Back to reality

Anyhow. Back to reality. Or my version of it anyways. I promise today, not to pump you full of women's studies, metaphors, myths and mine wombs. Just a normal blog type blog like thing about the bitter cold, or my lack of sleep, or what I had for dinner or did yesterday morning. Normal, dumb, stupid K-PAC (as my old boss at the factory once called for me, over the PA system to his office - I think he was drunk, stoned or both) Though, yesterday, I could have tossed out a few more nuggets of feminine uprising and hold those accountable. How about a little Woolf, Wollstonecraft or Jane Eyre? Maybe you're into Gilman's maddening and repressive yellow wallpaper - She's in the wall. I see her too. No, none of that today. Not that there is anything wrong with any of that, but let's move on shall we. Hmmm. Yes. Let us move on. Big show tonight in a small venue. Best thing about playing in a tiny 60 person capacity joint, is that it should seem packed regardless of the turnout. That is the most depressive thing about playing on a big stage. Nobody in front watching you. The Phog - Small Place + Zero Stage = Good time had by all. Windsor will seem alive again (at least for one night). So, let's all meet at the Phog, shall we? Not the Fog. Relax all old school Kingsville drinkers. The Cutter is not opening for one night just for TLM. If anything, it will re-open for Dave Creed and his Grand Marais Band. I heard they used to pack the place. An excited, ready to rock and drink queue outside and around Guidos and past the Big V. Later faithful and probably confused and somewhat annoyed readers of this blog. K-OUT.

WTF am I talking about? The Soft One? Evil Children? Race? Mother Earth's Vagina? Hell and Barbarians? Really long sentences? Betty? Rebecca and Sue?

What a glorious day she is out there. She and the beautiful feeling associated with a pleasant day go hand in hand, do they not? Is it such a crime to compare the likable features of a sunny January Saturday to that of a breathtaking lady? Woman are often used as metaphors, references and what nots for many different things found in this here world. Physically, psychologically, spiritually, intellectually, you name it - the woman is our muse, our cherished nurturer, (and strong-minded, smart and savvy go-getter)and an inspiration for and cause of much of life's greatness - and much of its badness as well (or unwarranted and usually comical blame cast down from the dawn of time). We can spend all day (and night and part of tomorrow morning) going to great lengths about all the wrongs done by men (I mean the world) to women (and the world) and the females subsequent symbolic presence felt throughout this land and beyond. She (the soft one, as I call her - just kidding) the one who gives us life should be, naturally if I may add, associated with much of this here world's greatest bounties and lovelies.

'Woman's activities and relation to men are used as metaphors...to...mediate our (men) engagement with the world through a representation of it as a woman'.

