Now Here Is Nowhere

Who throws a bottle of booze at a wall when trying to get drunk and drown their sorrows? Honestly? I can't get over it. Getting drunk to get over something or solve a problem isn't the best idea in the first place (unless of course you're trying to get over being sober and sobriety is the problem), but even then, throwing your bottle of booze at a wall only makes things worse. Fucking actors.

I woke up today and was able to walk for the first time in three days. It was grand. I guess I never went into what happened or the fact that I couldn't walk for the last three days, so I'm not going to now. Let's just say it has to do with lots of lovin' and it aint nothin' nice.

I'm going to the wonderful Cambie in about an hour and a half with a night of drinking and debauchery expected. Something about Robinson finishing school, cheap burgers and beer. The O.C. was on and I wasn't paying attention. The point? Well, I'm flying to Calgary at 7 tomorrow morning. I should be gone at least four days and don't know what my innerweb access is going to look like. Just know that I'll be thinking of you.

Patriarch With A Beer Bottle

I punched a baby once. Really. Yes, I was a baby as well but even then I knew I was the shit. I must have been a drinker early on, because I can't remember it for the life of me. That whole period of my life is just one big black spot and the more I try to think of what I did, the more babies I'm worried I didn't punch.

When I was ten I found myself lost in a downtown Los Angeles mall. My memory was better around this time, more so then when I was an infant, but I still don't remember much about it. Well besides the whole "stay where you are" thing they tell you is bullshit and doesn't work. I didn't move for an hour and 45 minutes while alone, but was with my family within 15 once I decided to find a security guard and tell him what was going on. First day I realized adults don't know what they are talking about.

At twelve I broke my middle finger in three places while snow sledding. My mother told me it was sprained. I looked at it and saw what I would later see in both Ashlee Simpson's nose and singing. A mess. I didn't cry at all, but I would have had I known that it would be the start of my body's life long urge to injure itself. It was also the start of my bodies urge to punch infants again, but I'm not aloud to talk about that due to legal issues that may arise.

At 12 I also think I touched my first breast.

At 16 I got kicked out of my first bar.

At 22 years, 363 days old. This past weekend. I reached the climax. The peak. I hope it's not true, but it was honostly a day that I sat there thinking, "how are we ever going to top this?" Really, how do you top perfection? From the first beer at 10:30am to the hockey game at 7pm and from being covered in stripper to being covered in liquor. I don't know what to say or how to describe it. Like everything I've mentioned before, this was a milestone. The greatest birthday I could have hoped for and I don't want to spoil it by trying to describe it. I just want to tell you all to be there next year. To be there with bells on. It will be epic.

Happy Easter

Remember, the Easter Bunny hates you.

Word

So That You're Not Alone

I woke up this morning smelling like stripper. I had no clothes on and my eye hurt. The world was a blur and all I could hear was my phone vibrating on the table next to my head. To tell you what happened is impossible, I mean, I don't even know.

To say that I've listened to "Go Home, Get Down" by DFA 1979 a couple times today is an understatement. It's sort of ridiculous how much I'm digging that song at the moment.

I've spent upwards of $800 in the past three days.

T-Minus 6 days until the greatest day of your life.

Stay tuned. Stay Classy.

I Fought The War

I've said it once before and I'll say it again, I'm not above disappointing you. Deal with it. However, I am also not above replying to emails complaining that my last post was "cryptic" and "full of shit." It was the truth. All except me trying to post a recap later that night, I really didn't try at all.

You see, I guess you could say that on Saturday I shot someone in the face. You could go even further and say that on Saturday I shot Phil in the face. I would really like to sit here and say that I did it on purpose and that fucker got what was coming to him, but I can't. It was an accident. However, it was an accident that seemed to complete a week that at times stretched beyond epic proportions. So epic that the party mindset stretched through my shift at work yesterday and all the way through until about 5 am this morning. I'm exhausted.

With all of that said, I'm not going to write a recap now. In fact, I'm not going to write a recap at all. You know what that means! The always cool and pertinent, random information, pictures and links post!

• Don't ask Two stitches. He's fine. Pussies.
  

