the Saturday Night Out

It’s sort of like girls discovering the Urinal; the concept of the strange half toilet suspended on the wall is brought up and we, the Boy, are baffled that she, the Girl, doesn’t know about this magically appropriate situation. It’s not that we don’t understand how a girl wouldn’t be familiar with this washroom accessory, we get that a girl can’t pee standing up. The wonder and disbelief of the Urinal conversation is that we haven’t considered the unintentional secrecy of the Urinal. This brings me to the end of my metaphor. It should be noted that I find metaphors to be excessive and condescending for the most part. I love a good ‘tangent’ or ‘sub-plot’, but too often metaphors are a whole lot of song and dance used with the sole purpose of making the metaphor-master seem clever and witty and deep. Unless of course it is a toilet-metaphor, which there are all together too few of. So swap ‘girl’ for ‘adult’, replace ‘boy’ with ‘youth’, toss in the odd adjective battle like ‘responsible vs reckless’, ‘tame vs spontaneous’, and allow the ‘mystery of the Urinal’ to be the ‘unknown of the Saturday Night Out’.

I was asked what happens between the hours of Saturday Evening and that time after Saturday Night but before Sunday Morning. I’ll tell you what happens: Lessons are Learned. Sometimes these are profound discoveries like your ability to convince a large bartender that even though you are dressed up as a pirate you truly were looking for the washroom as you ran through the kitchen and not, as he so forcefully tries to make you believe, ‘causing trouble slash mischief’; sometimes they are survival skills such as don’t make eye-contact with that silent, pedophile-looking guy on the train, he is not your friend, even if he has candy; and on occasion they are life altering lessons that force you to re-evaluate your purpose and question your very existence; these are the open-bar Weddings… all of them. Most recently though, my brother and I added a few new gems to our Rule Book of Fun which highlight the shenanigans that are bound to happen when you leave your house on a Saturday Night.


I didn’t actually find brother-Neil until about 9:30. His story involves ‘Girls Hockey’, ‘Slow Service at Restaurants’, and ‘Not Enough Drinks’. (As an aside for those not familiar with the terminology: ‘Girls Hockey’ is much like ‘Hockey’, or ‘Normal Hockey’, but with a variety of strange alterations to the sport – no hitting, a female version of the Jock which may or may not be call the Jill, and very low scoring, sometimes no scoring at all, for several games - and girls play this the same way that boys and men play Normal Hockey). My story starts by missing a ride that was never offered to me until it was too late. There were tears, fingers were pointed, enemies, friends-off, and then on, and then off again, all kinds of new promises were made and a bunch of ‘I’m sorrys’ were tossed around, all of which have now been stuffed in a sac. I took the train. Someone once told me that taking the train by yourself is very Zen, an excellent opportunity to reflect on your life and quietly take a break from the fast pace of society. This person was an idiot. Taking the train by yourself is creepy and weird and terrible. So I was more than happy to distract myself from the 'character' of the Calgary LRT by responding to a text from friend-Will asking me where I was. ‘Training it down town to Melrose. Are you guys still heading to Amsterdam Rhino tonight?’ I had barely sent the text when my phone started to cry out with its Crank Ringtone that makes it sound like the cell is dying; it’s a fan favourite, it turns heads. It is Will.

“Where on the train are you?” This is a level of creepy that I don’t expect to find on the train even when the pedophile-looking guy is having a staring contest with my youthful visage.

I do that thing that people do on TV when they think they are being watched, before dramatically asking Will if he can see me. Turns out that I am on the same train as Will and his droogs, but I’m two cars back. The train stops at the next station, I dart on to the platform, race passed the opened doors, dodge the crowds that hate the train as much as I do, and slip into the first car as the doors are closing (I assure you, it was a cool move, very athletic/super-spy). We talk about the things that we talk about, laugh and cackle at good stories, and then get into the abstract art of Saturday Night Planning where times are vague, locations are fluid, and nothing is ever certain. My stop comes; I almost miss it because I’m telling a story that involves re-enactments, hand gestures, impersonations and what-not. I try to appease they’re protests of me ‘bailing’ with a promise that I will catch up with Will and the droogs later. They don’t believe me, pretend to be mad, and forget that there was ever a problem before the train has pulled away. My current mission is a birthday.


