, so why wouldn't they want one of the strongest and most enduring source of our nation's identity? Despite the no-snow thing (hockey doesn't belong down there anyhow) you would think that in a country obsessed with violence (though their funny 'PCing of everything is well, funny?), sex, drive-by's and the rawness of human life - you would think they would enjoy the near to the edge-ness, psycho-smash-mouth-hustle of pro hockey. Or a brutal open-ice hit, bench clearing brawl or knock-out punch/elbow/or knee on knee - all of which is legal (somehow) on the ice - though you might get a two minute penalty in the 'sin bin.' (American play-by-play talk) Besides the obvious players vs. players altercations, hockey has the fan vs. player, coach vs. coach, coach vs. player, ref vs. everyone, ice vs. head, player vs. trainer and the always coveted and urged goalie vs. goalie. Everything you Americans love about sports: Adversity, pain, excitement, violence, in-your-faceness, underdogs, speed, human error, simple rules (most goals wins, we'll teach you about 'offsides' another day) and tradition - is a part of our game - hockey. Maybe that's what it is. What I've been saying the whole time. Tradition. Or lack thereof in America is why they don't get it. Ignorance is bliss - just keep your mouth shut.

Why Sidney Crosby is better than Alexander Ovechkin:

Sidney Crosby, Age 22, 5th year in NHL
Age Named Captain - 19
Pts. Per Game - 1.4
Stanley Cup Appearances - 2
Stanley Cup Wins - 1

Alexander Ovechkin, 24, 5th year in NHL
Age Named Captain - 24
Pts. Per Game - 1.3
Stanley Cup Appearances - 0
Stanley Cup Wins - 0

Crosby is not only more offensive than the ultra-offensive Ovechkin, but he is a centerman who often plays against the other teams top line - which is why his plus minus isn't as high as Ovechkin's. Ovechkin is a one-way player who often puts himself out of position when going for the big hit and takes long shifts that hurt his team. Ovechkin has also had the luxury of playing with highly skilled players like Alexander Semin and Nicklas Backstrom. Crosby rarely plays with sniper Evgeni Malkin and is often paired with thirty nine year old grinder Bill Guerin.

WHO IS EQUIPPED WITH THE RIGHT EQUIPMENT?

Big debate on Campbell the other day. Me vs. Katie. Men vs. Women. Right vs. Wrong. The Internet vs. The Internet. Brain vs. Heart. Just kidding, but I think I'm right. The argument in question: Are men, on average, better at 'sports' than women? Better meaning, and not relatively speaking, on average, physically, mentally, emotionally - the whole bit, on average. Straight up, who would win a sporting event between the average Joe and the average Josephine, knowing what is known about female/male physiology, psychology, biology - the whole bit, on average. I know, a touchy gender-related issue once again, but one that has to be addressed if we're to move on in a positive direction as a society. Not really, but... SPORT - commonly defined as an organized, competitive, and skillful physical activity requiring commitment and fair play. It is governed by a set of rules or customs. Thanks Wikipedia. I don't know what I'd do without you. Oh yeah, I'd have to go to the library or buy a newspaper or something like that to find my irrelevant info. Whatever it was we did prior to the Net. Watch more TV? Ask my parents? Anyways, I don't consider myself a feminist (are men even allowed in?) on any level or wave or whatever - I'm not even a malenist. I'm just a guy without political ties nor ambitions, or anything against anyone (except stupid and mean people) who happens to have a few semi-strong opinions based on what I've seen, heard, read, experienced and conjured up during my so called life. I wonder if Clair Danes is a feminist. Or even still in showbiz. Okay. So. Let's go down the list of different sports and see who's better and why I think this is so. I am honestly going to be as objective and open-minded as possible here. Remember, I'm no malenist (or am I its only member?), however, it's my blog and I'll write what I please. Also, if women do not, on average play a particular sport mentioned below (eg. football, baseball (not softball), or vice versa they (men or women) will not be immediately disregarded from the conversation, as we live in an equal society - and everyone deserves a chance to play. Even if those in question have no desire or intention ever to do so. Everyone has a choice. Let us begin.

