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  • Day 26

    So I won't be going to work for the Evil Empire, WalMart after all. On the plus side, it took the good folks thereabouts 2, count 'em, 2 whole days to arrive at their (likely correct) decision. No reason was given, just a brief e-mail that I finally happened across 4 days after it had been sent. But I've a sneaking suspicion that it was because I don't have any referents from my last place of employ. And no chance of acquiring any. Or, perhaps, because I haven't managed to find a viable way to incorporate the word 'synergy' into casual convo or my resume as of yet. Who can ever tell with such things?

    And so my unemployment continues...

    I had an interview Monday. For the company that I left on poor terms before the last company I left on poor terms. Surprisingly, one of the folks instrumental in my exit has apparently given me a positive referral for this new gig. I have no idea why. The interview went fairly well. Mostly because one of my boys, whom I've been friends with for 18 years and tried to hire me in a similar position early last year, has some juice with the company and recommended me.

    And this is what I've become. The object of pity. At least it's for an entirely different reason than usual. Yay, me! Growing, I am.

    I managed to fuck up my reporting for collecting unemployment. I misread the statement I received from my previous employers stating they'd placed my pension contributions into another account as meaning they'd closed out my account and deposited the funds into my regular banking institution. However...after 30 minutes on hold before claiming these moneys, I discovered they had, in fact, been placed into the same account as my pension contributions from my last gig. An account I have no idea how to access which now, apparently, contains seven grand. So... I have to refile tomorrow and explain my error. Good Times.

    I really need to pay attention to numbers and shit. It's like the man said: you can have a great life if you know about money and women. You can have a good life if you know about money OR women. If you're having trouble grasping either...

    Luckily I know about women. They want the same things we do, only in prettier colors. And, don't let anybody tell you different, they love sex. Fucking LOVE it. It's the multiple orgasm factor. What more is there to know?

    And, yet again, I digress. Deal.

    Took a call from an American company beginning to make ingress into Canada. Which the recruiter described as taking the place of Linens N Things. Which I interviewed with last year. And we know how things turned out for them. An omen?

    A couple of other possibilities remain. And I'm sending out applications, so hopes remain high.

    And, of course, when the money gets low, I have an exit strategy, but we won't talk about that quite yet.

    Perhaps I'll choose the erased myself and let go/started over again in Mexico option. Perhaps not. Only time will tell.

    And so my ennui continues...

    And, of course, I need to look into reinvesting my paper pension plan moneys, as apparently some of my choices haven't performed very well. Story of my life. I also need to learn how to shoot video with my iPhone. Welcome to my pity party. One night only. Actually, only the last maybe hour. I read a series of essays about the Chris Benoit tragedy and discovered that Feeling Minnesota isn't anywhere near as clever as I'd fondly recalled.

    However...a good blowjob does still feel like love every time. And tonight's WWE Raw from Calgary kinda sucked. That there is what I like to laughingly refer to as a segue. I'm glad I didn't give in to impulse and wander down to the Saddledome to see it live. Now, if it's been Smackdown, that'd be an entirely different story.

    Which reminds me of another, as such things often do. In 2001, my then GF ish (damn she had a nice frame) and I went to Raw here and then rented a car and drove to Edmonton for Smackdown, where we saw Chris Benoit give Stone Cold Steve Austin I believe 12 (and may be wrong, I blame the concussions) consecutive German suplexes in an awesome display of technique. Especially since both men had, for lack of proper medical terminology (having missed that day of medical school), broken their necks in the ring at one point or another. Perhaps several.

    On the way home, as we were driving back to Calgary that night, we stopped at a truck stop just outside the Edmonton International Airport. This was back in the days when I didn't wear my glasses unless I required them. So I halfwittedly bull in a china shopped my way into a section that had been roped off. A waitress told me of my error and Charlotte and I went to the area we were directed to, ate and left. It wasn't until we were in the car and On the Road (note to self: reread Kerouac) that Charlotte pointed out to me that I had pretty much tripped over Kurt Angle, Jerry Lynn (always a personal fave, EC F'N W was awesome back in its prime) and X-Pac and had assumed that myopic l'il ol' me had been aware of my gaffe. Yeah, not so much.