• An Overly Dramatic Re-enactment & The Aftermath.
  

• Wednesday I was supposed to go to MJ's birthday bus/bar thingy. I had every intention of going, but bailed at the last minute. Why? It probably wasn't for the would-be obvious reason, my presence was required elsewhere and quite urgently. I apologize to MJ, but it was worth it.
  

• Saturday @ the Shark Club or No. 5. Call me.

• The Bible VS Alcohol and Drugs

• Russ Leiber (David Cross) VS Stephen Colbert. "Bottom line, you hate children." Gold.
  

• Random camping pictures (the ones that actually turned out): 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

• T-Shirt of the day

• The most frightening picture I've seen in a while. (insert Duece Bigalow Joke Here)

• So it's been over a week now and I'm still being quite stubborn with this one. One of the reasons is that I haven't even slept in my own bed for 6 days now, but I think I'm just... Well... I don't know what I'm thinking. One of the reasons I haven't even slept in my own bed is because of this situation. By that I mean I'm going out more, partying more and hanging out with new people more. I guess I have until the 19th or 20th to make a call or receive a call and try to sort one or two things out. That or I wait a month or two. We'll see what happens.

• Every person in this video is AMAZING.
  

Hey

I just got home from a pretty crazy weekend and haven't even showered or changed yet, but I wanted to write this down first. No. I needed to write this down first.

So here it is: What do Geoff Boshell and Dick Chaney have in common? We've both actually shot someone in the face.

I'll try to write a recap later tonight. That is all, bitches.

Only We Speak For The Guns

Approximately 21 hours and 50 minutes have passed since I said some things that led to a decision that I may, very well, regret for the rest of my life.

Approximately 21 hours and 51 minutes have passed since I may have lost one of my best friends. A person with whom I've become closer to in the past 10/11 months than almost any one else in my life. A person with whom I've, seemingly, been everywhere and done everything with. A person with whom I would spend days after days with. A person for whom I would legitimately do anything.

Approximately 21 hours and 55 minutes have passed since I started to second guess myself for what I said. Since I opened a car door, threw a Starbucks cup on the ground, got into my car and drove off into the rain and the darkness.

Without saying goodbye, I calmly and coldly pulled the trigger.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

"I don't see how we can."

Now, here I sit typing and trying to speak for a gun. Trying to speak for six bullets shaped like words. Trying to make what little sense of the situation I can.

I didn't sleep well last night and I doubt I will sleep any better this evening. I'm a stubborn guy, an asshole if you may, and even though every ounce of my being is telling me to pick up a phone and apologize, I can't. I want to pick up the phone and say everything will work out fine and we can try to go back to the way things were before, but I can't. Stubbornness is a motherfucker.

Where do I start? How do I speak for a gun?

Inside & Out

Back in High School I had a friend who drove his fathers beat up '81 Oldsmobile. It was a lovely shade of brown, which had nothing to do with the actual paint color of the car (no one ever knew what that was). The driver side door didn't open, which meant that he had to crawl in and out the passenger side every time he drove the car. The radio was all but dead. I'll say almost, because he was lucky enough to have one AM station that played the same Frank Sinatra song over and over again at nauseum. It was great. We loved that fucking car.

This weekend, as a whole, reminded me of that car. With all the rust, dings, dents, doors that wouldn't open and soundtracks that just kept repeating themselves, it completely embodied the '81 Oldsmobile. It was great. I fucking loved it.

With all of that said, I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about the good times on Granville Island. I don't want to talk about the limo's and the Brazilian party. I don't want to talk about running into one of my old best friends. I don't want to talk about actually sleeping in on my day off and then the day spent on top of a mountain riding for three hours. I don't want to talk about the Metric concert and how god damn amazing it was. I would talk about the douchebag scenesters who seem to populate those sorts of concerts with the sole intention of standing to the side and musing about the fact that the scene is dead, but I don't have the time. Why? Well, I'm heading out the door and just thought that sitting down here would be a good idea to kill some time.

Before I go I will say one last thing, well I'll ask one last thing: Will you call me or email me? I'll be up.