To me, the words 'lovely,' 'breathtaking,' or 'stunning,' conjure images of a woman, or an 80's hairstyle, and perhaps nature's spectacular images - but not that of a man. Sorry men, I mean me, I mean...does this preference totally have to do with my hetero-ness or...? A shiny muscle car is named Sally. Katie's imaginary assistant is Mel, and a sunburst and weathered Gibson, Betty. She is the homeland. My woman's cruiser is known as Rebbecca. (Yes, Katie, I just named your bike Rebbecca, is that cool?) Many peoples long ago (and probably still) used to believe that minerals and metals ripened in the uterus of the earth - they compared mines to Mother Earth's vagina. Her golden coal children our life bearing minerals. But, I'm not getting that deep here - into the womb of ancient and obsolete allegories or negative women and nature metaphors, for that matter. I think it's fairly simple. The Earth is supposed to be nurtured and cherished (but isn't always for many different reasons) as are our woman (who aren't always, either - for mostly stupid reasons) - our Earth's most sacred and 'necessary for life' co-inhabitants. Most people find the female body and her pleasant attributes more attractive and easier on the eyes than that of the hairy, disheveled and greasy, usually deformed male body. Is this a crime or just preference? Have I actually researched these facts or gone off from what I think in my head? Yes, I am one of those people. Team Feminine Features & Qualities. So are you, perhaps. Maybe even that person sitting right there is too. I'm human and allowed (and urged to in many different directions to and fro throughout life) to make a personal, individual decision (b/c of where I live, how I was brought up, professors words, race - yes unfortunately that is a factor), and take a stance on a perhaps touchy, matter. Chances are - you are too. A lover of fine looking goods that is, not of touchy matters. (FYI - I am not referring to women as products to be purchased or traded or anything dealing with shipping woman or the mail, or boxes and perishable items, or matters of touch - I am just bringing the woman as metaphor discussion more into focus in my own out of focus kind of way...Yes, I'll stop now). Even females themselves of all ages, cultures, classes, lifestyles, personalities, and tastes - and most homosexual men too, (actually I don't have the stats on the latter, or any info enabling me to even consider using the word, 'most' - but it could be true, right?) prefer the softer (there I go with that word again) and more pleasing lines and shapes of the woman - maybe not in bed, but in view. So, is it considered non-PC, barbaric-like, or sexist speak of an ignorant patriarchal time, if I'm to compare a more than above average day in the middle of winter to that of a good looking woman? Yes, I know that I keep referring to a 'beautiful' and 'good looking' woman, but I believe all women (except the not nice women, because, they exist too alongside evil men and some children - yes I think some kids are legitimately evil) are beautiful in each their own way, and every one's perception of beauty and good looking-ness is relative, so - I'm in the PC clear there with the feminists (all movements and types) and do-gooders (real and fake) of this here world (I think, anyways). Wow, long sentence bud. Our world relies on symbols, signs and comparisons to make sense of all the motion and commotion, so as long as the woman is 'used' properly, that is in a positive light in association with good and beauty, then she should continue on being the representative of all Mother Earth's most sacred possessions, I mean free and worldly wonderment's. Wow, another long one. A breathtaking sun set, caressing zephyr, or awe-inspiring waterfall. That is what she is. There is no need to conquer the mountain or plow the land so as to sow your seeds (unless you are trying to impregnate). We do not need to have power over nature or the women, as has always been the 'way of man.' No, we should respect nature (women), love women (nature) and proclaim woman's beauty from magnificent mountaintop to sparkling stream. From here to there and everywhere. Ain't she a beaut? She sure as hell is.

Surprise! You're on Candid Kieran!

Candid Cieran. Kandid Kieran. Me (Kieran) spilling my guts and revealing my inner soul (random ramblings), concerning irrelevant (interesting) yet interesting (irrelevant) to me everyday, normal, funny and stupid happenings - in an insightful (maybe) and slightly entertaining (perhaps) manner. Candido Style. Unlock, turn, swivel and pour out. Of my head that is. Do you really want to know about my goings on with the Korean guy (or is he Japanese, Chinese, or Latin? Lets go with Far Eastern) who runs the corner store? Well I do. I wholeheartedly enjoy his randomly pitched, sing-song, slow and odd broken English. And the way he has to look up the prices for everything he sells, even though he sells the same things over and over, each and every day. "Ok-ay. Change...fourrr...dowarr and...fify two cent. Ok-ay." He thought it was hilarious that I bought a bag of onions off of him, which in turn made it hilarious to me that he found it hilarious. "You eat ho ting...like appo? he said smiling, while impersonated me chomping down an onion whole. "Ha, ha...you eat ho ting. Ha. Ha." "Yes, I said. I will eat the whole onion as if it were an apple." How can I not find that amusing? A bit strange, but amusing and after all, isn't that what I'm looking for anyhow? Strange, amusing and coincidental. Now, his little, not very nice, or talkative, pissed off looking wife is a totally different story, for a totally different day. Do you care to know about my view on things that pass by my window as I sit here, alone, typing, thinking and waiting.

This is just how it's gonna be....just like this...

