Hamburger Hitmen

McDonald’s, Wendy’s, KFC; do you know what they all have in common? A complete lack of commitment to their grassroots supporters. When did these Pioneers of Fast Food decide to adopt a new mission statement advertising indecision and weakness? Why was I not consulted when someone questioned these institutions’ fundamental values and direction? Who is sinking these ships and what is their end game? I am the target audience, I should not be forced to warm the bench and watch as these iconic establishments whore themselves out on the principle of a lie. You could blame advertising, or capitalism, or greed, or society, but I chose to blame the Whiners. If these Haters hadn’t meddled with what doesn’t concern them then I wouldn’t be faced with watching the downfall of a great American tradition – the Hamburger.

There was a time when Fast Food stood for something. A time when Hunger and Taste were satisfied without forfeiting one’s wallet or investing in evening long reservations. But for some reason creating harmony for those who wanted a big old burger, golden fries, and an ice cold soda, wasn’t good enough for the outsider; they wanted to crash the party.

For a long time these Enemies of the Burger have foolishly attacked with clubs and stones, denouncing the quality of this simple food, trying to trick us with lies and deceit. A waste of time - people are smart enough to decide if they like a Spicy Chicken or are a fan of Quarter Pounder without guidance from a bunch of Calorie Counters. If you don’t want to eat Fast Food then just don’t eat it. Forget about wandering around preaching Fat Contents or Nutritional Facts, while longing for a Big Mac. But it’s not these people that worry me, it’s the opposition that decided to forgo Nuclear and head straight for BioChemical. This is an enemy that has strategized and attacked from within using wit over muscle. And I am afraid that it is too late, that the damage has been done to the Burger Lover.

Proof of their progress is the Salad. It is now the unwritten law that every competitive Burger Joint must litter their menu with the Alternative. A Caesar Salad here, a Garden Classic there, covered in Balsamic, some Italian on the side, with Mandarin Slices, Almond shavings, grated cheddar, croutons… and don’t try to cover it up by talking about Grilled Chicken Fillet, or Mediterranean Vinaigrette, or Spicy Thai this and that, it’s a Salad, at my Burger House. And it doesn’t stop there. Why does the Burger King offer a Veggie Burger? And since when is a Fish Patty something that belongs at Wendy’s? Don’t get me wrong there is a time and place for all of this stuff, but why do Burgers and Fries have to sit in the penalty box in their own rink? You want a salad, why are you in McDonald’s? Interested in a wrap or sub, try the Pita Pit or freakin Subway. It’s not like there is a shortage of ways to get your hands on the Alternative. Two days ago I made myself a lovely Garden Salad with strawberry slices and barbecue chicken; thank you Safeway, I couldn’t have done it without you. Someone on the inside is diluting the Fast Food restaurant industry, slowing convincing everyone that when we chose A&W we really, really care about our good friend Calories. Give me a break! Who goes to HMV to buy a Best Selling Novel? We’ve got hardware stores, office supply outlets, furniture galleries, and they all focus on their ‘A’ Game. If I wanted to hit the cash register with new socks and a T-Bone steak then I’d be shopping at Wal-Mart, but if I want a 1/3 of a pound of beef, melted cheese, bacon, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, mustard, ketchup, and a lightly toasted bun, I don’t want a high and mighty Salad looking down on the crispy side of fries that I get with it. Variety? Please, I call bullshit. This is weakness. This is not a hero with history and rigid values, this is a slimy politician that is looking to buy votes where ever they can get them.

Not everyone has been distracted by the whiny cries of the Hamburger-Haters though; there are still a select few that fight the trend. This small resistance was the aim of my lunch hour pursuit. I drove passed the glossy ads, and the noisy deals, and avoided the many church-of-the-dying-burger themed hot spots until I found that hidden gem. ‘The Last Great Hamburger Stand’ was more than just a catchy phrase underlining the Fat Burger sign, it was a promise fulfilled. As I walked in the jukebox was rolling through the ‘50s and ‘60s, kicking out music that matched the atmosphere set by the framed records and dusty pictures of Elvis scattered in between the booths. Every song that came on battled the gentle dissonance that radiated from the open kitchen - a kitchen that was alive. The slow swirl of the ceiling fans were no match for the heat of the burger burners, leaving the restaurant slightly warmer than an A/C addict would like. I stepped up to the plate and swung at the first pitch.