I walk down 17th avenue, which takes about 15 minutes and reinforces 2 of my already favourite Rules: 1) it’s Calgary, wear a jacket, 2) if people look ‘strange and scary’ it’s cause they are, avoid them, always. Melrose is packed but it’s a good packed, it’s full of beautiful people drinking fabulous drinks while either pretending to be interested in what someone is saying while watching sports, or pretending to be interested in sports while watching what the beautiful people are saying. If you’re not pretending, you’re not trying hard enough. The birthday boy is working on the Trinity of Drunk: Not-Puking, Not-Falling, Not-Falling-in-Puke. So I buy him a drink. I mingle, I socialize, I pretend to be interested in a few people while watching people pretending to be interested in sports. I find my sister about the same time Neil arrives from his Girls-Hockey-Dinner-Out extravaganza. We spend more time together chatting at the bar than we have all week… we live together… it’s funny, kind of sad, and special all at the same time… a few people make the ‘awwwwww’ sound towards us. 10 o’clock rolls around, the birthday boy has already disappeared twice, and I have ordered myself a second pint. Neil and I discuss something that would later force us to create an important rule; we plan to leave Melrose and find Will and his droogs at Amsterdam Rhino. We don’t know it yet, but this is all kinds of bad-plan.
























Neil and I walk six blocks off the High of people not wanting us to leave Melrose. We locate Rhino. I think I’m being funny by saying ‘Is it the place with the massive line-up? Haha hahaha ha ha haha’. Although the line-up isn’t more than ten feet passed the door we know we are in trouble. Line-ups are bad. Line-ups are like the night club equivalent of that progress-bar at the bottom of your internet page; sure the ‘progress’ looks good, but that last millimeter of unfinished download is going to eat away at your soul… this of course only ever happens when you are on your laptop in the stall of a public washroom… there, it’s okay, it’s a Toilet-Metaphor, it works. Stupid metaphors, now they’re showing up in my writing. Neil and I are optimistic, it’s 10:40ish (all times during a Saturday Night Out involve the ‘ish’ quality) and we’re ready to Combo-Up the night with our second ‘event’. Combo-Ups; More bad ideas.

Our fatal flaw is obvious. And if you are at all familiar with the ways of the Night Life you will know that we were doomed from the start. We, Neil and I, have no boobs. And no-boobs, is not even close to the number of boobs one needs to get into a ‘Hot Spot’ after 10pm on a Saturday. So keeping in mind the lack of boobage that Neil and I are trying to work with, we came up with two new favourites: 1) Where ever you are at 10pm on a Saturday Night Out is a good place to stay, and 2) Don’t be greedy, don’t try to Combo-Up on a Saturday Night Out.
























We waited in line. We waited in line for a long time. Here’s the thing about ‘Waiting’, and it’s not just for Line-Waiting, it’s for all kinds of waiting, no one will ever compliment, reward, or compensate you for ‘Good Waiting’. Neil and I waited the hell out of that Line-up. We didn’t push-or-shove, we didn’t heckle randoms, we didn’t throw things, or pee on walls, we just stood in line, shot shit with other Line-Waiters, and dreamed of a time when we could be inside the bar and not outside the bar. No rewards.













When you stand in line for as long as Neil and I did you see things and learn things that you just can’t get your hands on anywhere else. For example: a twenty-something aspiring Darwin-Award winner hanging out of the window of a neighboring pub with a beer asking if he could join us in the line. It should be noted that a bouncer almost killed this individual. Another tid-bit of knowledge that I can share: Don’t be tall. In a line-up being tall is a bad thing, especially when happy drunk people start to sober up and add frustration and rowdiness to their toolbox of stupid. For some reason I was surrounded by short people who kept taunting cops and yelling at crazy-eyed bouncers and hating on brown people. Inevitably when the cops shone their flash lights, the bouncer enthusiastically geared up for a pummeling, and the non-white anyones looked to start stabbing, I was the lightening rod that everyone was drawn to. This is how good people, who want nothing but happiness, love, rainbows, and butterflies get there situation all screwed up. Don’t be tall.