101 time. Here we go. What is a 29 year old, unemployed and bald part-time University student with an Internet connection, penchant for mischief, and a nice girlfriend to blog about? He has been in the same city for nearly a decade (on and off), has explored every nook and cranny of said city and is looking for fresh material but the only thing fresh in his life are the vegetables he obtains from the market - and how fresh are they even? However, with the possibility of change comes hope and with hope success and with success well - happiness? Sort of. Maybe? Or so I've kind of heard. But,in the meantime, this man will continue to scribe 'bout what he sees, hears, feels and experiences in his home, at the library, in the pub, on the rink and and on the roads, sidewalks and carpets with the friends, family and pedestrians of his exciting yet slightly stale and ever-inspiring life. For example, this man enjoys playing pick-up hockey on Friday mornings at the Ice Park in central Windsor. The rink there is not the greatest (the pad was built a top sand, which doesn't translate into a quality ice surface) but for seven dollars you get (usually) a half hour of warm-up (dick around, shooting, passing), 1-2 goalies (or four posts and two boards with holes in the corners), 5-10 pucks, two benches and total hours of ice time, and anywhere from 14-20 eligible players (guys with usable and somewhat fitting equipment) It's obvious, by the turn-out and pedigree of the low-amateur-beer-league-puck-enthusiasts that this man is not the only one taking advantage of a bag full of old equipment, a stick, some time, seven bucks and guaranteed fun and exercise. The various personalities, age and skill-level in attendance is something to behold. And to cherish and to consider deeply while observing their decision-making and reasoning from the bench. There are the regulars that always show: the hand-full of standard twenty-something University or college students with a break from school and a lot of energy, and the older semi-retired gray haired ones just looking for a, 'good skate.' But who can forget about Mr. Dependable - the forty year old Red Lobster employee who always skates super hard, loves taking slap shots and utilizes the entire two hours. He's always there. As are Mike, Jeff and this man (your humble narrator). Then you got the scragglers - those who come out of nowhere, from the depths of dressing room obscurity, with a fist-full of change and usually at least one screw loose - and zero friends on either bench. These random rink rats can then be broken down even further into categories based on age, talent, overall weirdness and 'fun to play with' factor. They usually aren't the best teammates. Does he pass? Can he catch a pass? Does he take over-extended and unnecessarily long shifts? Is he detrimental to the team? Yes, probably all of those and others you can't even think of until you see them in action. Most of these guys are not fun to play with, which is probably why they don't play much in the first place. Like the strange, freaky-looking, dirty-playing dude with the pony tail and two different coloured bug eyes, too-long pants and too short shirt, who figure skates around in circles looking for cheap shots, flip shots and empty space to waste time in. Watch out for this guy, because, not only does he suck, and never pass, but he is irresponsible with his stick, will trip you and likes to check - which is fine for him because he's wearing a full face mask and shoulder pads, but not for the man with already sore ribs who just got slew footed by the world's worst shinny hockey player. But this guy isn't even the worst one. For example, take Mr. Super-Fast-Skater-Master-Deeker-I-play-five-times-a-week-so-that-means-I-never-have-to-pass-Super-Star. He's worse, because though Mr. Screwball-Rat-Tail is a weird son of a bitch, at least you know what you're getting and can skate around him or just plain ignore him if you have to, but with Bobby Orr you're stuck admiring his end to end rushes like an obsessed fan in awe - when really you're annoyed and wish that he'd just play 'real' hockey. You know, the kind that involves passing, positioning, defense and well - teammates. There is a reason there are four other guys and a goalie out there, and it's not to cheer on your stick-handling abilities and blinding speed. But you know that, because you play eight days a week. Right? Wrong. This is same guy that waits at the blue line, banging his stick and hollering for a break-away pass on a goalie-less net. Who cherry picks in hopes of coming in alone on a blue board with holes in it? And sometimes there's not even a board - just an empty, defenceless net. Seriously, even that guy must think to himself, as he's bearing down on two posts and some string that he looks like an idiot. He must. Or does he? Probably not, because well, he plays five days a week - and he's really fast. And a pretty decent skater. But not a hockey player. I'm kind of glad that I crunched him a few months back (he was ripping through the crease as I was about to shoot and smashed directly into me) when I knocked a screw out his helmet. Though he was on my team, I'm not sure what he was doing, but I'm glad it happened. See ya on Friday buddy! And you too super star shin scraggler.

POST # 100! ALRIGHT!