Soccer (or football everywhere else) - Endurance, strong legs and the ability to fall to the ground in agony at the slightest touch are needed to succeed in this fast-paced sport. Sure, a woman is capable of running around a field all day in a pair of cleats, kicking a ball back and forth, but do they have the convincing dramatic and sneaky conniving abilities to draw a penalty like a flip-flopping European midfielder? Yes, they do. And soccer is famously the most popular (and easiest/cheapest to play) game in the world, so women are definitely getting equal opportunity to learn. However, my Mom broke her foot while kicking a semi-deflated beach ball in the backyard, so you never know. Winner - Tie.

Wheel Chair Basketball - This sport requires very strong arms, coordination and some serious balls. Women are, on average, missing two of those criterion's. Winner - Men.

Football - I haven't heard of too many 350 pound women who can run a four second forty. One word: Cheerleaders. Two words: Lingerie Bowl. Three words: Male Chauvinistic Pig. Winner - Men.

Roller Hockey - Men look funny on roller skates and would rather be on roller blades or real ice hockey skates, (In my opinion) or at a roller-rink during the seventies trying to pick up girls in cords sporting a stash. Every cheesy roller hockey movie I've ever seen involved women in pigtails. Wearing colourful tights. Roughing each other up. Winner - Women.

Ice Hockey - Speed, skill, stick-handling, skating and shooting are all key qualities of a stellar hockey player. Checking too, in most leagues. Since strength determines how hard your check and shot is and how fast you'll skate, women draw the short end of the stick here yet again. Check out the Olympics to understand the discrepancy in skill. No offense, just watch. Winner - Men and Megan Agosta.

Handball - Isn't this the sport being played in mobster movies, during the scene when the younger upstart wannabe thug is talking up the older, wiser gangster about who he needs to kill or rob to get into the family? Winner - Al Pacino or Bob De Niro.

Rugby - These guys are even crazier than football players, have less teeth and who knows what goes on at the bottom of those scrums. Women should want not be good at this sport. Winner - Hooligans.

Tennis - Since a powerful serve and shot are key, but can be overcome by quickness, agility and perseverance - this could also go either way. Winner - Tie. Unless Serena's playing and then she'd just beat up her opponent and threaten to kill them.

Beach Soccer - Similar to regular soccer in rules and concept, except it's usually played barefoot, on sand and with a beer in hand. Winner - whoever is closest to the cooler.

Beach Volley–Ball - You need to be tall, quick on your feet, smart and strong. On average, men are taller, stronger and can jump higher than women. (See below) Perhaps women are as smart as men with just as quick of reflexes, but in beach volleyball as opposed to normal volleyball, there are only two players per team - so both competitors have to be well-rounded in every aspect of the game. Winner - Men.

Arena Football - Similar to regular football except it's played in a dome, on a smaller field and features inferior players to that of the NFL and CFL. They are still crazy though and big. And fast. And would squash the average women. Winner - Men.

Motor sports - In all reality, although the word is in the name - should motor sports really be considered a type of sport? I guess there are rules, sweat, grease, laps and winners, so... On average, women are universally considered bad drivers, but in reality they have just as good a chance as men to be good drivers. Winner - Tie.

Motorcycling - See motor sports.

Cycling - Men, on average have bigger, stronger legs and a greater lung capacity (25 % more, on average) than their female counterparts because they are larger specimens, in general. However, women might have the mental toughness it take to get past the wall and will their way to a gutsy victory. Winner - Not Lance Armstrong.

Poker - Even though it has rules, involves tapping, folding and stacking chips, and is shown on sports networks - poker is not a sport. Winners - The Casinos. Losers - Fat people with a gambling problem, no jobs and/or lives.

Pool - See poker. Or go the arcade and play both. Winner - An Asian women with a leather glove and a pocket full of change.

