An Ode to my Volkswagen

The nights were so much longer then. We’d sail down the barren streets with the windows rolled down and the music turned up as far as it could go.

In truth, the music had to be turned up as far as it could go in order to drown out the sound of the engine, and the windows had to be rolled down or else the cabin of the van would start to fill up with exhaust. And maybe sailing isn’t quite the right word. It was more like a crawl, which may actually have been why the nights seemed to last so long.

It was love at first sight between me and the Volkswagen. At least on my end it was. Of all my earthly possessions, that van is what I love best.

Nothing could top the exhilaration I felt as I made my way around town behind its wheel. I beamed with pride at every stoplight. I glowed each time someone brought it up.

I decked it out with cow-print seat covers and painted the ceiling to look like the sky. I even spent a whole $200 on having a new CD player and speakers installed. Of course the CD player is pretty much obsolete now, but that is besides the point.

Right now the van sits in a lonely shop waiting…. Waiting for the day I have the engine converted to an electric beast and we roam the streets, together, once more.

An Ode to Hamilton

I see him, without fail, each time I take the dogs for an evening stroll. “If ever someone were to eat 80% of my face,” I think to myself, “it would be you.” When we pass, I look him right in the eye (just one though) to make sure that he knows that I know he is not to be trusted.

Hamilton is a city defined by its people. The thing is that its people are so magically diverse that there is no real way to define it at all.

My apartment building itself is filled with a mixture of the hopeful and hopeless. It was built sometime in the early 20s, meant to house Hamilton’s rich and famous. I like to imagine what it might have looked like in its day. As I walk through the halls, I hear the voice of Ron Burgandy echoing in my head, or maybe I am actually hearing it from someone’s TV. Regardless, Burgandy says, “I have many leather-bound books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany.” If mahogany smells anything like marijuana, Ron Burgandy’s apartment and my apartment building have much in common.

Having been born and raised in a city Hamilton adjacent – one that prides itself on being both morally and economically superior to its blue collar neighbour – I have found myself surprisingly fond of my new home. I like it here.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” I once told a friend.

“You should take that to the tourism office. I think you just found a new slogan. Hamilton: it’s not as bad as you think.”

But, seriously, it’s not as bad as you think.

Making Artistic Films

I have this wonderful idea for a series of non-pornographic adult films. So far, the series includes two films: Dirty Bitches Get Clean: Part One and its sequel: Dirty Bitches Get Clean: Part Two.

The first film would feature myself and one of my best friends doing household chores. We’d wash windows. Floors would be cleaned. Dusting would take place. Halfway into the film, there would be a knock at the door and a pizza delivery man would show up. “I have a hot delivery for you,” pizza man would say (as pizza men so often do). “Where do you want me to put it?”

“Oh, why don’t you put that on the table,” we would tell him.

But pizza delivery men are clumsy, so, in his journey from the front door to the table, he would drop the pizza on the floor.

“Oh no!” we would cry, “We are going to have to clean up all of that pizza!”

And scene.


But probably not as genius as Dirty Bitches Get Clean: Part Two. Dirty Bitches Get Clean: Part Two is the real money maker.

Dirty Bitches Get Clean: Part Two involves, once again, myself and a friend. But the twist this time is that we are not cleaning houses. Instead, we are giving baths to dogs. To be more specific, we are giving baths to bitches. Dirty ones.

“Wow, this bitch is so dirty,” I would say to my co-star/friend. She, of course, would nod in agreement.

“This bitch has gotten me all wet,” my co-star/friend would say.

The beauty of this movie would be that not only do we make money from the sales of the film, but we also make money charging people to bathe their dogs.

End of the World Paranoia

When I visited Mexico, I toured some of the Mayan ruins. I remember hearing over and over again how wise the Mayans were and how they were able to predict their own demise. It is for this reason, I am led to believe, that we are supposed to pay special attention to their calendar and take heed of their warning that the world will end in 2012. After all, 2012 is when the Mayan calendar ends.

But don’t you think that maybe, just maybe, it is possible that the Mayan calendar ends in 2012 because they felt like that was far enough in the future that they could stop for a bit before making more calendar?

My current calendar ends this December, but I do not think this is the printer’s way of trying to hint to me that on December 31, 2009, the world has a preordained date with a catastrophe. No, instead I recognize that a calendar has to stop at some point in time, so why not December?

Maybe the individuals who were making the Mayan calendar just got tired. One of them, whom I will hereon refer to as “Jim,” probably said to the others, “Dudes, we’ve already gone, like, 1,000 years into the future. Let’s take a break for a decade or so and then get back to this. To be honest, my hands are cramping, and I could really go for a refreshing glass of water.” Obviously, the others would have agreed with what Jim was saying because, after all, they were way ahead of the game. Besides that, Jim was super cool and everyone was always trying to impress him.

Kanye West Tweets

Imagine, if you will, genius in 140 characters.

It’s hard to imagine anything in 140 characters, let alone genius.

