Now I was going to throw out some six cents this week, but I don’t know anymore. I mean what’s to talk about? A couple more shootings in the city that were completely idiotic? We all know my stance on that, and I offered up a perfectly viable solution when the Eaton Center fiasco went down, and no one listened then, so forget that. I was going to talk about the plethora of lateral moves Bryan Colangelo has made with my Toronto Raptors, but then I realized the NBA in general makes me sick to my fucking stomach, so get that shit out of here. And I was going to conclude with a piece on how incredibly sick the new Samsung Galaxy looks, but I unfortunately played with one, and although it is one seriously kick ass piece of equipment, when I had it in my hands I realized two things I couldn’t get over. For one, it’s an awkward fucking size, somewhere in between the note and the Galaxy 2, and it just doesn’t feel right to me. And two, it feels about as fragile as those stupid little glass things your grandmother used to have on the mantle that you were never allowed to look at, let alone touch when you were a kid. Don’t get me wrong, technically it’s a marvel for sure, and it can do just about anything you could ever want a handheld to do. But for a piece of equipment that can do so much, it needs a little more weight to it, and needs to feel like it can at least be put down (re: drunkenly dropped and kicked down the street) without too much concern. So my blackberry lives to see yet another day, much to my displeasure.
Truthfully, I’m not sure what we should talk about this post, I’ve been so grumpy lately and so unfocused (on everything, not just the blog) that I don’t have anything planned. I’ve been meaning to talk about dating a little bit, I suppose we could do that if you want to. Actually, yeah let’s do that, but let’s go back to before the turn of the millennia for a second first. I believe it was 1998, or maybe it was ‘99, not sure exactly, but it was a while ago, and I got this email (which is actually still in my yahoo inbox, if I could only remember the password for my yahoo account), and the email was entitled “The Harsh Reality”. It was basically a picture of this woman, a modern day goddess if you will. To say this woman was kissed by the gods of beauty would be the equivalent to saying Lime Crush is an alright pop. This woman was the most beautiful woman this green Earth has ever had walk on it. She was perfect. She made 10’s look like me in a wig. She had a body you couldn’t imagine with a stack of vintage Playboys and a handful of Lorazepam. The kind of stuff you would dream about in a dream. Take exactly what you’re thinking right now by my description, and you’re not even close to understanding how incredible this chick looked. And she was wearing a small black bikini, and she was showering in this little waterfall in a beautiful tropical heaven like oasis, set in some distant land that only monkeys and wild flowers know about. And on top of the picture it stated “The Harsh Reality”, and below the picture it said, “No matter how beautiful she looks right now, some man, somewhere, is sick and tired of putting up with her shit”. Now, when I got that email I laughed and thought that’s really funny, and I left it at that. I mean I was in my young twenties, what the hell did I know. I just thought it was a joke. But now, 13 or 14 years later, I realized what I thought was just a moderately funny email a long long time ago, was actually not a moderately funny email at all. It was in fact, arguably, the most valuable piece of wisdom I have ever and may ever come across in my entire god damn life. It was the email equivalent to gold plus frankincense multiplied by myrrh. And had I not been so young and naïve and prone to insisting upon learning lessons the hard way, a lot of time, trouble and effort could have been avoided in the past decade plus. Fast forward to the present day and I’m going to bang off some stats for you real quick. In the past year and a half the number of first dates I’ve been on is approximately in the low 20’s. That number may seem high to you, but in actuality I’m probably low balling (don’t fucking judge me). Let’s call it 20 and run, since it’s a round number and easy to work with. Of that 20, I’d say half of them didn’t make it to date 2. Of that 10, only 2 were by their choice. 