My policy on a first time visit is to go with the restaurant’s front runner; Meal #1. Piled high with Mustard, Relish, Onions, Pickles, Tomato, Lettuce, and Mayo, the Fatburger was a 1/3 of a pound of grilled perfection. I gave the towering treasure Bacon and Cheese Add-Ons and stacked it up beside an order of Skinny Fries and a bottom-less fountain Cola. It was magic. While I waited for the Kitchen Confidential team to put together my All-Star Burger lineup, I couldn’t help but admire the rest of the menu. It was everything an appetite dreams up when times are tough and salads are present; ½ Pound Patties, Doubles and Triples, Grilled, Crispy, and Spicy Fat Chickens, Onion Rings, Wedge Fries, Milk Shakes, Root Beer Floats, Chilidogs, and Beer. This is wear hunger is happy. I watched it all come together with an ever growing smile. From the grill to my tray, the meal was put together with care, but with the edge of a diner hot box kitchen. There were no artists feathering together my lunch, only kitchen soldiers getting the job done right.

Order Up! Nothing but smiles as I took my first bite of the real deal; a Burger with Attitude. Flavor was the only thing I could think about as I tore into the Fatburger, and there was plenty of it. I didn’t need a TV show to keep me company, or a newspaper to occupy my time, I didn’t feel lonely eating by myself, or in need of any other clever distractions. The music, the booth, the old pictures of classic cars, they all drifted into my subconscious and acted as the perfect backdrop to this American Great. In its simplicity the Fatburger scene had accomplished what so many great burger joints could no longer do; fire me up for a return visit.

I left the jukebox and the ceiling fans with three points of understanding; one, I was ready to sample the shake and onion rings, two, I would require ‘Hound Dog’ and/or ‘Don’t Be Cruel’ with my next Burger, and three, there is still hope for the Hamburger – Fatburger is proof of that. Your move Veggie Villain.

Armchair Drivers

The following is based on Fact, and sequenced in Fiction...

Jane herds her three maniac rug-rats into their 2009 Highest-Safety-Rated Mitsubishi Outlander; the Sport Utility Vehicle born to house the best of sibling food fights while shuttling kids off to soccer, dance class, scouts, and half a dozen other organized activities they may or may not cry at. After a sleepless night of fighting off monsters and her kids' bad dreams, Jane is wired on three cups of coffee, and has already covered her shirt in both orange juice with extra pulp and the J from her son's PB&J lunch time entrée. Her mind races; stop one is Kristin at Abe Lincoln Elementary, stop two is Tim at pre-school, stop three is a Save-the-Day move at her husband Garth's office which includes a Forgotten Presentation hand over and a quick peck-on-the-cheek good luck kiss, stop four is a drop off at a very important play date for her youngest, Jeff, and stop five is groceries, the bank, coffee, a DVD return, lunch with a potential new baby-sitter, more coffee, Pioneer costume shopping for Kristin's big school play, socks for Garth, prescription pick up for Jeff, another more-coffee, and then reverse herding of maniac rug-rats. Jane backs the Outlander out of the drive way and thinks to herself 'If Tim hadn't poured his bowl of cereal on the dog's head we would have been on time for the first time in... in forever'. Jane slams on her breaks bringing her rear bumper inches from the knees of a morning runner.

Ken sits down for the first time in 36 hours. He sticks the keys in the ignition of his 7-series and closes his eyes; he is a collapsed heap of exhausted MD. Ken longs for the comfort of his beautiful pillow. He opens his eyes again and sees that it is 8am. Ken has 12 hours to drive home, eat breakfast/lunch/whatever-meal-it-is-after-you've-worked-for-a-day-and-a-half, feed the cat, pass out in bed, give his wife a hug, and get back to the hospital for another round of Super-Doctor. Ken starts the car and leaves the parkade. A block and a half later Ken's doing everything he can to hold his eye-lids up. The window is rolled down, the bad music is turned up, he's reciting the Western Conference standings to himself out load, but he is losing the battle. His eyes fire open as the scream of a car horn crashes through the open window. Ken checks himself, but realizes that the horn wasn't for him; a flashy copper convertible had blown through a yield sign nearly parking itself in the passenger seat of a tiny 2-door Civic. Ken is sweating from the side of adrenaline that was served up with the spicy horn blast. He pulls up to a set of lights and tries to slow his racing heart. 'Shit!' Ken curses himself and thinks about how irresponsible it is of him to sleep-walk behind the wheel. He's a doctor, he's seen the fall out, he should know better. His eyes snap open again; he'd dozed off at a red light which was now green. The car horn was coming at him from behind. Ken jumps off the break and hits the gas and comes face to face with a bicycle. He catches the break again just before cutting the bike in half. He takes a deep breath, sees an image of himself throwing the cyclist off the bike into the intersection, listens to the car horn ramp up again, and then carefully pulls forward scared to blink.