Running - Endurance, stamina, strong legs and mental toughness. Depending on whether or not it's a sprint or longer race - anyone can run. However, men can run faster and for longer periods of time - faster. See below. Winner - Men.

Table Tennis (or Ping Pong)- Quickness, hand-eye co-ordination, cat-like reflexes, and killer timing are all key components to this Asian-favouring sport (In my opinion). Since superior strength is not needed to smack the little plastic ball with the little wooden paddle, hard across the little green table it's fair game for both genders. Although, a taller person would have a better angle when smashing the little white ball back into your face. Winner - Tie.

Fencing - Since the combatants don't actually try to kill each other, (it's more like a poking motion)and they wear full protective face masks and body armour - it's a duel to the finish. Winner - Tie.

Swimming - Broad shoulders, strong legs for kicking and sound breathing techniques are a must. As is a large lung capacity and the ability to withstand high amounts of chlorine intake. Winner - Michael Phelps.

Triathlon - See swimming, cycling and running.

Rowing - Strong shoulders, lung capacity and the ability to stay seated for long periods of time. Winner - Men.

Boxing - Power, foot work, endurance and the ability to take punches straight to the face without falling down or getting knocked out. I've never seen Laila Ali bite an opponents ear off. Winner - Men, because they are naturally more violent and aggressive (In my opinion).

Weight Lifting - See below. Winner - Men.

Judo/Kickboxing/Taekwondo/Karate/Any Martial Arts - Flexibility, balance and power are all needed, no matter what colour belt you wear. A good student will show superior calmness, a spiritual side and sneaky tendencies. Since a kick to the nuts is acceptable and the smaller and quicker you are the better...Winner - Women and Ninjas

Snowboarding - Patience, leg strength, good balance and a love for snow, ice, half-pipes, ollies, fakies and McTwists. Women have just as good a chance to be good at snowboarding except no one can get as much air as Shaun White. Winner - The Flying Tomatoe's Personal Red-Bull Funded Half-pipe in Colorado.

Power Boating - Again, is this a sport? Perhaps those super fast and easily disintegratable boats (hydroplaning) that glide across the river at ridiculous speeds are involved in some sort of sport - but a leisurely tour on the lake pulling your kids by a rope and a tube does not qualify. Winner - Tie.

Jet Skiing/Water skiing/any water and boat sport - See power boating.

Water Polo - Strong shoulders, arms and legs are a must for this aquatic version of hockey hand-ball. The ability to stay underwater for large amounts of time are also an asset. Sorry girls, but any sport requiring more strength, larger lung capacity and overall toughness has to be favourable for men. Winner - Men.

Basketball - Running, jumping, shooting and passing. Good court vision, hand-eye co-ordination and reflexes are needed to succeed in this grueling cardio-heavy sport. Take a look at the difference in attendance between WNBA and the real NBA to understand. See avg. heights below. Winner - Men.

Volley-Ball - Different than beach volleyball in that it is not played on sand. And there are six players as opposed to two. Power, jumping ability, height and hand eye coordination are needed to spike, dig, bump, volley and block properly. However, the soft touch of a woman and quick feet could make her the ideal setter. Winner - Men.

Figure Skating - Good skating ability, strong legs, grace, poise and flexibility. In the pairs competition it is a tie, but overall, a woman is most likely to flourish as a figure skater. However, only a handful of women have even attempted a quadruple (toe loop, salchow, axel)jump in competition, whereas men perform them regularly. Winner - Tie.

Bowling - Balance, good eye sight, arm, leg and wrist strength, and funny-looking bowling shoes. Though the ball is heavy, they come in different sizes and weight, so it should be equal. Winner - Tie.

Body Boarding - See surfing (below)

Gymnastics - Depending on the event (eg. rings, balance beam, uneven bars) entire body strength and conditioning are very key to success. However, the more popular events (eg. the pommel horse, floor exercise) flexibility, grace, co-ordination and poise are the most sought after qualities. The best gymnasts seem to be the smallest and women on avg. are smaller than men. Winner - Mary Lou Retton.