#100!!!!! Holy cow, mackinac, shit, and smokes...I made it. Not everyone thought I would, but I did. 100 insightful, silly, stupid, non-sensical, humourous, maybe mean, probably dumb but for sure from me - blogs. From baseball to insomnia, infectious colds to pedestrian stranger walker-bys, we made it together and together we shall make it more. Even though at the time of this here production I have spun out more blogs (100) than visitors to this site (97), I will continue to do this semi-daily blog type blog like thing, b/c, not only is it "cathartic" like Katie's Indian friend said, but I like doing it and have time to do it, so why the heck not do it? You dig? Where else can I publish my on-line rantings and ravings about the people standing in line in front of me at the bank? Or make fun of Jeff concerning his super serious squash skills? Where can I give my take on the mess that is Hollywood or create lists and polls that amuse me and few others? No where else, that is where. Here is where I can do whatever kpw wants - b/c it is his world - just look up and read the title of this here blog type blog like thing. Anywho, so, number 100 coincided well with another one of my annoying ass colds. Since before Christmas I've been constantly blowing holes through kleenex and swallowing razor blades - and I can't seem to shake it. Hmmm. I guess my consistently low immunity makes sense, since I eat massive amounts of vegetables, take daily vitamins and fish oil pills, get enough sleep (usually) and exercise. Maybe I should take up a strict fast food diet, live in filth and never wear a coat or wash my hands. That should do it. Bless you all, my faithful readers, and may the next 100 be as amazing as the first 100 were - and perhaps more profitable and less sickly.

One down, one to go! YAY!

Two posts away including this one from the magic number. 100! Yay! I can't wait, can you?

Am I mad? No. Dissapointed? Not really. Surprised? Oh, no. Then what's the problem? O ya, I know.

Big game last night. Intense, fast, furious and fun. The three f's, and the one I - perfect letters to use if you want to spell words that describe a Tuesday night pick-up hockey game in downtown Wheatley. You know something is extremely fun to do if you drive (well, Mike drove, I his trusty navigator) two hours round trip for that something that lasts only half the time of the drive (well, the game was a tiring hour and a half of back and forth action). Though our team was slightly outmatched in terms of skill, stamina, speed and overall hockey sense and ability - it did not deter us, the darks, from giving our all - though we probably lost by upwards of ten, fifteen or more. One thing I've blatantly realized during this whole return to the rink campaign is that the little things I took for granted as a youngster, the energy, the focus, especially the ability to make quick on the ice decisions have faded almost beyond being present at all. My mind understands and computes what needs to be done to complete the play, but it's the extremities - the arms, legs, hands and feet that are not registering the info efficiently enough or reacting as I want them to, in order to bring my game back to the level it once was at. Yes, I've lost a step over these last ten years of in-activeness, but I've also lost a reach, a shot and some major time lung capacity. I know what I want to do, but I just can't do it (in time or how I want it done) and the worst part about this lack of personal harmony is that I know that I used to be able to do it, so it is possible. Or is it? Mind you, since my playing days back in the 90's I have acquired asthma, a bad hip and back and many other little uncomfortable ailments detrimental to my game, but still...and the Wooderson (McConaughey's character in D&C) theory does little to help me here - "That's what I love about these high school girls, man. I get older, they stay the same age." I'm 30 and they're 20. I'm ten years removed from the glory days and they're two weeks away from legally drinking in the States. Multiple examples of my inadequacies surface every game, some more frustrating and crippling to the team and my advancement as a marquee shinny player, than others. Eg. # 1 - Waiting for the puck along the half boards in my own zone, I am unable to clear the puck in time, or if I do make a pass it is ill-advised, stolen, kept in our end and turned into an offensive chance. I can't react fast enough to the situation before another player is on me, and sometimes it seems as if I can't see the ice as well as I used to. It's as if no one is open. Is this in reaction to my age? Skill? Or a mean combination of my time away from the game and diminishing athletic ability? Hmmm. How can you get better in time, when you're best times have already come and gone? When time is gone, what is the motivating factor to get better? Your peers? Better health? To not embarrass yourself? Your g/f promising that she'll ditch the Facebook if you play? It's not like the speed, agility and endurance are there. Cultivation plus practice no longer tally up to success. These are the things I took for granted when I was younger that have vanished along with the hair on my head. Eg. # 2 - Skating full force and with a purpose towards the opposing net, with my stick on the ice and head up, I await for a cross ice pass, but when it comes I am handcuffed by my own stick, the skates of defenders, proximity to the net and the speed of the pass, in turn leading to a complete whiff on the sure open net goal. Dammit! Again, reaction time, hand-eye-coordination and just plain hockey sense abandon me at my time of need. An age issue? (no endurance, inability to sacrifice body, loss of speed) Deteriorating skill? (shot power/accuracy, stick handling, skating, ice vision) or a mean combo? Hmmm. Eg. # 3 - Towards the end of the game, the puck squirts loose at my own blue-line and a sprint for the puck leads me on a break the other way. Down the right wing and full steam ahead I enter the opposing end, but in fear of being chased down from behind I hurriedly snap a hard shot that rings off the post. Although I almost score, it's this lack of confidence in, not only my break-away moves but my fleeting speed that lead to the below average snapper from just beyond the hash marks. Age? Skill or a mean combo? What is most frustratingly demoralizing are the times when I am in proper position, have a bead on the puck but don't have the legs to get there. Or when I do get there and a fight for the puck ensues, then I give up half way through the battle due to fatigue. Sustainable energy is my greatest but most elusive ally in my fight vs. the other team. Mike says I look composed out there, but sometimes I am anything but. However, besides these minor inconveniences, the second phase of my hockey career has been truly fun, a tremendous work-out and a great way to blow off some steam in the arena of competitiveness and camaraderies.