Tara grabs her iPod and heads out the door. The iPod is the finishing touch to her very carefully crafted outfit. From head to toe, with her pink and black costume, Tara screams ‘Runner’. The morning run is a part of her routine that fits somewhere before 'eat breakfast' and somewhere after 'pack up school work'; it's all part of her receipt for surviving Wilson Memorial High. Tara starts her run at a good pace with the high energy of song one of her play list carrying her around the usual route. It's a fantastic morning. Tara has embraced the AM activity not only because it ensures that she can squeeze in some daily cardio, but also because it wakes her body up and launches her forward into the day with great energy. She picks up the pace a little more. She feels good. She smiles. Tara slows up and stops at a cross walk fifteen minutes into her half hour trek. She probably could have cranked out a mad dash across the intersection as the light changed but she was ready for a break, however short. She focuses on her breathing and turns up her musak. A bike slides passed her right shoulder sending her hair swirling. As a black Beamer shoots off the line, Tara is unable to do anything to stop the collision other than hold her breath and awkwardly contort her face. The car hit the breaks as quickly as it had jumped forward. Tara shakes her head and slowly blinks her wide eyes, shocked at the carelessness of the cyclist who tried to battle a few thousand pounds of Car. The bike clears the intersection showing no sign of understanding how close it was to becoming the new hood ornament for the 2009 BMW 750Li. Tara leaves the intersection without further incident, skips a slow song for a little Top-40 Pop, takes another break at the 23 minute point to tie her left shoe, needs to side-step a little fur-ball on a leash who goes for her ankles, and then without realizing it runs passed a driveway crossing paths with a busy Mitsubishi Outlander. Tara would later tell her friends at school about the cyclist who didn't even realize he was almost run over.

Cliff talks to himself in the mirror as he adjusts his silver and black tie. He sounds like a motivational tape gone wrong. “I look goooooood,” he says as he cracks a half smile. Running out the door in his power suit Cliff is equipped with a smart phone, a remote car starter, half an eaten Power Bar, a pair of black Ray-Bands, his Italian Man-Purse, and a BlueTooth headset pinned to his ear. Cliff doesn't skip a beat as he swings his purse into the passenger seat while jumping over the un-opened door of his convertible. He burns the tires as he guns the Mustang Cobra and tears off down the street. When he took over the right hand lane, ignoring the yield sign, he didn't even hear the Civic's horn. Cliff cackles wildly into his hands-free headset. With his conveniently free hands he finishes the Power Bar, shoots back a sugar-free Red Bull, and manages to kick out two texts and an email. At a stop light Cliff works the calendar on his cell. His day looks like a TV Times grid with a wide variety of programs planned out to the minute. He has set up conference calls during walk-and-talks after boardroom round-tables on his way to coffee breaks. He has planned the sending of contract confirmations via mobile, the booking of Tee-times with big-wigs, and the balancing of a risky portfolio with a gambler's blind confidence. All day he has planned out the juggling of ‘Personal’ and ‘Professional’ as he switches back and forth between Cliff-the-Socialite and Cliff-the-Suit, leaving a trail of charm in his wake. Now he is stuck behind a guy asleep at the wheel. “Eddie, hold on a second, I'm surrounded by idiots,” he beats on the Mustang's horn, “some douchbag is totally lost in life, messing with my situation.” Cliff hits the sleep-driver with his horn until they are through the intersection, at which point he punches it and rips around the slow motion car leaving only inches to separate the two fenders. That half smile draws itself across Cliff's face as the wind plays with his hair. “Eddie, the Stang’r is listening to me today, she's pulling off the moves before I can even think them up,” he gently touches the dash of his Mustang Cobra. Cliff cranks the wheel and slips between a pair of cars as he cuts directly across two lanes. He dodges back into the centre lane. Speeds up on the left and cruises passed a line of cars. Breaks and steers back into the centre lane, then the right, and over to the left. Cliff is feeling good. He laughs with Eddie, hangs up, peruses his cell’s Contacts list, and begins trying to set up a lunch date with half of his 'little black book of ladies'. He lobs the phone into the passenger's seat and looks for a little more beat from the radio. Head down, BlueTooth in, speed up, cell in and out of his shifting hand, Cliff makes his way to the 'Cliff J. Henderson' parking stall in front of the glossy office building. Cliff tells himself he is the Man!