Other guidelines to follow:

1) Bouncers hate their job, the world, and anyone who tries to convince them that someone should be let in. Don’t joke with them, smile near them, or look in their direction. In fact don’t look at them ever, ever, ever, ever… ever, Ever. (There are exceptions to this rule, but the consequence of misinterpreting an ‘exception’ and engaging with one of these physical beasts is a one-way ticket to Pain-Oh-the-Pain-I-hate-my-life-kind-of-PAIN.)

2) Only make fun of a girl if you are flirting with her, or if you want to compete with the Pain-Oh-the-Pain-I-hate-my-life-kind-of-PAIN option. Definitely don’t call them Fat, Drunk, Trashy, Whorish, or Fat – I wanted to emphasize that one.

3) If you fart blame it on the Line-Jackass (he who breaks all the Line Waiting Rules), no one will question this, they hate him as much as the train and the being-outside-a-club.

4) If you ‘Budge’, ‘Bud’, ‘Cut’, or are sneaky in anyway AND get caught, your Facebook Statues will read: Fucked! ‘So-and-so is Fucked!’ Or ‘So-and-so is totally Fucked!’ I’m not saying don’t, I’m just saying it’s a little more dangerous than steal home plate.

5) If you are with girls, stay with them. They are your Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Golden Ticket into anywhere and everywhere. If you are girl-less, find some girls, befriend them, and let their powers/boob-count get you in the club. Don’t be picky here, we’re not talking Marriage, or Relationships, or even bad-dance-floor decisions, this is all business so man up and cozy up to a Swamp Donkey if you have to.

6) Road Pops are good. Again you can’t be Mad Men about it and advertise your beverage, because not only will the Bouncers smile at you about the chance to unleash the ass-kicking they have been bottling up all night, but The Beverage is the most valuable thing in a Line-up Wait, aside from boobs of course.

Actually, I have polled the audience in several line-ups about the idea of selling drinks to the Line and the average outside-the-bar person would be willing to spend anywhere from $7 to $10 for a beer. I’m just the idiot who stood in line for an hour and a half to get into a dying party in an okay club for two drinks where a 6 tried what I can only assume was a sub-par pick-up attempt on me, but I think there is some serious un-tapped revenue waiting to be had by the first bar to liquor license a 10 foot line-shaped area just outside their door. Who knows though, I just stand in the line. I did feel bad about the 6. She gave it a go, and came at me with all kinds of confidence, and I really only rewarded her efforts with some pleasant convo and a little wit à-la-Jack. It should be noted that most people are not in the market for ‘pleasant convo’ and ‘wit’ when they are at a Night Club. They want something else, a ‘something else’ that is usually ‘ass’ related, or involves the verb ‘grind’, or ends with ‘digits’, ‘a bad decision’, and/or ‘regrets’.

Neil and I were 5 minutes from leaving the front of the line and going home. We had spent the last hour figuring that we were only 5 minutes from getting in. Queue the internet progress-bar and all the side-order of hate that comes with it. We couldn’t decide if a story that involved ‘waiting in line for 2 hours’ or one that ended with ‘…and even though we were at the front of the line, we left’ was more depressing. 3 and a half minutes later we were showing our IDs to a Bouncer we wouldn’t dream of making eye-contact with, and giving the rest of the line that ‘yeah, that’s right, we’re getting in’ stare.






