Call me what you will...

I like to call myself a writer and maybe I’m unsure why. Maybe it’s because people tell me I have a knack for wording things in a specific way that caters to a specific audience in a specific manner of my choosing. Maybe it’s because I once wrote a short story that caught the eye of some friends and family and that automatically constitutes my brand image a writer. Maybe it’s because I love to write, even if I’m picky about what I write about and when I write it.

I can’t call myself a writer. I am a writing major with specific successes and even more epic failures that deem the response “what the fuck?” An audience has to call me a writer based on their experiences with writing and what they feel constitutes “writing,” in any of its forms.

I don’t read, I don’t note small things that should be written down for later use in writing, I don’t envision anything that I may want to write about, I give poor critiques to others if I’m uninterested and I claim to know more than I do about certain things. I don’t properly proof read anything I write until it is positively reinforced as a “good piece of writing.” I lack the confidence to recognize when a piece of my writing is a valid and well constructed piece of literature and I overestimate other pieces of writing simply because I use good diction and large words. I lack the ability to recognize when I’ve bludgeoned a dead horse, lost the reader or poorly constructed a scene (although I’m working on that.)

I enjoy being lazy. I enjoy telling myself “I’ll do it this afternoon.” I enjoy getting drunk and accomplishing abso-fucking-lutely nothing and feeling bad that it hasn’t positively impacted my literature the next day.

I write this with full knowledge that very few pieces of my writing will get published and the one’s that do may end up on a coffee table, better suited as a coaster for some middle-aged widow’s three day old cup of coffee that she's never coming back to, except to dispose of when her girlfriends visit next and they share several glasses of wine and several stories of epic disappointment.

These are my flaws. Unlabored flawlessness does not exist and recognizing that it is unachievable is the first step any one person can make in achieving effortless success in anything they do.

What to do while bored in Canada...

(Incomplete)

My shoulder hurt. Alcohol can be such a bitch with inhibiting memory. I remembered stumbling onto the rough pavement during my impromptu fight against a new Canadian friend not much taller than me. Nothing serious, it began with one of those conversations that states “I bet I could kick your ass,” or something along those lines. It was at this point that my other new Canadian friend not much taller than me interjected. “Just fight for 1 minute. No face shots and no ball-tapping.” There you go.

My head hurt. Damn. I don’t usually get hangovers but this time my body was just pissed off with what transpired the night before.

“Come on guys, get up. We have to go back to Emily’s and clean up all the shit we left on her lawn.”

It was 10 a.m. It was also hot and sunny. Combine those two factors with the already throbbing skull on my shoulders and you’ve got one pissed off lush.

“No way, really?” I really didn’t want to get up.

“Yeah, I could hear her mom yelling in the background. She sounded pretty pissed which just plain sucks for me because I have to be over there all the time.”

My stomach hurt, and churned, and growled. The only thing I can compare it to is that it felt like a very small and possibly homicidal man was trying to tear his way out of my stomach and leave no prisoners on the escape. I decided that if I wasn’t very careful about how I spent my morning, I was going to vomit.

“Ross, you’re driving us there, get dressed.”

“Fuck you, I am so hung-over to the point that I’m barely functioning.”

“Either you drive or we’re walking.”

Fuck walking. I got dressed, avoided the anticipated vomit and got ready to proceed to Emily’s house accompanied by all the members of the guilty party, excluding Jeff’s girlfriend who had to leave early. She lucked out.

My broadband sidekick...

Alright well I promised that I would post the longer story that was accepted into Baily's beads due to the fact that it did such an excellent job of being awesome.

Although you could easily figure out what the story is about simply by reading it, I'll be annoying and give a little bit of background. Essentially, I used to live in Canada and this short story gives a summation of a friendship I share with someone who still lives there. Yeah I know it sounds adorable and you're anxious to read. Anywho, I go back and visit sometimes and this story gives a summary of how this friendship progresses through the boundaries of the United States over the course of several years. Eventually we decide to be even cuter and get simply stunning tattoo's as a marker of the friendship. We got the tattoo's on our legs so we made a deal to never wear shorts at the same day to ensure we don't look too cute together. This may be my last post for a little while so do me a solid and enjoy it....even though it's kinda long...

Broadband Sidekick

“…When you say best friends means friends forever.”

- Brand New

“Jeff, how many more levels do we need to beat in Crash Bandicoot before we finish the game?” I was trying to make some simple conversation to take my mind off the fact that a needle was charring my skin. I almost expected him to call me out on being a wimp because of the pain but he was surprisingly understanding about it.

“Well we beat the third world right?”

“Yeah,” I replied as my leg cringed with the first signs of pain.

“Okay well then we just need to beat the boss in that world and then finish the last few levels and we’re done.” That conversation was over much more quickly than I would have liked and I searched frantically for any objects around the room that could act as a simple conversation starter. Failing to find anything out of the ordinary, Jeff and I made small talk with the tattoo artist between intermittent surges of pain.