Jim hangs up the phone and looks at the clock. His doctor’s appointment has just been moved from 2 in the afternoon to 8:30 in the morning. It was just before 8, he was going to need to survive rush hour traffic. Jim hates driving. He hates being that little old man who can barely see over the steering wheel. He hates needing to wear sun shields because of his sensitive eyes. He hates that no one drives the speed limit. He hates that he hates that no one drives the speed limit. He hates the sound of the car horn. He hates that people tail gate him. He hates that he is always getting lost going to places he has driven to a thousand times. He hates that he has to schedule his doctor’s appointments at exactly the right time so he can avoid needing to survive rush hour. Jim hates that he is THAT little old man behind the wheel, with the white hair, the feather-foot, the goofy shades, the signal light that is always on... he hates this because he has spent all his life ragging on what he has now become. Jim pulls out of his garage, asks God for strength and support, and creeps out into the morning rush. The one thing Jim doesn't hate about driving is his 1967 Cadillac Coupe Deville. The champagne coloured Cady sails along like a ship on calm open waters. Jim loves to stretch out and melt into the big bench seat. On a summer afternoon he will take the Cady out in the country, drop all the windows, and casually adjust the wheel as he watched the scenery cruise by. The thought brought a smile to his face. Just then a copper blur steals his smile and leaps from his rear-view mirror to the Cady’s passenger window to the full frame of his windshield. Jim jumps to his break just in time to catch a horn from a car that cosies up tight to his rear bumper. The copper blur disappears from his windshield and cuts across 2 lanes of traffic before leap-frogging a half a dozen other vehicles. Jim takes a deep breath, mutters to himself about how much he hates the new Mustangs, and spends the rest of the drive covering the break and working on his white knuckle grip. The doctor would later remark that Jim seems worn down and advises him to avoid over exerting himself.


It is environmentally friendly, it is great exercise, it is a real chick-magnet; these are all assumptions people have made for the motivation Craig has to cycle into work every morning. The truth is Craig just likes to ride his bike. He was up with the sun, had a great breakfast, and as he straps his helmet on and completes his superhero outfit with a pair of shades Craig thinks to himself 'what other reason do I need, this is a beautiful day for a ride'. Craig tears down a dirt trail through a small forested oasis hiding within the city. The winding path is his favourite part of the voyage; it's a great start to his day. Craig bends his bike through the woods and lets his mind climb the trees, touch the grass, and feel the warmth of the sun. As the forest thins and fades away Craig is thrown into the sanitized chaos of the down town grid. Traffic. Craig shifts mind sets storing away the wild Adventurer and letting the Driver guide him the rest of the way. Now it is a commute, now Craig has deadlines, now he needs to be ready to execute the 9-to-5. The light turns yellow. He leans right to miss a runner that has stopped at the intersection and pushes the pedals. The yellow disappears. Craig feels the building of energy as the intersection pulls half the cars to a stop and loosens its grip on the rest of the vehicles. The red light pops on. A horn blasts, an engine roars, and out of the corner of Craig's eye a black fender breaks the start line. There is no time to do anything except flinch. Craig clears the intersection. He's instantly exhausted from the panic that poisoned his body. He rolls to a stop, puts the bike down, and walks and thinks and thinks and walks and shakes his head and feels angry and scared and relieved. Craig jumps back on the bike and slowly continues towards the desk. A block passes without incident. A second block moves by with ease. Craig slows his bike as he approaches his building. He flinches as a battering of coughs and cries charges at him from his right. A Craig sized dog leaps up and chases after the string of barks that has hit Craig in the face. The leash catches the massive monster less than a foot away from the frozen cyclist. Craig rolls to a stop, puts the bike down, and longs for the dirt trail.