We left Amsterdam Rhino forty minutes later, so that we could catch the last southbound train, and avoid the pricy disaster that is a Calgary Cab ride from down town to the So Cal Suburbs. We agreed that our precious Rhino 40 was well worth the wait; not because of the attention deficit DJ and his 20-30 second samplings that messed with your mind, or the over-priced domestic bottles, or the serious lack of CW-style beauty, or even the escape from the cold. The Rhino 40 was great because of the drunk middle aged man in a dress who slapped my ass not once but twice, and because of the glorious game that one of the droogs poured on a dance-floor hottie who had a boyfriend who couldn’t stop her from giving the droog her number, and because of the group of guys who thought they should dance shirtless on a stage (they shouldn’t and couldn’t, but did), and because it meant that Neil and I had defeated the Line, made the Combo-Up happen, and found our friends in time to be considered ‘Hard-Core’, ‘Committed’, ‘Troopers’, and many other badass titles that you can only really earn on a Saturday Night Out. When we left, nothing had changed with the outside-the-Bar scene; it was still Bouncers vs Line-Waiters vs the Chaos of the Uncertainties of the Night. Walking out it, and knowing that it was all a disaster that I no longer had to deal with… beautiful sight. But oddly enough, I already kind of missed that mess.






























We trained it south, and with each stop a few more late night characters faded into their own tired darkness. Our stop came. Neil and I saluted Will and the droogs and committed to more future-mayhem. We walked home recapping the night’s highlight real and talked about what we had learned today. If you’re good, these Lessons and Rules become part of your subconscious, and you dominate the Saturday Night Out. If you’re bad, you are bound to litter your Saturday Night with cruel experiences of vomitous, the beat-down, tears and fears, encounters with Crazies, and a whole allotment of still to be discovered trouble. It's the uncertainty of the spontaneous that makes up more than half the adventure, and that is why I am always more than happy to wander out into the night with nothing more than a hunger for the unknown that lies between the hours of Saturday Evening and that time after Saturday Night but before Sunday Morning. And between the 'Good' and the 'Bad', I am definitely a Lesson Learner.


... and this past Saturday that was what I learned. What have you learned today?

Special thanks to the iPhone for it's conviently blurry action shots of Will, the droogs, brother-Neil, the sister, the birthday boy, and your Hero/Super-Spy...

Tarantino and his Basterds

Lt. Aldo Raine: Each and every man under my command owes me one hundred Nazi scalps... and I want my scalps!

It’s Friday Night, the late show has reeled over with ovations, and you haven’t watched the new QT flicker. That’s just not right. You and I both are very disappointed in you; the Basterds aren’t going to watch themselves. Tarantino has had a hand in creating some of the best movies in the last fifteen years, but that might be too bold a claim to convince you that crawling through the crowds on opening night was a Must. The true guarantee is in Mr. Band-Apart’s ability to deliver cinematic riches through the good and the bad of his tall tales. Maybe Jackie Brown wasn’t the follow up to the Pulp that your anticipation had prepared you for, but it would be a full time challenge for even the heavy haters to label the film a total waste; we got to meet Sammy J’s Ordell Robbie, “AK-47. The very best there is. When you absolutely, positively got to kill every motherf&*ker in the room, accept no substitutes.” Perhaps Part 1 of the Bride was too much action-samurai and ketchup gore for your inner dialogue-junkie. Perhaps then, it was Part 2’s quotable casual rhymes that made Killing Bill an ’03-’04 movie magic memory. But perhaps still, the Tarantino double header was exactly what your Uma Sword-Swinging, Madsen Mad-Mouth heart desired. Budd: “That gentled ya down some. Ain't nobody a badass with a double dose of rock salt that deep in their tits. Not havin tits as fine or big as yours, I can't even imagine how bad that shit must sting... yet I don't want to, neither.” (the Bride spits blood into Budd's face. He wipes it away and returns the favor with a long, foul stream of tobacco juice) Budd: “I win.” Was Natural Born Killers too deep a look into the dark recesses of QT’s mind? Was his penmanship on True Romance too true for your romantic? Did you part ways with from Dusk ‘Till Dawn when the sun went down? Yes, yes, no. No, no, absolutely. Y-E-S across the board. The answers are irrelevant because even if it’s not the masterpiece that his Reservoir Dogs were, every one of his written, produced, directed films has genius working for it. And Inglourious Basterds is no different. With the grit of the Dogs, the destruction of Death Proof, Kill Bill’s revenge, Jackie B’s collection of character, and the style and swagger of the Pulp, Quentin Tarantino’s 6th gift directed towards our big screens is exactly what the QT Club needed; a taste of his Old, enough that is New, his patented Borrowed, and triumph for the Jew.