The Decade that was....I think...

Though the decade has already passed us well over a week ago (11 days and 11 hours to be sort of exact at the time of production), I find nothing wrong with a little more reflection on the ten years that were. Because the way I see it, in my head, is that good memories these days are rarely documented in our heads anymore, only jotted in the way of quick party pics and even quicker (and less reliable) tweets and on-line communicator whatnot's - blogs included, of course. Why try to remember when the proof is an easy and brainless click, flip, or scroll away. In due time, the cell phone will be a strategic ally in the world's take down of itself. Anyhow, hearsay and selective memory isn't quite what it used to be. How can it be when your entire social life is chronologically and efficiently recorded by yourself and everyone around you in a tidy little folder with cute little labels like "Wasaga Rules '08, or "Mel's Sick Bash." Hmmm. "I didn't do that," or "That wasn't me," are no longer viable defences against the uploaded and tagged pic but from a different angle already seen and commented on by everyone you know - before you even upload the same pic from your portable, small and convenient picture taking device. Incrimination by association. If you live your life hooked up to a phone - you are associated with it. Pictures speak a thousand words, but who's the author when everyone's got a pen? Think about it, or don't. Either way you'll be fine, I assume. Anyways, let us begin with a little self-reflection of my last 10 years on this here planet called earth. The year 2000, I was 20 - Y2K, Bush vs. Gore, the Texas 7 and PlayStation II happened behind my life. At 20, I knew it all and was intent on proving the world wrong (or just not listening to anyone and acting foolishly). I spent most of my time in the Essex County area, besides a few quick jaunts to TO, northern Ontario and downtown Detroit. However you put it, I was on my own in Windsor, recently dropped out of Machine Shop college (thanks Citywide Vacuum) and working and living all over the city for no other reasons than to pay for the rent and a little weekend booze. What a life. It was so awesome I barely remember what I did between 20 and let's say 24. However, I do remember a few things from that time period - even without the help of a cell phone camera, picture happy friends, a tripod, mirror or an on-line community account. This I know: I broke my leg at a Korn concert, caught a huge and garbage-eating raccoon with a hockey stick, some rope and the cap of my 1988 decaled and ground-effected Ford Ranger, moved into a soon-to-be rat infested house with a black guy from Harrow named Melcolm and Ryan, joined a metal band as a bass player (though I had never ever been in a band or played bass before, but I did like metal and had some free time), and was fired after two hard years from a slaughterhouse after an argument with the prick owner (his name was Neil and he sure was a prick). I enjoyed the Loop, The Shelter, Wheatley Provincial, 4375 Howard and 2297 Cadillac, got kicked in the teeth by a rabid Hatebreed fan in London, worked at a gas station, a cemetery (twice), a butcher shop, Chrysler's power washing gunk at midnight for 30 bucks/hour (too bad I only worked 8 hours/week, and sold state of the art super duper but overly expensive vacuums (for half a day b/c Mom wouldn't, smartly may I add - buy one), I also drank a lot of coffee and listened to a lot of music with Brian and Craig and others on Goyeau, in cars, on porches, from mezzanines and on chairs. Good times. Then came the middle of the decade, which happened to coincide with the middle of my twenties - that's what happens when you're born in the first year of a new decade. These memories are more clear, vivid and productive. Because they are fresher, perhaps happier and fulfilling. Productive in terms of my personal development, aging process, and musical advancement, but not in terms of making the moolah. Actually, from 23 or so to 25 or so I continued to make some cold hard cash at the el factorino but spent most of it on amps, guitars, P.A's, speakers, car insurance and repairs, gas, booze, strings, gifts for my new g/f Katie, guitar pics, gas, booze, you know - normal 23 or so to 25 or so year old stuff. Let's see here, the middle of the two thousands to about now have been relatively similar but still different in their own ways. St. Clair was replaced by the University, Journalism with Communications, Lansdowne with Janette, then Lansdowne again for a short time and then Campbell. Who Shot J.R. for The Suicide Club and then Threat Level Midnight. I traded money for time, the Honda for the Cruiser, an old p.c for a new p.c, the BR8 for the Mbox 2, Collaboration for Dragonfly then for Attack, this for that, that for whatever - you get the picture. Change it slightly around and then you'll see it for sure.