She skips to track five, rolls the volume from 10 to 18, and hits the gas. Whitney has the day off and is heading for the highway. The Girls Weekend has been the only thing getting her through the past few days. The plan is her, Sarah, Meghan, Shopping, Spa, Manis, Pedis, dinner, drinks, and the Timberlake concert. She rolls the volume up to 21, opens the window, and joins Justin for the second verse. As Whitney sings out the window at bumper to bumper misery, she feels giddy; the city is trudging to work and she is on vacation! She changes lanes and pushes a motorcycle onto the shoulder. She hits the breaks and stops singing. “Where did he come from?! I didn't see him! I didn’t even see him!” Whitney shakes her head with heavy self-loathing as she tentatively waves at the motorcyclist. The bike pulls back into the lane and speeds up creating a nice space cushion. “Stupid Whit! Stupid, stupid Whitney! Jeez...” she starts breathing again and drops the volume to 10. Five minutes pass. She hangs up her cell having told first Sarah and then Meghan that she would be another 10 or 15. Justin is back to level 18 for track 7. Whitney is humming along. Her smile is back. Without consciously processing the sequence of events Whitney hits the breaks hard, leans on the horn, and jumps back on the gas chasing after the copper Mustang. The Mustang ignores her Civic’s cries of anger. She hits the horn again, but the copper convertible has deked out a half dozen cars and disappeared. “D!ck!!!” Five minutes pass. Whitney and Justin perform a duet. Five minutes pass. Whitney pulls up in front of Sarah's apartment, and Sarah tosses two suitcases, a purse, three pairs of shoes, and a duffle bag into the Civic's trunk. 'I need a vacation,' Whitney tells Sarah. The Civic pulls away with Justin at level 21.

A moving van makes a sharp cut to the left just in front of Kevin and reveals a cyclist creeping along in the right lane. “Dammit!” Kevin breaks hard. He checks his mirrors and sees a solid stream of cars in the left lane. "Stupid bike! Doesn't he know I'm here," Kevin throws on his signal light after a block of puttsing along behind the bicycle. "What is this idiot doing on the road? Dammit!" Kevin finally sees an opening. He moves into the left lane and races his van forward swearing inaudibly at the cyclist as he passes.

Shelly watches the motorcycle in her rear-view. 'How can anyone do it?' she thinks to herself. A light up ahead turns yellow and Shelly eases off the gas. She checks for the bike in the rear-view - the bike is gone and there is the grill of a moving van filling her mirror. "Oh my God!" Shelly checks her side mirrors and find the motorcycle trying to create some space for itself again. "Horrible," she whispers to herself.

The car is at a stop light. Kristin can't believe what he just said. "You have got to be kidding me!? You're going to bring that up again after what happened Monday night?!?!" Kristin isn't even trying to hold back anymore, she doesn’t care about anything other than yelling at him. Brett glares out the passenger window, so angry with her he can't even handle the look of her face anymore. "Bitch..." he mutters. "What!!!!!" Kristin stares at him, "You're such a f&-king child." Brett notices the driver next to him has dozed off, he wishes he could just doze off and disappear.

Kerry pulls his taxi out of a merge and enters downtown. His shift is almost over and the beaten up driver’s seat is wreaking havoc on his back. He rolls into a right turn at the next intersection and veers left midway through the turn dodging a large dog pulling it's owner through the cross walk.

Missy woke Ted and his wife up ten minutes before their alarm. Ted hates waking up before his alarm, especially when it is Missy's growling bark and high pitched whine that does it. Ted throws some clothes on, grabs the leash, stubs his toe on the kitchen table, and wakes up after a block and a half of the Energizer-Missy dragging him at full speed, nearly dislocating his shoulder. Ted can't believe how loud downtown is at 8 in the morning. He wishes he could hit the snooze on the entire street. He wishes he was back in bed. He returns to the apartment and lets Missy off the leash. "How was it?" his wife asks. "I have no idea," Ted groans, "I need a coffee before I can process this type of stuff."