* * * *

I can’t even describe the number of hours we devoted to James Bond’s Goldeneye video game on Nintendo 64. We could spend hours at a time rampaging through buildings, open fields and military compounds killing anything that crossed our paths.

It was as though it were any other day; Jeff and I perched at the edge of his bed with our eyes cemented on his TV screen. It was the day that I’d been dreading for quite some time and I didn’t think I was ready for what was about to happen. My dad had told me a few months back that we’d be moving to America because he’d been offered a better paying position down there. I almost refused to believe him when he first told me. My mom showed up shortly after my James Bond replica had been pumped full of buckshot. She didn’t say much, just that I should get ready to say goodbye to Jeff and meet her back in our driveway next to was left of our belongings. Jeff and a few of my other neighborhood friends followed me to the foot of the driveway to wave goodbye. I really appreciated the effort on their behalf, but I didn’t know what to do or how to act. When the car was all packed up and ready to go I found myself slowly walking to the back seat where I always left my Gameboy. My friends all stood on the curb waving goodbye, and after I returned a few waves I directed my attention strictly to Mario and his pet dinosaur as the car proceeded out of town, and out of Canada in silence.

I didn’t speak with Jeff at all after the first month of life in America. When I first moved, we would both exchange e-mails on our parents “work only” computers religiously. This all changed when we grew a few years older and were able to get our hands on our own computers. This form of communication never died down as we both found ourselves becoming more and more interested in technology and came to the realization that we were in all likelihood, nerds, geeks and/or Poindexters. Most of the types of conversations we had came off as immature banter to anyone but ourselves. If we both found ourselves bored and online at the same time we would occupy ourselves by writing lists of “things that suck” and filling hundreds of lines:

126. When you pick up the carton of milk in the fridge and instantly put it back down when you realize it’s too light.

127. When the cat falls asleep on your lap when you’re at the computer and you realize that there’s no way to escape without its claws becoming better acquainted with your leg.

128. Rap music

129. When a bottle cap rolls directly under your chair to the point that there’s no way you can reach it without straining.

This list was built over the course of a few years in random spurts of boredom. Typically it would start when I’d come home annoyed one day and find Jeff on the internet to complain to:

Ross says: You know what I hate? I really hate it when you’re walking somewhere in a group and not fully paying attention to the path so you step in a little tiny hole that you can’t see. I hate that; you fall over every single time and look like an ass in front of everyone.

[ J e f f ] says: Add that in as #214

As I watched our friendship mature over the years I quickly realized that although Jeff was never one to turn down a relationship with a girl he truly liked, he seemed to prefer hooking up with a new girl every weekend. I was much different - Jeff had been with several girls by the time I’d found my first.

Jeff saw me through my very first relationship from start to finish. I began dating a girl named Steph in my junior year of high school and when I told Jeff about it he was beyond ecstatic that “my balls had finally dropped.”

I waited in an awkward silence listening to the sound of my lungs nervously pumping out oxygen at a higher than normal rate.

“Hey…are you very busy right now?”

“Actually Ross I am,” my girlfriend said as she answered the phone, “Why? Do you need to talk to me again about something important?”

“I hardly get to talk to you Steph and when I’m away at college, talking is very important if this is going to work. I know that you never have problems calling and talking to your friends, so why can’t you just make time for me?”

“You just don’t understand how busy I am do you, Ross?”

Jeff never seemed to get annoyed that I kept calling him and leaving emotional e-mails complaining about something Stephanie had said or done. Eventually it got to the point that I’d finally had enough and knew that I had to end the relationship for my own well-being.

[ J e f f ] says: Hey sweetie, what’s going on?

Ross says: …I broke up with her today. I actually did it. It feels so good.

[ J e f f ] says: Finally! I told you it’d feel so much better. Add that bitch in as #215.

212. When you try to eat bagel bites but you miss your mouth entirely and it falls all over your shirt.

213. Paris Hilton

214. When you’re walking somewhere in a group and not fully paying attention to the path so you step in a little tiny hole that you can’t see, wrench your leg and fall over in front of everyone.

215. Ross’s ex-girlfriend.

Despite the fact that my relationship with Steph ended on the worst possible terms, there was something good to come from that web of teenage angst. After the girl that Jeff appropriately labeled “she who shall not be named” played me a few songs performed perfectly by the alternative/emo/indie super band, Brand New, we couldn’t stop listening. Memorizing lyrics, listening to songs on repeat, seeing concert after concert, we did it all (even if it was in entirely different countries at entirely different times.) We could never get out of our heads and never got tired of listening to songs like “Sic transit gloria…glory fades.” Its chorus was shouted with such intensity and angst that we found it easy to sing the lyrics to ourselves whenever we wanted:

The fever, the focus.

The reasons that I had to believe you weren’t too hard to sell.

Die young and save yourself!

To further add to our obsession, on frequent occasions I would receive e-mails from Jeff that would read something like:

So keep the blood in your head!

And keep your feet on the ground!

If today’s the day it gets tired,

Today’s the day we drop out!

