Meatballs and Alfredo's Sauce

I'm not sure if this counts as an improvement over last week, but I just barely survived a third workout and am now staring down a bowl of brussels sprouts. Dinner time again. And the most exciting part of my day was finding out that there's an 's' in brussels (rather, a third one) (thanks spellcheck, and google). I was wondering why my fridge had such an odeur nauséabonde, until I realized that I'd cooked them the other night and put them in the freezer with no lid so they could cool down. Needless to say they were somehow worse tasting than they normally are. But like an orgy with the lights out, you just have to tell yourself they're meatballs. IMG_8512

And as if that needed a challenger for highlight of the night, two hours earlier I had to tap on the Tim Horton's drive-thru window to get the dude to give me my change. *cough* ten cents.  I said "uh, hey, how 'bout that dime?" and the look he gave me made me wish I could've crawled right back into that unlit orgy. Now, I didn't actually care about the change - given that it'll soon cost an even $2 for a coffee anyway, and the fact that it fell in between the seat and the door like always - but it was the principle of it. The principle that no one should be able to make my days even less exciting than they currently are. Par example, yesterday morning I was told I'd been given a raise, and when I asked what the new number was, it was less than I thought I'd already been making, which is almost as annoying as my unnecessary use of french terms in depressing blog posts. So I'm going to make up the difference by cancelling my Penthouse subscription and instead selling them all these tantalizing stories of the hardened athlete in sweat-laced spandex alone at home cooking dinner by candle light, and then slowly being penetrated, albeit by Shame.

And as the candle flickers and dies, and a smokey haze fills the room, I think back to that orgy, taking solace in the notion that tonight I'm Flint Cockwood, and it's cloudy with a chance of meatballs.

Sweet dreams.

I'm not sure what you just read either.






Life as an Apartment

It's 3:44 am and I'm washing down my peanut butter and banana sandwich with two mugs of freshly ground joe. For dinner. coffee-beans-grinder

Conservatives rejoice, this is the only Grindr I'll ever put my beans in.

I'm not too sure when I first stepped into the 14-hour time machine, but it's a lot less cool than Marty McFly made it seem. And to make things worse, by drinking standards it's still saturday night and the PB sandwich wasn't purchased at a sidewalk stand, so there's a depressing element to it. Why am I not intoxicated? Other than from the liquid plumr fumes coming from the clogged kitchen sink, or the occasional waft of funny-plant coming from down the hall - but that's less likely from the Western arts majors and more likely from Betty's glaucoma regimen; given away by the muffled screams of joy from someone winning the Showcase Showdown.

I can recall four or five events over the past few years that made me think, damn, I'm adulting now. But after a little more thought - forced upon me by a twenty minute "tea" visit with Betty - this turned into, damn, everyone else is adulting, except for me. My undergrad soul is still as fresh as Betty's stash (God bless the medicinal strains) and when the boys from the Ottawa crew get to having a few wobbly pops and regatta talks, it makes me wonder why I left town in the first place. But my other grad school boys had all moved on last year, so surrounding myself with the new crop of boat-moving beauties was a bit of an adjustment, and I was never sure if my presence was grand, or grandpa, so things never really took hold. But that was completely my doing, and made clear to me a few times (a good coach can tell when your technique is shit, in and out of a boat). But props to Big Simon, who reminds me of me and wouldn't take no for an answer. Luckily he's about 6'3" and 215, so when people were naturally drawn to "the statue" it made it easier to sneak out of the house and avoid the bar.


Big Simon motoring 2-seat at the top of the frame, along with seven other good humans and Mr. King's left arm.

And now that I'm seven tedious highway hours away in a frosty apartment taking a "dinner" break from work to siphon java and plot my rise into the Nat Geo payroll system, I'm feeling rather explicitly in a chronological grey zone. Shit's getting real. I've nearly made a living out of narrowing down my options, and while if I look at it in isolation it seems completely logical, the concern comes when it's juxtaposed with Normal. Nine-to-five, water coolers, beer leagues, pants. Ew. I still refuse to trade in my grey hoodie and visible dangly bits to find love at the Christmas party. (Truly no offence intended for anyone who lives that life.) But now that I've put in the years of work to earn the desk job, yes, I honestly feel entitled to decide if I want it.

Welp, I just went to refill my mug and I lost my train of thought - probably a good thing. I blame the wilting effect of Betty's plants. So excuse me while I meander down the hallway for leaves and root for the beauty who bids $1 on the bedroom set.


Back to work!

(or goodnight, or good morning and good luck with that steady state erg. (I promise I won't tell if you "have car problems" and show up late so you don't have to do the whole 19-minute warm up.)





New Year's Eve, Shootin' 3s

What better place to celebrate the new year than a Detroit Pistons game, especially for a guy who knows nothing about basketball. And better yet, getting to sit in the nosebleeds, which after twenty minutes could be any seats, whence I punch myself in the face for being at a basketball game in the first place. And from that high up the court is so far away the players all look, well, normal. According to me they were playing Milwaukee, so I'm glad that when the border guard asked I just admitted I had no clue, and then when he asked to see my ticket I said I didn't have it, and then when he asked why I was traveling alone I just pursed my lips and winked.

I'm surprised he let me in, and a while later, let me cross the border.

The beers were a ridiculous $9.50 USD, fittingly, at the "Palace" of Auburn Hills. So I must've spent a pretty penny that night in order to (seriously) wake up with a note in my iphone saying "Gloria was a Goat."



A slight case of the unawares. Or maybe petting Gloria.

Anyway, I guess my resolution this year is to avoid border guards and goats. And attempt to pay rent. But likely in that order.

This is all after I find a theme for my second blog, because the kids say it's the way of the future for photographers, as is, apparently, videography. So now I have to talk about relevant things on there without the vulgarity and digression and uselessness - aka, the essence - of this one. And then learn video.

Luckily found a collection of cheap tutorials online. Though so far they only seem to film downwards, and with no soundtrack other than whatever the actresses are humming along to....


And the silly ladies forgot their underpants!