After three days of cold rain, wind, and flash attacks of hail, Jack is eager to start up his bike again. On his motorcycle, Jack's commute to the office is ten minutes, but when the sun shines he finds a way to make the trip closer to half an hour. It's just a taste of The Ride, but the idea of being on his bike as the morning sun floods the streets is what pries him out of bed. Jack straps his helmet on, tightens his gloves, and lets the bike purr as it warms up. Since Jack becomes a part of the bike the moment it starts moving he doesn't want any surprises. He pulls out from the garage and assumes that every vehicle wants to finish him off. There's no radio, no cellphones, no chit-chat, no distractions. And Jack wouldn't have it any other way. There's no time for distractions when every turn, intersection, and lane change has the potential to bring him inches from being eliminated. He doesn't fear the ride into work, but Jack respects the situation; a situation that involves his tiny two-wheeled 370lbs bike surrounding by hulking tanks of metal. Jack moves down his suburban street and enjoys the peace of a quiet road. He sways with his bike feeling the tires pull him from right to left and back again as he dips the motorcycle. The street is still asleep; Jack is riding in his own private world. It only lasts for a few minutes before he sees the end of the neighbourhood composure. The first set of lights turn from green to yellow to red as Jack slows to a stop checking to see if he is going to get pushed into the next wave of cross traffic by the car behind him. He isn't, at least not this time. He scans the intersection and sees a girl wearing a tremendous amount of pink nearly get clipped by a bicycle. The bike sprints in front of a line of cars where a black BMW who is being challenged by a loud horn jumps forward and almost crush the bike. A block later Jack slowly moves along with traffic and sees that the bicycle is a dozen cars away in the right hand lane. Jack watches as cars dart out of the right lane to get around the cyclist. As he closes in on the bicycle a large moving van forces its way into the nice little space Jack had made for himself. Jack eases on the rear break and lets the van do its thing; the van would bounce Jack and his bike off the road without so much as a dent to the van’s frame, leaving a piled up mess of motorcycle, Jack, and asphalt... no sense trying to battle. The traffic gets thicker. Jack strays from his route and tracks down another maze of neighbourhood tranquility. Along with several well nurtured flower gardens and too many mail boxes made of cute, Jack notices that the suburban houses are starting to wake up. Before rejoining the morning traffic Jack sees a busy SUV on a collision course with a set of jogging headphones, the same headphones that the girl wearing all the pink had been listening to when she was almost flattened by a bicycle. He enters the rush again and crosses through two more intersections of volume. Jack decides to take another detour, but not before a dog walking its owner grabs enough slack in the leash to force Jack to use his escape. In his mirror Jack sees the dog challenge a taxi who decides not to paint his hood with it and instead backs off. 5 minutes later Jack finds himself at an intersection with the same black BMW that had almost run over the bicycle that had almost run over the headphones and the girl in pink. The driver is 'resting his eyes' at the red light. Next to the Beamer is a small car with way too much angry woman yelling at a ticking timebomb of a man. Minutes later Jack sees a little grey car moving up in the right lane behind him. The lady driving the car is fully committed to the song she is listening to. The car pulls up next to Jack. He looks over at her as she sways her head wildly from side to side. She adjusts her grip on the steering wheel. 'Wow, she has no idea I'm here,' Jack laughs to himself. And then she moves left and slides right in next to Jack. 'Yep, here she comes. Awesome!' Jack covers up his panic with sarcasm. Mirror, Shoulder Check, Scan the road ahead. Jack edges into the right side of the shoulder, opens the throttle, pulls ahead of the singing, dancing, head bobbing lady in the grey car, and starts moving as far away as possible from her unpredictability. Jack winds his way through the down town grid and leaves the crowds for yet another detour. He catches up to a fantastic Cadillac, and lets himself look at it for an extra few seconds. After moving passed it he keeps track of the Cady in his mirrors, watching it casually glide along. This is how he sees the copper Mustang burn up onto the Cadillac's rear bumper. Jack wants no part of copper Mustangs and their flamboyant lane changes. Jack speeds up and finds a nice quiet space. Seconds later the Mustang has zig-zagged out of sight. Jack takes the next exit back towards downtown, he’s had enough fun for one morning. He manages to avoid anymore detours, parks his bike, and finds his cubicle. He sits at his desk and takes a second for himself. He is not surprised by the misadventures of the people behind the wheel, but he does wonder if any of them realize how close to disaster they stand.