    And that's my brush with fame. At least I didn't mark out and interrupt their meal by asking for autographs.

    And then there was the time I walked by Luc Robitaille and Paul Coffey in Banker's Hall when they were with the Los Angeles Kings. Nope, didn't mark out then, either.

    Why, yes, Virginia, I really AM Cool like that.

    But could someone please tell me where the fuck all these ants have come from?

    And I can't believe I forgot to mention in my last post how nifty The Final Destination looks. For that series of flicks, I kinda AM a total mark. Especially the first. Even though I've never been a big fan of the horror flicks.

    Halloween 2. NCIS LA. On the negative tip, creativity, like Justice and god (or whoever) is dead. On the plus side, we're that much closer to a big screen revisioning of Magnum P.I.

    But tomorrow, or, as the case may be, later today is another day. Here's hoping the geophysicist has a safe flight back from St. John's. And that my bank statement arrives in the day's mail, save me a trip to the bank. Sleep well geophysicist. Sleep well Charlotte, wherever you are. Sleep well Angle, Lynn and Waltman (who needs to be brought in to make the weak DX reunification a smidge less weak). Rest in peace, Chris Benoit. Rest uneasy, WalMart folk. Sleep well y'all.

    Like Dashboard said, Sleep Well.


  • Suavely Deranged At the Movies

    So, Twitter, huh? Yeah, that was me.

    Much love to Denver Nuggets heavily inked SG J.R. Smith and San Diego Chargers CB Antonio Cromartie for running into the same sort of opposition for expressing their views online as I, my ownself. Although with much smaller repercussions. Love me the censorship, can't you tell? Adolf Hitler is alive and well and living wherever a thought, a word, a work of art or what have you is forbidden. Verboten, as it were.


    I was thrilled to discover that Australian sensation The Veronicas are going to be opening up for Kelly Clarkson when her tour finally rolls into Calgary in November. Love me some The Veronicas. Saw them open for Natasha Bedingfield at the House of Blues in Vegas last year. Only because they were playing. Never thought they'd make it out here. Thrilled they are. Although after the divine Ms. Clarkson (skim the archives, as time and legal ramifications don't permit me to go into the effect her music has had on me over the years) has already cancelled one Canadian tour and pushed back this show from July to November...

    Fingers, toes, and eyes are crossed on this one. Wires, too.


    Contrary to word on the street, G.I. Joe doesn't need to be courtmartialed. It is what it is, mindless kickass excitement with shit getting blowed up hither, thither and yon for no apparent reason (which just adds to the appeal) brought to you by the good folks at Hasbro. I'm just surprised Michael Bay didn't direct it.

    Marlon Wayans as an action star? Really? Damon, maybe. Hell, even Keenan Ivory, but Marlon? My suspension of disbelief only goes so far. Now, if it'd been Shawn, I'd have stormed the projection booth. Do they even still HAVE an actual projection booth? Sorry, being unemployed has caused my pretty little head to go in all sorts of directions of late. My dissolution of self, however, is progressing nicely, so there's that.

    Stormshadow's still my favorite.

    If I were gay, boy, Channing Tatum's poster would totally be up on my wall. Liked him in She's The Man, though.

    Didn't Sienna Miller play Edie Sedgwick once? I'm not judging. Hot snatch on the hoof has to eat, too. And there's so many ways to prostitute oneself, most of which are even legal. Believe me, I've checked. Again, unemployed.

    I totally need me some nanomites. Just to further my new career path as megalomaniacal supervillain. What? I went to college. Liberal Arts, so it ain't like I have a whole lot of potential gigs in my chosen field. Although I did get that A in Women's Studies oncet upon a time.