The following are not reasons to see the movie opening night, you screwed that up already, these are the montage segments that after-shocked me into knowing a second vidé of the Basterds was in my future.

Brad Pitt – As Lt. Aldo Raine Pitt is both charming and hilarious while offering all who cross his path a hypnotic southern magnetism followed by some clever violence. It takes only a few short scenes before Pitt’s mere presence on the screen draws out a chuckle, a charge, and a cheer from the audience / Basterds-in-Training. Plus he’s sporting a strong swagger to go with that badass mustache.

Lt. Aldo Raine: You probably heard we ain't in the prisoner-takin' business; we in the killin' Nazi business. And cousin, Business is a-boomin'.

the Bear Jew – The simple fact that these Basterds have managed to develop a reputation worthy of such titles as ‘the Bear Jew’, is enough credibility in my books. Known to the Germans for wielding his blood spattered baseball bat in the direction of Nazi skulls, Sgt. Donny Donowitz brings a special brand of crazy to the band. It could be his post ‘at bat’ commentary, or his unique ability to provide a touch of entertainment for his fellow brothers, it could be his unwavering love of those special moments between ‘healthy captured Nazi’, and ‘f&@ked up pile of mess’, or it could be all of the above that make the Bear Jew a first team all-star Basterd. And who better to animate this instant Tarantino classic than the master of Gorror Films himself, the sick and twisted Eli Roth (director of such elegant carve-up Horror flicks as the ‘Hostel’ outings and 'Cabin Fever').

Lt. Aldo Raine: I need to know about Germans hiding in trees. And you need to tell me right now.
Sgt. Werner Rachtman: I respectfully refuse, sir.
Lt. Aldo Raine: Actually, Werner, we're all tickled to hear you say that. Quite frankly, watching Donny beat Nazi's to death is the closest we ever get to going to the movies.
[shouts offscren]
Lt. Aldo Raine: Donny!
Sgt. Donny Donowitz: [from offscreen] Yeah?
Lt. Aldo Raine: Got us a German here wants to die for country. Oblige him.

Col. Hans Landa – Those sneaky Germans have been hiding Christopher Waltz. Buried deep within local Mini Series and trapped in the bodies of tertiary TV characters, the mastermind behind Col. Landa was a surprise inside a secret (the surprise: Christopher Waltz is a Trophy caliber actor, the secret: Landa is the star of this film). Like the ‘Jew Hunter’ that Waltz danced across the movie as, Tarantino hunted down this veiled talent and added another treasured personality to his long list of Mr. Pinks, Stuntman Mikes, and ‘the Man from Hollywood’s’ Chester (who I have a sneaking suspicion is Tarantino himself, played perfectly by Tarantino himself). Col. Hans Landa battles and wins every scene he’s in and doesn’t waste a word as he works his mesmerizing hypnotics.

Col. Hans Landa: What a tremendously hostile world that a rat must endure. Yet not only does he survive, he thrives. Because our little foe has an instinct for survival and preservation second to none... And that Monsieur is what a Jew shares with a rat.

the jagged, rusty Edge of Classic Tarantino – From the rich and vivid characters that wander around the film, to the teasing Chapter titles that divie up the movie, to the gor-tastic violence that flirts with the amusing idea of Unnecessary, Quentin smears the screen with a new twist on his unique brand of Awesome. It’s QT’s take on the War Film, and along with the brainy dialogue, mild to extreme flavors of ‘offensive’, and energized ridiculousness that true fans of his work have come to need, there’s a great patients to his telling of the crisscrossing tales that draws you in with a new curiosity. Plus there’s scalping, which I’m surprised Quentin Tarantino hasn’t worked into any of his previous cinematic quests.