Equestrian Sports - Balance, small stature, a tight grip and a love of animals. Winner - Women and Jockeys.

Baseball - This game has a lot of rules. Good ball players have excellent hand-eye coordination, a strong arm (Johnny Damon excluded), good reflexes and adaptable team-work skills. Being able to endure a long, boring season is also a must. Women just aren't, on average, as willing to play or sit through a three and a half hour pitchers duel. Winner - Men.

Softball - Softball. The real softball played mostly by women, where the pitcher hurls the ball underhand at speeds upwards of seventy miles per hour. Beer leagues and the batting cages behind Charlies don't count, so women win. Winner - Jennie Finch.

Surfing - Some gnarly balance, agility, flexibility and some major kahunas are a must if you're to hang some serious ten. To catch the perfect wave, you must be willing to sacrifice your body if and when you crash hard and head first on some coral reef or get attacked by a shark. Winners - Keanu Reeves, Kelly Slater and that girl surfer who got her arm torn off by a fifteen foot Tiger Shark off the coast of Kauai, Hawaii.

The "See Belows." (These are the best of the best, but relatively speaking...)

Fastest 100 meter time ever recorded by a man - 9.58 s (Bolt)
Fastest 100 meter time ever recorded by a woman - 10.49 s (Joyner)

Avg. vertical jump by a man - 22.1 inches (according to jumpshigher.com)
Avg. vertical jump by a woman - 14.1 inches (according to jumpshigher.com)

Most weight ever dead-lifted by a man - 581 pounds. (Hossein Reza Zadeh, Clean & Jerk)
Most weight ever dead-lifted by a woman - 412 pounds. (Jang Miran, Clean & Jerk)

Fastest Boston Marathon time ever recorded by a man - 2:07:14 (Robert K. Cheruiyot, Kenya)
Fastest Boston Marathon time ever recorded by a woman - 2:20:43 (Margaret Okayo, Kenya)

Fastest Boston Marathon time ever recorded in men's wheelchair - 1:18:27 (Ernst Van Dyk, South Africa)
Fastest Boston Marathon time ever recorded in women's wheelchair - 1:34:22 (Jean Driscoll, United States)

Fastest Pitch ever recorded by a man - 104.8 mph (Joel Zumya, Detroit Tigers)
Fastest Pitch ever recorded by a woman - 84 mph (Ila Borders, who played in the independent Northern League in the late 90's)

Avg. height of a man in N.A - 5 feet 9.1 inches
Avg. height of a woman in N.A. - 5 feet 3.8 inches

Avg. weight of a man in N.A - 180 pounds
Avg. weight of a woman in N.A - 152 pounds

Furthest long jump recorded by a man - 8.95 m
Furthest long jump recorded by a woman - 7.52 m

* I'm sure there are some 'sports' I missed (is dancing or dodge ball a sport?) Is being a ballerina a sport? Because if it is then women get my vote for that one. Even if a man's execution of his entrechats and pirouetting are flawlessly right - he just doesn't look right doing it. The tights are too tight, the moves too unnatural and the way it makes me feel is definitely not cool. Anyways, also, I know I didn't touch on all the female/male comparisons and records but even I, a man with no job, vehicle or phone - have only so little time. Maybe, I just wasted a day and a half of my life having produced nothing more than a blob of sexist and idiotic time warp mumbo jumbo. Or maybe I just made the world a little safer.

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20 a's for 20 q's

Hello out there and beyond what is out there and beyond what I see and what I've seen and heard is out there from television and radio and on-line. Instead of doing the normal, everyday, nothing-ness and irrelevant kind of post - I have decided to do something I have never done. Something relevant? No. I will ask the Internet random questions, as if 'it' were alive and in the same room as I (which it is - present, not breathing, though the tower's fan has breathing-like qualities)random questions in hopes of getting precise answers as opposed to random answers. If anything this will entertain me for a few hours and test my all-too-powerful Internet search engine skills I acquired while in college. Let us begin, shall we.