    I totally leave my shiny new iPhone on in the theater because:

    a) I'm kind of a prick. But not a complete one. I can't even do THAT right. Sigh.

    2) I have no clue how to transition the fucking thing from sleep mode to off, being a simple country boy and all.

    c) Since I've completely blanked on the first 3 digits of my number (991, by the way) and told everyone they were something else, I'm not overly concerned about folks calling me at inopportune times. Again, simple. Country. Read:hick.

    On the plus side, the chick what has the number I've been giving out sounds kinda Fly. When life gives you lemons, make PIE. We likes pie.


    A remake of Fame. Because folks just couldn't get enough of the original and are still talking about it lo these 20 some odd (for some of us more odd than for others) years since. On the positive tip, Irene Cara will have a career again, I'm quite looking forward to that. AND...wait for it...the long anticipated return of legwarmers. I'ma, being a total androgyne and all, get me some pink ones.


    Yeah, not really feeling this Shutter Island business. Might read the book, though. And I like Leonardo di Caprio. Ever since Growing Pains.


    I finally got around to watching Juno yesterday. Primarily because I loved Diablo Cody's Candy Girl, wherein she...no, fuck that. Read it yourself. It's worth it. Hell, I may even go see Jennifer's Body. Whoa, man, that's just crazy talk. Although...Megan Fox. Amanda Seyfried. Color me on the fence. I nearly impaled myself on one once. Playing Little League. Trying to pull in a home run. Yeah, not so much.

    But I digress. I do that.

    Apparently something happened in Pittsburgh recently and my boy Yan (who taught me the correct use of spacing after commas and parentheses) told me that I need to take a page from this fella's blog and make mine own as easy to follow and have a, you know, point. Yeah, so not me. But it's good to have friends, though, ain't it?

    And again. Wherefore art I?

    Oh yeah. Juno. Snappy dialogue and, ever since I thought I could do film school at home, I've always been all about the dialogue. Which is why I'm so looking forward to Inglorious Bastards (sp.?). Loves me the Tarantino.

    Ellen Page. Good.

    Michael Cera. Surely I can't be the only one that wants to take him by the back of the head and start smashing his fucking face into a wall until either one breaks into little pieces. After watching him drag this movie down and then watching him in Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist this evening, I so very much want him to end up on the wrong end of a back alley gangbang. Soonest. He's attained a place in that special little corner of Hell I like to call Will Ferrell Land. Cera's set the male gender back hundreds of years by being such a complete fucking pussy in his movies. It makes me throw up in my mouth a little (okay, a LOT) to think that somewhere out there in the ether is a generation of males who think that the way to a woman's heart is to be her bestest girlfriend. her BFF, as it were. Then she can't help but see how awesome you are, worshipping her from afar, while she's pulling train for every guy other than you; although sometimes, just sometimes, you (gasp!) score some hot hand holding action. On the plus side, these guys will all end up going to the other team, leaving more 18 to 21 year olds for my planned midlife crisis.

    But I sugarcoat. I sometimes have issues when it comes to talking about my feelings. As those of y'all what've stumbled by before are more than aware. And yes, I used to be that kind of orbiter once (before you can say it, HA!) and, yeah, not so much. Orbiter guy doesn't end up with the female lead. If he's lucky, however, when he's holding her purse (nope, never fell that far from grace), he can take the fucking thing and run. Pay for e-books and therapy. Hookers and crack.

    Fortunately, after I finish up here I'll be watching Chinatown. Nicholson. Just to remind me that there are still movies with Alpha male role models. I couldn't believe my good fortune at it being available when I went to the library yesterday. That's where I got Juno. Bonnie and Clyde. The Great Gatsby. Cleopatra. Fucking sue me, I'm unemployed. I've finally got time to catch up on my reading, writing and filmic studies. And I still have about 10K in the bank, so I'll be all right for a week or 2 more.

    Although it was 31 Flavours of fun and Good Times to apply for unemployment and have to explain on the application that I got the axe because of poor Facebook judgment. It did, however, make me appreciate the pure, clean and good things in life.