[Maj. Hellstrom aims his Walther at Lt. Hicox's genitals under a table]
Major Dieter Hellstrom: That was the sound of my Walther pointed right at your testicles.
Lt. Archie Hicox: Why is your Walther pointed right at my testicles?
Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz: Because you are no more German than that Scotch.
[Lt. Hicox quietly aims his gun]
Lt. Archie Hicox: That makes two of us.
[Sgt. Stiglitz comes up behind Maj. Hellstrom and aggressively forces his gun into Maj. Hellstrom's crotch]
Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz: That makes three of us.

Hitler, the SS, and killing ‘Natzees’ – How can the suits allow QT to let his Basterds run rampant all over the big screen? You fill the opposition’s roster with a bunch of Nazi Pons, give them SS loaded special teams, and toss Adolf behind the bench. There’s no wavering, no one is questioning the actions of these lunatic Basterds, and the complaint boxes are empty. Nazis are getting invited to the big hurt and it’s a smile. The bottom line is, we are not confused about who we, as an audience, are rooting for. Nazis are bad, Basterds are killing them, we the spectator are happy.

Adolf Hitler: [slamming his hand on a table] Nein nein nein nein nein nein!

Strong QT Soundtrack – No one does movie music like this guy. Tarantino allowed for the soundtrack to distract from the film, which distracted from the actors, which distracted from the cinematography, which distracted from the story, which distracted from the soundtrack, which left the entire experience continually challenging itself to be better. Movie capitalism at its very best. From German show-tunes, to secrets from his dusty record collection, to carefully composed journeys that compared the honor of war with the heroics of the Western, every track that Tarantino laid across his footage gave power to the film. Only Quentin Tarantino is able to release Soundtracks so good that labels make compilations of his OSTs (the Tarantino Connection is without a doubt the greatest Soundtrack of Soundtracks… or the only Soundtrack of Soundtracks… either way, it’s worth a listen).










the Basterds – It’s who you came to see and they’re as Inglourious as you could hope for. It’s an all-star team of soldiers with a deep bond that unites them like a family. Sure they may be a family of American-Jews highly skilled in the art of killing the Nazi, but every family has their own little quirks. Your average Basterd isn’t much of a talker, but instead emits a persona that is equal parts ‘Unstable’, ‘Bat-Shit Crazy’, and ‘Lovable’. You want to be their friends, but at the same time you’re afraid they might use your body as a back-country snowboard. These guys are why they make sequels.

Lt. Aldo Raine: [the Basterds are breaking Sgt. Stiglitz out of jail] Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz?
[Sgt. Stiglitz nods]
Lt. Aldo Raine: Lt. Aldo Raine. These are the Basterds, ever heard of us? [Sgt. Stiglitz nods]
Lt. Aldo Raine: We just wanted to say we're a big fan of your work. When it comes to killing Nazis...
Nazi Guard: Uggghhhhaahhh
[one of the Basterds shoots him]
Lt. Aldo Raine: -I think you show great talent. And I pride myself on having an eye for that kind of talent. Your status as a Nazi killer is... still amateur. We all come here to see if you wanna go pro...










an Auditorium full of Tarantino Fanatics – Friday night, 7pm, only hours after the first projector has warmed up, there is no way any seat is being occupied by a non-fan. No one is wandering in mispronouncing Tarantino or wondering why there are only 3 scattered seats available with a half hour ‘till curtains up. This is a quality sell out. The air is charged with an energy fueled by everything from the first Basterd teaser poster to the ten second radio clip that has nearly caused accidents. And by the time the masses have reached the cinema door start-gate, the excitement has grown into a mild frenzy. Quotes from the trailer are floating around the packed house, people are watching their favourite Mr. Blonde scene on iPhones, last minute production rumors are being discussed as everyone crams for the main event. This is the audience you were meant to watch the film with. This is the audience that will back you up when you laugh at the sick sadistic line that never should have made it passed the censors. This is the audience that will cheer when the Bear Jew takes his first swing. This is the audience that will kick out new classic quotes before the end credits have even stopped rolling. You know this is the audience that QT made his movie for. They can provide the mid-movie comment that adds to the scene, they will start the applause during the fade-to-black, they certainly appreciate those secret details that only the trained Tarantino follower can spot. It’s these fanatics that bring the movie to the next level, allowing it to penetrate through the screen. And it’s these fanatics that have been suffering through the release date countdown long enough, so jazzed for the opening credits that they can’t plan for life again until after the Friday reveal. These people take their watching as seriously as QT takes his making.