1 was the Asian chick with the tattoo of the fighting ninjas on her back, and the other was the geisha with (very) broken English. Co-incidentally they both used the same excuse, the good old “no chemistry” shtick. Well, to be precise the geisha actually said “I fink deres no any chemisry”. They were both full of shit, but whatever, slightly overweight broke white guys with a chip on their shoulder wasn’t there thing, and they didn’t want to admit it. Anyway, of the other 8, spending one evening with each of them was more than enough time to spend with each of them, and calling them back was about as important to me as enrolling in a Christian study group. Now, the remaining ten (or so) that made it to date 2 also made it past date 2 and unto dates 3, 4, what have you. Of them, only one ended things on her end rather early. That was the younger 20’s Russian model/dental hygienist chick. But come on we all saw that one coming didn’t we? She just “got really busy” and I assume is still really busy, because I never heard back from her again. At least she had tact though, right? Besides, she was a dime, and although she was cool and all, I make it a rule not to mess with dimes. I have my reasons. Don’t get me wrong now, she gets un-busy and I’m in, but anyway…….. Of the remaining 9, I’d say 4 are still somewhat casual friends. Read into that as you may. The other 5 (or so) ended, or I suppose I should say never took off, because quite frankly try as I did, I just couldn’t put up with their shit anymore. So out of roughly 20 girls here’s your stat line. 10 percent of them ended it after date one, whereas I ended a staggering 40 percent at the same point. 5 percent ended around the 3 or 4 date mark (or just got busy, whatever the case may be), 20 percent are still relatively cordial, and that leaves a final fail rate of approximately 80 percent. WOW. That doesn’t even take into account the however many I’ve met and talked with, and just couldn’t set anything up with due to scheduling and what have you. Those are actually really disgusting numbers. WOW. You know, I was going to close up with a part about how no one is coming in here and knocking your boys socks off, and maybe some things I’m looking for that I’m not finding, and provide some rationale, but………. WOW. A fail rate of 80 percent? The harsh reality is, that’s a lot of wasted fucking time and effort for nothing. And truthfully, I don’t even want to talk about it anymore. I’m out of here. I just got to get through one more night. I’m going to get a Lime Crush, I’ll see you guys in a couple of weeks………………………….. Hang in there.The Harsh Reality.....................
Just one more night and I’m on vacation, and people, is it ever needed. I’m not sure why, maybe it’s the seemingly summer long heat wave we have going on here, maybe it’s the “other sex” that’s driving me up the god damn wall, or perhaps it’s the fact that I’m employed by a company that couldn’t manage a little league baseball team, let alone a 500 million dollar a year transportation agency. But whatever it is your boy needs a break from it, and fast. I’m a block away from Snap City here, and it’s taking every bit of fortitude I have to keep it together and not kill anybody. I’m not sure if anyone is really aware of exactly how much energy it takes to always have something funny to say, but let me tell you, it takes a shit load. And I’m running on fumes these days. I mean hey, it’s nothing I can’t handle, after all I can handle anything, and truthfully, I do it to myself, but still, come 2:35 am I’m off the clock, and I’m out of here. What’s vacation got in store for me? I’m glad you asked. Tomorrow I’m heading up to Mom’s place to celebrate her 50th trip around the sun. Damn she’s old. I told her we need to sit down and start planning the wake soon, and she smacked me. But she got over it pretty quick. That’s the gem about being an only child, no matter what you say or do, or how much of a fuck up you are, you’re still the favorite son. After I leave Moms house, I’m heading straight to the cottage, where I am going to put the feet up, read a book or two, play on the lake and fuck the dog like it’s my first time fucking the dog. I may come home Tuesday, maybe Wednesday, or possibly Thursday. Who knows, who cares? As long as I’m back in time for my Friday afternoon check in at the BeerFest, that’s all that’s important to me. Hotel is already booked downtown, tickets are bought, and plans are made. The only left to do at that point will be to indulge in the greatness that is imported ale’s from all over yonder, and then let the universe do what the universe feels like doing. Sunday is a toss-up. Depending on how well I’m feeling I may, for the first time in years, actually make it down for day three of the festival. That’s something that once upon a time only the strong could do, and I did it on more than one occasion, but this year I’m thinking about doing it for much the same reason I do most of the things I do these days, just to prove that I can. Between me you and the centipede that is crawling up the wall here, I doubt it’s going to happen, but it is in my mind. Will I see any of you down there? I do hope so. Monday will be a rest and recover day, and Tuesday its back to work, refreshed and ready to go. My next break isn’t that far away either. I manipulated some scheduling, and called in some favors from some co-workers, and three weeks after I get back from vacation I’m on the road to Montreal for a long weekend. God I love that place. And god do I love a Filipino stripper named Neo. But anyway, we can chat about everyone’s favorite escort capital of the country a little closer to the date. Let’s move on, shall we?