livein3D&on-ice

Nice little snow dump we had there the other day. Ahh, snowflakes - the diareah of unicorns falling from that stable in the sky. Like I always say, if it's gonna be gosh dang freezing, there may as well be gosh dang snow on the gosh dang ground, because it just looks gosh dang prettier - that is until the fluffy, nice white stuff gets all muddy and gross and not pretty and nice and definitely not fluffy. It's more of a dirty hassle than a visual treat. Dang. Okay, I might have said that only a few times before, and never in that manner of phrasing - but, am I not right? Aren't I? Later on in the program that is me and my mind, my computer fingers and on-line abilities, I will be placing a little survey/poll/type thing on the side of this here blog like blog type thing and asking you, the reader to pick b/w other random nonsensical issues. Such as, are you on Team Chin or Team Tall and Getting Screwed Mick? (I mean, Leno or O'Brien) Team Big Iceberg or Team Big Oil? (Al Gore vs. Jerry Jones) Team Lips or Team Rob-O? (probably both) This vs. that, shit vs. piss - whathaveyou, whatever.

HERE IT IS - AS PLAIN AS DAY, DANIEL DAY

There is something to be said about the guy who drinks coffee every morning alone, stretches ten minutes after that, and then sits down or stands up to do whatever he so desires - without a worry to be worried about. No one to tell him what to do, no buzzer telling he where to go, no nothing. A few calls here and there asking for things but more urging than telling. Even if he had little sleep, is still dealing with a lingering two and half week minor but strong soar throat/excess phlegm/annoying cold within and around his face, or is constipated - he does what he wants, when he wants because he can. And so he does. Or did. Or rather, still does but...what is about to happen to this man? His unabashed freedom to loiter through life is about to be snatched up by the cold and ruthless claws of that same life that demands him now to move - a little faster, or at least towards the door, towards something, anything. In some direction. Although he might as well keep doing what he's doing until he can't do it anymore b/c, well, he's pretty good at what he does. What is it that he does again? It doesn't matter, just as long as he's doing something in the meantime, b/c soon his happy choices will no longer be his, or happy - but still meaningless.

THE SAME BUT DIFFERENT A DAY LATER AND A TAD LONGER SHORT STORY BUT NOT REALLY ABOUT JOBS & LIFE& COMPARISONS & THINKING OUT LOUD ABOUT JOBS & LIFE