the Bad
- It’s only 2 and a half hours… I wanted more, so much more!
- With such Nazi-killing success, there will be no Part 2 for the Basterds... did somebody say Prequel though...
- It will now be cliché to carve swastikas into the foreheads of captured Nazi’s













‘Mixed Reviews’, ‘Box Office Numbers’, ‘Word of Mouth’, these are all fancy little categories that can sidetrack you from truly absorbing all the Basterds’ goodness. It breaks down like this: you should watch it, you should Big-Screen-it, and if you’re able to research it then you can unlock it, but that doesn’t matter because whether you catch it at the Theatre or not, you can be damn sure that QT will load up a Blu-Ray full of action-packed issues. The bottom line is, I loved it, and now you don’t need to read anymore reviews.

















A Few Extras…

Marcel: What are we talking about?
Shosanna Dreyfus: Filling the cinema with Nazis and burning it to the ground.
Marcel: I'm not talking about that. You're talking about that.

Sgt. Donny Donowitz: We punch those goons out, take their machine guns, and burst in there blasting!

Col. Hans Landa: [to a bound and blindfolded Lt. Aldo] You are now in the hands of the SS.
[raises hands in a dramatic manner]
Col. Hans Landa: My hands, to be exact.

Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz: Say "auf Widersehen" to your Nazi balls!

Find your Day-Off

In 1994 I was borderline illiterate and I had a mullet. Sure OJ was on trail for murder but I was lost somewhere in Grade 4 and in need of some serious guidance. I had Nirvana cranked up, was quoting the Simpsons, and could wear baggy jeans with the best of them, but I was far from all-there.

It was a Monday morning, and I was up early trying to throw together something that seemed closer to a weekend’s worth of completed homework rather than the ten minute once-over that I had left myself with. I was heading to school as a Jack version of Zack Morris, ready to be Saved by the Bell at Andrew Davidson Elementary. But I didn’t get far. There was no bagged lunch, no school bus, and no kiss good-bye from Mom. In fact there was no school. How could a Day-Off sneak up on a ten year old? What was wrong with me?! It's one thing to butcher the English language while bright red in front of a class of jackass nose-pickers, it's even understandable to sport a little party-in-the-back-business-in-the-front from time to time (don’t judge me, I looked bonafide badass), but to show that kind of misplaced scholastic ambition at the age of 10… to try to go to school on a Day-Off... Intervention time my friends, hard core, unapologetic, tears and hurt feelings kind of intervention. And that was it, a Monday morning in the year of Tarantino’s Pulp and Sony’s PlayStation, I vowed to clean up my life and evaluate my priorities.

In 2009 I was heavily overweight and I had a skullet - kidding, I was Awesome. I had just bought tickets to the Kings of Leon Concert, I owned a 1983 Cutlass Supreme, and I knew that I was 521 hours away from the next Statutory Holiday. Priorities were as they should be; Days-Off were never a surprise. If you have been anywhere near a desk, have to lift heavy objects, 'deal' with customers, are familiar with the terms 'task force' or 'efficiency', need to answer the phone by announcing who you are, 'punch-in' or 'punch out', only get lunch during a 'break', use anything remotely close to an agenda, clean things, file papers, or document stuff, get dirt under your finger nails, use a computer for non-porn related internet searches, commute, do research, or hold conference calls that are not associated with a prank of some sort, you can sense when a Day-Off is near. The sub-conscious priority break down is usually something close to:

1) Wedding Anniversary
2) Last Possible Day to File Taxes
3) Expiry Date on Condoms
4) Next Day-Off

Now, when weekdays blend into each other and create a sad Office Space style montage of cubicles, coffee mugs, and jammed-up photocopiers, set to some annoying Top-40s peace of garbage song that gets played 3 to 7 times a day on your office neighbor’s crackly radio, you are well aware of the next day when you don't have to have anything to do with that circus act. Days-Off don’t sneak up on me any more. The Day-Off is priority, the Day-Off is planned for, the Day-Off is not mistaken for just another piece of the puzzle; there are no puzzles on Days-Off, Days-Off are a puzzle-free zone!