Everyday. This fun fiction is fact everyday...

Where the F*&k are We?!?!??!?!!!?

The following is more or less true, but there are unanswered questions everywhere...

I feel the bright sun on my face, it's nice. I casually open my eyes, it's no longer nice, at all. The brightest rays that have ever travelled to the surface of the Earth are colouring a strange room that is not my own. Interesting. I flash on a boutonniere being placed on my lapel, a chapel full of well dressed people, my buddy Cam standing facing his bride in white, a speech from his younger brother Andrew, dinner then dessert, one drink, a second drink, a dance floor full of smiles and loosened ties, another drink that is followed by many more. I close my eyes again, and smile. Awesome Night...

"Where the f*&k am I?!?!" floats towards me from another room. It's a good question. It's a good question that I start to think about. I move old-man slow and while sizing up the environment, I suit-up again.

I leave the room that isn't mine and find a hallway that also isn't mine with a bunch of other not-mine kind of rooms off of it. I get curious and I creep around a little. The place looks like the Normandy coast line after a dozen World War II movies have rolled through; there are bodies scattered all over the floor, piled up on beds, draped over chairs, with beer bottles littering the carpeted floor like bullet casings. I flash on a busy night club, a dozen bad pictures of Randoms posing, too many people in a small cab, laughing, crying, laughing and pointing, too many people in a small house, drinks, more drinks, more laughs, and then silence.

"Epic..." I whisper to myself, as I move from the second floor of the house to the first.

Byron is sitting on a couch trying to squeeze memories of last night out of his head. He looks terrible. The kind of terrible that you really have to work hard to get. Brian's standing beside the couch. A couch that I now realize is very small, very disheveled, and very much missing a cushion. Brian looks a little less terrible than Byron, but this is all incredibly relative, they both look like they need a car wash. I just assume that the two of them have spent the night in a cuddle fight on the couch. They both look up and become Deer to my head lights, hearing my thoughts which may or may not have been said out loud.

"Where the h*ll did you come from?!?!" Brian's whispering and yelling at the same time, it's fitting.

"The bed upstairs."

"What bed, you bed, a bed, there was bed?!?!" Brian's whisper-yell makes Byron squeeze for more memories.

"Technically I think it was a futon."

"Technically I slept on the floor, so can-it." Byron doesn't even bother whispering. I don't even bother not-laughing.

I continue my slow-moving passed a bottle depot next to what had been a pretty nice kitchen before a party had hosted itself there. I start opening cupboards until I find a glass that hadn't been invited to the party. As I get lost in how good the water tastes, I stare out the kitchen window at a Sunday outside the house that is far more beautiful than the Sunday I have woken up to inside. A nice old couple walk by. It looks like today is a great day to be a nice old couple walking by. Water was a great choice, I fill the glass again. Another nice old couple walk by. It looks like today is a great day to be a nice... What the- I've already had that whole 'nice old couple' thought. A third nice old couple walk by. I lean over the sink and scan the street. Small little homes, pristine manicured-lawns, silly little pruned hedges, flowers, gnomes, door mats, welcome signs. Odd, the left end of the street and the right end of the street look the exact same. In fact every house on the street is the same little white townhouse. It is a never ending maze of cute little houses, all lined up and orderly. A nice old couple walk by. Yep, we are in a gated community, and the place is crawling with nice old couples.

"Dudes, where the f*&k are we?!?!" I try out Brian's whisper-yell.

Byron and Brian slowly shake their heads, not terribly impressed.

"What are you doing over there? Let's get the f*&k out of here!!!" They both have their shoes on, and neither of them look very natural on their feet.

I power back the rest of my water, fill the glass, shoot the water again, and scamper out of the kitchen.

Brian opens the door and we pile out of the house that's not mine. We all grown, squint, throw our hands at the sun, and stumble down the front steps. The fresh air tastes funny. Byron says something about killing the chirping birds and then sleeping on a flower bed.

"What is this place?" Brian's confused by all the cloned homes.

"I think it's been mentioned before, but where the f*&k are we?" Byron laughs and then groans, and then Brian and I laugh, and cough, and groan, and laugh again. And then we are quiet.