I've been applying for jobs here and there, opportunities I believe myself to be qualified for, even over qualified for, but still no, as they say - bites. Not even a nibble. Or a slight scrape of a tooth over something tasty that falls onto the tongue. Nothing. Did I not get a call back from the temp, or as I like to call them - temporary - agency who was looking for 10/h stamp pressers in a factory because I have experience in a factory running a press? They must have found someone else. Like someone who has experience in a factory running a press. You would think that a city with the highest unemployment rate in the country would have something to offer a guy like me - an over educated/under experienced and over age bald dude with a bad hip. And an ever growing hairier body. Over-educated for shitty jobs but under for good ones. Sure, I'm experienced in things like pulling leaf lard (the-thick fat-like-rubbery-glop-attached-to-the-inside-of-the-ribs) from split open and hanging two hundred pound pigs and then cutting them up and putting them in boxes. Nice little labelled boxes with names. Which then get tossed in a truck and swept away and spread to a home near you. I'm also very adept at driving (too fast and not safe) forklifts around an overly demanding and extremely dangerous, stressful and small for it's purpose packing shed full of immigrants, produce and blind corners - then getting yelled at for going too slow, or shipping rotting peppers, or...I never said that I'm not qualified for that kind of stuff. Though, a touch rusty, I'm sure I could get the hang of, let's say almost cutting my finger off or dropping a skid of clusters five minutes before punching out. I'll get it. That stuff is easy. Almost as easy as cruising aimlessly on a comfortable golf-cart, enjoying a peaceful and sunny summer day in a green, manicured and quiet cemetery. Where you cut the grass. And help dig holes. And drive around on golf carts in a grey shirt and blue pants. And a hat, because it is sunny. Anyways, back to the job-ma-no-have-jiggy-thingy-doo. It will happen. It has to or else I'll have to find a new place. One with free heat, a roof, running water, an Internet connection and a fridge full of food. Maybe some cupboards with some edibles as well. Throw some booze on the counter too. Windsor has a lot to offer a guy like me. I just have to reach out and grab it. Or flush it, or freeze it and take it out later. Like in ten years. It's there for the picking. Like a rotten tomato. That is now in a box. On it's way to a Wal-Mart in Wisconsin.

THE SAME BUT DIFFERENT A DAY BEFORE AND A TAD SHORTER SHORT STORY BUT NOT REALLY ABOUT JOBS & LIFE& COMPARISONS & THINKING OUT LOUD ABOUT JOBS & LIFE

I need a job. But more importantly I need money. And unfortunately money doesn't grow on trees, especially when it's minus 20 before the wind chill - so I must find work if I'm to survive and the money that comes with hit - no matter how menial or shitty or awesome, I mean well - shitty. But what is an almost university graduate supposed to do in a city with the highest unemployment rate in it's respected country. And did I mention it's god dang freezing outside? That eliminates all cushy outdoor seasonal jobs such as: grass cutting around cemetery headstones, pruning flowers alongside the river and good looking co-eds, selling weedman services door to door, or bootleg posters and name brand clothing on the side of the road, picking tomatoes a la peace work (not that cushy) or belting out modern pop standards to drunken teens downtown for change. I find myself in a little pickle, or a jam depending on your sense of taste, or preference between fruits and vegetables.

VOILA LIPS

Good times, better friends and fam, tasty food, killer tunes, exciting games, plenty of drink, one very tall Christmas tree, and the happy wishing in of a new year in a beautiful house on a lake. What else could a balding, 29 year old and unemployed, almost university graduate ask for on New Year's Eve? More hockey skill? Better understanding of the world around him? A million dollars? Sure, but can a million big ones buy stupid jokes, happy thoughts and tacky but humourous semi-casual second hand leisure suits? Okay, maybe the latter yes, but the formers - no. Well, maybe you can buy jokes from a phone service - but the delivery will surely be terrible and the joke itself not even funny. The best jokes come out of mid air, in flight, by accident on purpose at the best of times, without even thinking like it was planned but not. Of course, we all know that loads of money, or major moolah as I like to call it, buys people nice things: big houses, shiny cars, exquisite entrees, high-class call-girls, white rugs, deadly habits, ice rinks in basements, multiples of multiples, free-time forever, a personal force field, fake friends, faker parts, butlers, elections, towns, trouble, limos and so on. However, even major time moolash can not purchase for free, 'real' relationships, and 'real' experiences, in 'real' places, with 'real' people and their 'real' faces. I have to thank Lips for that gem filled bucket of wisdom. It can,(cash emulate life) but the sincerity rate is low on the 'real-ness' scale. So low, in fact that it cannot be measured and when it does inflate to viewable levels - the results can are quite disturbing and not too, 'real.' (eg. Tiger, any politician, Kurt Cobain, Oprah, Mike Jackson, so on and so on.) What I'm saying or trying to say is, that last night's party was fun and good fun is not free. Or is it? I'm confused by my own confusion of myself. Was that a gun I just heard or leftover fireworks from last night's display? Hopefully it was a car backfiring. But if it was a gun, hopefully it is a small one and not being directed towards my house. ***Look for NY's pic lower on down the page***