So when I wandered down the sidewalk with nothing more than the goggles around my neck as an accessory to the boardshorts I wore, I knew exactly what I was doing. This simple idea had found its way into my head a few days before. I had been doing my best to get from the pillow to the desk, but was getting bogged down by the extra features. Getting to work was not an easy process. There was a lunch that needed making, hair that had to be carefully tussled, I required just the right EngiNerd costume, and those were just a few of the big ticket items. What really triggered this new scheme of mine was the complexity of the simple trip; all the things that I Needed in order to survive the office place. It wasn’t just the awkward balancing of the bags I was hauling along like a Sherpa, it was the mental checklist that I had to confirm, verify, and make sure of before embarking on the voyage (which was an 8 minute drive through a low traffic area). It was cumbersome, tiring, and excessive. What if I didn’t need the prep? What if instead of three bags there were none? What if it was just me and that’s all I needed? These were the thoughts I was having as I carted myself and all my work stuff from the car to the office. What if I was just Free?

It’s the simplicity that is so liberating. I get out of bed, put on the boardshorts, pocket my Lake Card and earplugs, pull a pair of goggles over my head, and I walk out the door. That’s it. It’s beautiful. It’s just me and the Day-Off.

I’m not some swimming fanatic and I think that’s what I liked so much about the idea. A Day-Off needs to be a change from the usual routine, otherwise it gets lost in all the ‘Common’ and ‘Normal’ of that Work-Sleep-Work-Sleep habit. I’m also not a lunatic, so doing something a little nuts is refreshing.

The activity breaks down like this:
1) Walk to the Lake
2) Swim to the Island
3) Lie in the Sun
4) Swim back to the Beach
5) Walk Home
6) Have a nice warm Shower

Where the Greatness of the event shines through is in everything that doesn’t fit in the above list. ‘Everything’ like walking barefoot and feeling the warmth of the sidewalk, the moisture hiding in the grass, the softness of the sand. ‘Everything’ like swimming away from the beach without worry for all the Stuff that you didn’t have to leave behind. ‘Everything’ like participating in life without a locker’s worth of equipment or some loud, heavy machine or any number of other Things that separate you from what you are doing. ‘Everything’ like feeling the sun warm your skin while you lie on the dock. ‘Everything’ like the calming sound of the churning water that is both noise and silence at the same time. ‘Everything’ like walking in the middle of the surrounding Summer without the distractions of a cell phone, iPod, or giant To-Do list. ‘Everything’ like being in no rush. ‘Everything’ like letting your mind wander. ‘Everything’ like really feeling the Day-Off. ‘Everything’ like the Freedom of it. And wow was that warm shower ever worth the ice cold shock of the freezing lake water.

I’ve gone again two or three times since the trial run, and every crazy swimming episode is as good as the last. It’s become my new favorite Day-Off activity, and at this point I can’t decide what I like more, the actual event, or the bewildered reaction people offer up when they hear about my little adventures. For me it’s being able to go swimming without any help from my fleet of gadgets or support from my usual survival crutches (car, sunglasses, freakin’ shoes), but it really has nothing to do with the swimming. It’s all about the Freedom. It’s all about the Freedom, the Peace of Mind, and the Simplicity that is hiding from the day-to-day slog. Sometimes I need a reminder that the good stuff doesn’t need to be structured with rules, or scheduled out, or accessorized, or rushed. That sometimes a Day-Off doesn’t need to be jam packed with a bunch of catch-up chores and race-around errands. That sometimes you need to strip all the excess away to find out what you have been missing. That sometimes a little bit of crazy is just what you need.

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!