    Like Heroin. Weed is for selling or giving to chicks.

    And, of course, wishing bad things for Michael Cera and Will Ferrell for their crimes against humanity. Which ties in nicely with my earlier comment about Adolf Hitler. See, Yan, sometimes I really do have a destination in mind for my train of blank.

    Yeah, not so much. But my heart's in the right place. Tattooed on my arm, where it belongs.


    I'm having a problem with the Would You Bang Jesus? opener. Yeah, the 13 guys rolling into the club together; strong entrance, good social proof. The hot whore draped all over him (sadly, I forgot this part the last time I used it; and that is why you fail); again, social proof. Women love them the social proof. And then he turns water into wine right in front of you at the bar. Chicks love magic tricks. And shiny things. It makes them go ooh and ah and shit.

    Any advice and or input would be greatly appreciated. We're all in this together.


    All right. I'm bored. And I suspect most of y'all left midway through my diatribe on Michael Cera (Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist actually wasn't too bad, mostly because of Kat Dennings), so I'm out. Like Michael Cera. Sorry couldn't resist one more.

    Think about it, it'll come to you. Or not. Whatever.


  • Set Adrift On Memory Bliss Of...

    Me. Duh. I'm a complete fucking narcissist, for those of y'all what have happened by for the first time, never to be heard from again.

    Memory lane is an often painful address.

    Time passes, but it usually kicks the shit out of you as it does.


    So, it was while I was watching the 2nd season of Californication today (I still can't believe they killed off Lou Ashby; I know, I'm such a mark, fucking sue me) that I realized that now might be a good time to reassess the mistakes of the past.

    Or maybe it was while I was busily doing what I've always done, only to have something different and unexpected transpire.

    Or, perhaps, running into someone who knew me back during the dark days of K, when I was a complete fucking orbiter, and still greeted me. Yeah, let's leave it at that. No extra reading between the lines, that was enough. I my ownself would have ignored me. And I'm appreciative of all the work I've put in since then. Although I realize how very far I still have to travel on this journey of a thousand stumbles. Like that? Just came up with it. What can I say? I've been inspired of late. I renewed my library card after a year and a half of never having the time to read anything other than e-books and cereal boxes, and I'm hooked. Always did love me the things with the words.

    Possibly running into someone I once had a history with but whom I'm fairly certain I don't want to know anymore, even though I should forgive her her thoughtless transgression, as her heart was in the right place. Head, right square up her ass. Been there, done that, doing it tomorrow. But I avoided her, although I felt saddened at all the weight she's gained since she ruined an otherwise quality breakfast outing for me. And I hold my pancakes sacred above all others.

    Mayhap a text message and a drunken phone call from someone I hold dear, who is away on vacation. Yeah, I miss her, I'm not made of stone. Just my skull.

    I'm getting better at getting out of my own head and way, but tonight...I'm glad I don't drink anymore. There's been a lot weighing on my pretty little head of late, wondering if I'll ever find me a suitable career. Or, you know, grow up and shit.

    Fucking Crossroads. Although Britney totally set the screen ablaze in that one, didn't she? They fucking STOLE that Oscar from her.

    It troubles me that all my role models are poor ones. And, you know, dead.

    Now that I'm significantly on the wrong side of 30, I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to be part of the establishment. Thing is, that's never been me. Probably never will.

    I love my iPhone. Now, If Only I could figure out how to work the fucking thing. Let's just say it's a major step up from my previous mode of communication: 2 tin cans and a piece of string.

    If a District Manager for a major international corporation personally calls you at home to set up a face-to-face, that's a fairly good Indicator Of Interest, n'est pas? What about if a woman half your age with a BF tracks you down on Facebook (despite your apparently not as clever as you'd envisioned alias) and e-mails you daily with nary a mention of said obstacle?


    When was the last time you were truly happy? That you felt complete?

    Yeah. Me, either.