One hundred and forty characters is not many characters. In fact, this very sentence you are now reading is actually, if you can believe it, one hundred and forty four characters, including all spaces. Although, if I am being honest, I will admit that my previous sentence looks incredibly long, and I only actually even wrote it to illustrate one point: 140 characters is not a whole lot of characters.

My point is to truly be able to reach people, to touch them down deep in their souls, in 140 characters (or fewer) is an incredible feat… An incredible feat that Kanye West has mastered.

A few examples of Kanye’s genius:

Fur pillows are hard to actually sleep on

I hate when people type LOL next to shit that is nooo way near LOL-able…

I make awesome decisions in bike stores!!!

Sometimes I get emotional over fonts

What’s better for devil worshipping Iphone or the Droid… Does lucifer return text… is he or she on Skype? Don’t wanna be sexist

I hate when I’m on a flight and I wake up with a water bottle next to me like oh great now I gotta be responsible for this water bottle

Man… whatever happened to my antique fish tank?

See what I mean? Genius.

Giving Blood

I sat in the chair, staring at my arm sceptically.

“Make a fist for me,” the nurse instructed as she prodded my elbow pit with her finger. “I am just going to take a look at the veins in your other arm now,” she informed me. Furrowing her brow, she continued to poke at various locations on my arms before muttering to herself, “I guess I will go with a side vein.” Words of confidence.

Donating blood is a paradox when it comes to stuff I like. On one hand, I strongly dislike needles and losing blood. On the other hand, when else can I hop up (after laying supine for 15 minutes or fewer of watching TV, reading, talking or listening to music) and say that I just helped save a life? Well, I suppose I could say that any time, but when else is it actually true?

Another positive that comes along with donating blood is the cookies and juice. After a donation, it is strongly encouraged that donors have a juice box and consume a couple of cookies. Never one to pass up apple juice (apple juice and puppies are my kryptonite), I like to use this break to happily sip my juice and peruse the Toronto Star.

As you may have guessed from the beginning of this entry, the nurse needling me probably could have done with a little more practice prior to handling the 16 gauge. During this most recent donation, my veins decided to be a little difficult, requiring some shifting of the needle in order to establish a decent flow.

“We’re so sorry. It looks like you’re going to have a bruise,” I was told by several of the blood bank staff members as they hovered around me, placing gauze over the insertion site and changing it every so often. Though, at the time, I gave the nurse who tapped me the benefit of the doubt, I was later informed by a coworker that “bruising of that nature is the result of poor technique.”

Regardless, I was proud of my bruise. “Do not worry about it at all,” I told the women at the blood bank, with a smile. “I am going to look so badass. I am going to wear short sleeves all week to work and try to garner sympathy. I am not sure that it will actually accomplish anything though because the majority of my coworkers are nurses and my bruises don’t really impress them the way I feel they should,” I explained. “The volunteers are a different story entirely,” I winked.

Additionally, I decided to photograph my evolving bruises so that I would be able to post photos to the Internet and further inspire oooohs and aaaahs of shock and awe at the physical evidence of my heroics.


Within the confines of my apartment walls, I am the world’s greatest dancer. No question.

Sometimes, at weddings, after having one or seven drinks, I am also exceptionally skilled on the dance floor.

Dancing is innate. It is true. Just go to youtube and check out all the videos that have been uploaded of babies dancing. No one taught them to do this (except maybe this baby. Someone probably taught that baby at least some of its moves. Or it’s really just a little person pretending to be a toddler). And, let’s face it, if someone did teach them, that someone did a really bad job because not one of those babies is a particularly good dancer.

And now you’re probably thinking that I am a terrible person for being so judgmental of a baby’s dancing abilities. To this, I respond by saying EXACTLY. If we are not critical of these babies right from the start they are going to grow up thinking that this kind of dancing is good enough. And then who knows what will happen. It is highly probable that they would go on to audition for “So You Think You Can Dance?” and that would just be a waste of everyone’s time.

But I digress.

When dancing in a non-professional setting, it does not matter if you are good or bad. All that matters is that you are having fun. I mean, if you can look cool at the same time then that is a definite plus, but having fun is pretty high up there when it comes to what you should get out of dancing.

Last month, at my cousin’s wedding, I was on fire on the dance floor. Not literally on fire, but metaphorically on fire. If I had literally been on fire, it would have been, I would imagine, a fairly traumatic day for everyone who attended the wedding.

My dance moves were so intense that evening that people felt compelled to video tape me. Dance moves I called upon included (but were not limited to) the sprinkler, the shopping cart, the lawnmower, the running man, the grapevine and a little something that I like to call the upside down tornado. Yes, it’s true, Internet; I looked incredibly cool that night. All of the other girls wanted to be me and all of the guys wanted to be with me. But what was most important was that I was having a good time.

I carried pieces of that night around with me well into the next day. Mostly in the form of a hangover, but partly in the form of the unadulterated joy derived from dancing.

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