1) How much does a school bus driver in Winnipeg get paid per hour, on average?
2) If I were to build a back yard rink, what is the easiest (and cheapest) way to
apply the blue and red lines, face-off circles and creases?
3) Does Providence, Rhode Island have a sister city? And if so - where, and
why?
4) Who was the Toronto Maple Leafs highest lowest paid player in 1997?
5) Who is the President of Mexico's wife and where was she born?
6) Who invented the TV tray table?
7) What was the best selling book of 1979?
8) Who won the Heisman trophy in 1947 and is he still alive?
9) Is bowling considered a game, sport or past-time?
10) What is the largest bird in Rio de Janeiro?
11) If I were to mix the colours pink, purple and yellow - what colour would I get?
12) If I were in Boston, what part of town would I try to avoid?
13) Who led the majors in hit by the pitch in 1924?
14) Does Tony Danza have a younger brother and is he a registered republican?
15) What is the tallest building in Slovakia?
16) What was Steve Guttenburg's second last movie role?
17) How do you say, "Please, bring me a chair. My feet are tired," in Icelandic?
18) How much was a Big Mac last year in Iceland?
19) What song was #47 on the Billboard Top 100 Chart in March, 1972?
20) Are woman better at men in any sport?

Ok, let's see what we can find out here:

1) $12.84/hour.
2) One crude-but-effective way is to take a spike with a rope attached and,
measuring off the center point of the rink, drive the spike into the ice. Attach
your brush to a pole and fasten the rope to the pole. Using this simple device,
you can paint the circumference of each face-off circle. Once this is done, let
the paint dry.
3) Yes it does. Four in fact. Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Florence, Italy. Riga, Latvia
and Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. The reasons are unclear at this time.
4) Defenceman David Cooper and forward Lonny Bohonos at $279,760 (10 pts combined
in 15 total games)
5) Margarita Zavala de Calderón born Margarita Esther Zavala Gómez del Campo, was
born in Mexico City
6) The inventor of the TV table has been forgotten, however, ads first appeared
on TV for the tray in 1952, a full year before Swanson introduced the TV
dinner in October of 1953.
7) The Matarese Circle by Robert Ludlum of The Bourne Identity, Supremacy and
Ultimatum fame.
8) John Christopher Lujack Jr. Quarterback at Notre Dame. Now 85, he lives in
Bettendorf, Iowa and lends his name to a large car dealership in neighboring
Davenport, Iowa.
9) According to mybowler.com, and New York Daily News Columnist Mike Pettinella
from an academic perspective, bowling fits the definition of a sport. However,
on the flip side, many people still look at bowling as a social activity played
by beer-drinking, chain-smoking men and women who demand easy lane conditions to
post scores above their abilities. Could bowling be both a sport and a game?
10) The flightless rhea (Portuguese: ema), found in the cerrado and Pantanal. It
grows to 1.4m tall and weighs some 30kg.
11) Bluish-Mauve.
12) Roxbury.
13) Hall of Famer Henry "Heinie" Emmett Manush, outfielder for the Detroit Tigers.
He got beaned 16 times.
14) Yes. No word on Matty Danza Jr.'s politcal stance though, but he did appear on
Hannah Montana in 2006 as the character, 'Jimmy.'
15) The Dubnik Transmitter was built in 1961 and is 1,043 feet tall.
16) 2008's children's film, 'Heidi for Paws.' He was the voice of Sebastian, an
apricot poodle who is also the butler for the Sesehound household.
17) "Þóknast , koma með mig a stóll. Minn feet ert þreyttur."
18) 509 Kronur, or $7.44.
19) "I Can See Clearly Now," by Johnny Nash
20) Tough question. We'll delve into that one in the up coming days.