"Man, I have no idea... Oh, wait a minute!" I pull out my cell. "Need to know where the f*&k you are? There's an App for that!" My thumbs fire up the iPhone's GPS. Byron, Brian, and I gather around my phone in the middle of the street.

A small blue crosshairs pops onto a map of Calgary and zooms in on our location. The three of us chime in at the same:

"OH SHIT!"

"We might as well be in freakin' Bragg Creek, actually I think if we head that way we can make it there by lunch," I chuckle, but an old couple on the customary morning walk doesn't appreciate Byron's loud sense of humor.

"Okay, okay, last thing first, I see a Sev on the other side of that gate, I vote Gatorades," Brian's on the move again.

"Gatoraaaaaaaaaade!" The three of us charge forward.

We leave the gated community, buy Gatorades with money Brian borrowed from the house that wasn't mine, his, or Byron's, pull out the iPhone again, and head South. I flash on Derek Jeter drinking Gatorade, Usain Bolt drinking Gatorade, Dwayne Wade, Mia Hamm, Payton Manning, Misty May-Treanor, Michael Jordan drinking Gatorade and flying through the air. I flash on Jack, Byron, and Brian wearing suits, ties, and disheveled hair, buying Gatorade. Classic.

We down the electrolytes and sugar and start with the questions...

Brian: Who's house was that?

Byron: How'd we get there?

Jack: Who thought Bragg Creek was a good idea?

Byron: Why did we go to cowboys?

Brian: Did I buy and consume Street-Meat at any point last night?

Jack: Where's Jason and Andrew?

Brian: How did we lose 9 people?

Jack: Wasn't someone suppose to look after us?

Byron to Jack: Why is your shirt tucked in and your jacket buttoned up?

Brian to Jack: Yeah and why is your tie done up?

Byron to Brian: Is he still wearing his boutonniere?

Brian: Did we go to Humpty's last night?

Byron: Why did we go to Humpty's last night?

Jack: Did we meet another Jack at Humpty's that wasn't me?

Byron: Where is all my money, did I tip anyone other than the waitress?

Brian: Why did I order spicy food at Humpty's?

Jack to Byron: Who was that you were making out with at Cowboys?

Byron: Did any of those girls last night, at any time, have names?

Jack to Brian: Why was I your wing man if you were only going to hit on ugly people?

Brian: Are we still headed south?

Jack: Does anyone want to do that again tonight?

Byron to himself: What does my mouth taste like?

Byron: Whose sock is this in my pocket?

Brian: Did I say anything mean to you guys last night?

Jack: Where did Mike, Craig, and those other 3 people go?

Brian: Was I in a shower sometime last night?

Brian: Or did I go swimming in a pool, or a small river or something?

Byron to his feet: Do we have a plan that doesn't involve this?

Jack: I wonder if there's an App for 'I'm walking on the side of the road and want to be in my own bed'?

Brian: What are the chances that we all get murdered if we hitchhike?

Jack to Brian: Has this ever happened to you before?

Jack to Byron: You?

Jack: Did we kill that night or what?

No one has any answers just more questions: the more you don't know, the more you know you don't know you know...

I call my brother and give him a few highlights. We make plans to watch the preview for the movie 'the Hangover' later. I give him an intersection that Byron, Brian, and I are standing at, and I describe my surroundings (a tree, a yield sign, a small grassy hill). Dressed in suits, the three of us stand next to a road in the deep South-West of Calgary on a Sunday morning. It's surprisingly peaceful. I let my mind wander.

Cam is married. My buddy Cam, who I've known for twenty plus years, is a married man. It's amazing. How and when did this happen? We literally played in Sand Boxes together. I flash on Cam and I mapping out Trick-or-Treating routes, throwing snowballs at girls, busing-it to school, playing hockey on team after team, going to New Year's Eve parties, battling the elements camping, loving life in Mexico, ganging up on little kids at Laser Quest, ranting about movies, cheering at Flames games, skiing Louise, Sunshine, Nakiska, surviving late night LRT adventures, discussing big decisions, laughing through little decisions, figuring out the world. You don't come across friends like this too often. Congrats Cam. My mind wanders a little further, 'How does one know when he is ready to get married?' Finally an answer I know:

He no longer spends his Sunday mornings on the side of the road in yesterday's suit wearing a big, huge smile...

Fantastic Night!