Oh man Ross, I was listening to The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows today and got goose bumps when I heard the chorus. I fuckin love Brand New!

p.s. I was eating bagel bites earlier today and just missed my mouth when I tried to eat one and it fell all over my shirt. Straight up, it was like my face had been re-arranged and I was guessing where my mouth should be.

* * * *

I was confused when my dad called and told me to meet him at a nearby shopping center. He was interrupting my steady flow of Nazi killing with a sub-machine gun issued by my favorite computer program. I drove to the meeting place and searched for my father’s red Pontiac Bonneville. Instead I saw him drive around the corner in a small, turquoise-looking family sedan with the words “Cavalier LS” written on the back.

“Sweet, my father is a car thief now!”

“No, no, no you little smartass. I’m test-driving this car for you right now. If you approve then I’ll gladly go place an offer on it for you because I know you’re going to need the car when making the six hour commute to and from college every few months.”

“No way, really?”

This car was nothing special by any means. It was a turquoise-ish, blu-ish, green-ish calamity of colors all morphed into one strange sight for the eyes. The four-door layout of the body was perfect for family road-trips with the kids and the automatic transmission and high-mileage, four-banger engine was sure to pump out boatloads of power for the NASCAR driver hiding in all of us. It was a car. As long as it had wheels and was capable of getting me from one place to another with only a few minor engine fires then I would happily accept.

When my dad drove back with the car to place an offer, I found myself speeding home as fast as my mom’s Malibu with the ever-so effeminate Mickey Mouse antenna ornament could take me. I had to find the nearest telephone or computer in the house to alert Jeff of this new development.

Ross Says: so I was just hanging out today playing video games when my dad calls me up and is like “Yooooooo what uppp? I bought you a car, come test drive this shit!”

[ J e f f ] Says: I’m no stranger to sarcasm Ross

Ross Says: yeah I know sweetie but this time I’m not being sarcastic

[ J e f f ] Says: …you actually have a car now?

Ross Says: damn right

[ J e f f ] Says: yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeah!!!!!! why the hell aren’t you up here yet?

Ross Says: believe me, I’m already planning my trip

Over the course of the next few weeks, we spent our time on the internet collaborating on a list of things that would have to be accomplished upon my arrival:

1. Get drunk upon Ross’s immediate arrival

2. Eat our weight in pizza every night

3. Go to Canada’s Wonderland

4. Find scandalously clad teenage girls at parties

5. Eat more pizza, drink more beer

6. Get a tattoo

We would talk for hours over the next few months collaborating on the design until we had it perfect. Instantly, we agreed that whatever tattoo we chose, it had to involve Brand New in some form or another.

After thinking hard for specific lyrics that we wouldn’t mind having burned into our skin for eternity, we came up with a perfect idea. Jeff informed me that he was going to have the words “The Fever” ink’d on the back of his leg and I would have “The Focus” in the same spot. I was a bit skeptical at first, and then Jeff offered his reasoning. He explained that he knew he was good with women and didn’t feel cocky to admit it. This accounted for the words “The Fever.” He continued to explain that I always ended up picking the maniacal girls who would end up tearing me to pieces and that I focused too hard on fixing things when in reality I should be trying to get out. This accounted for the words “The Focus.” Lastly, these words were taken from the chorus of the song “Sic Transit Gloria…Glory Fades,” and we both agreed that that song is just badass.

After I nagged Jeff relentlessly to place an appointment at a respectable tattoo parlor, he finally pulled through and booked us in for the end of my visit at a place called “Cottage 13.” He explained that this was where his sister had gotten all of her tattoos and that all the artist’s there were highly commendable.

After the excruciating eight-hour drive, I finally arrived back in Waterdown with unnecessarily loud Brand new lyrics being screamed at the highest possible frequency my tiny car speakers could pump. I arrived in Jeff’s driveway right as the song “Seventy Times 7” reached the loudest part of emotional bridge used for constructive emphasis of the singers’ angst.

Jeff quickly rushed out his front door to come give me a hug right as the singer was finishing his rant.

“What the hell took you so long? Come on, I got our 2-4 inside already, we’re going to get drunk!”

Over the course of my week-long visit back to Canada, I became quite good friends with Jeff’s girlfriend, Danielle. Jeff and I assigned Danielle the nickname “TR” to be used only when I am in their company. The name TR was decided upon during one of our late night internet conversations shortly after Jeff started dating Danielle. I told him that since she was awesome, she had to be assigned a nickname out of principle if nothing more. He said that he loved kissing a girl who had a tongue ring and abbreviated it to TR on the spot.

TR was different. Through much of our friendship, I was constantly enlightened about Jeff’s sexual prowess. It wasn’t often that Jeff fell so hard for anyone. Even if Jeff wouldn’t agree, I felt like he was showing signs of vulnerability like the majority of human males. He built up such a powerful defense to protect himself and his masculinity from the hardships we find within the opposite sex and down it came in an instant by a girl who arrived fashionably late to the party that was his life and luckily for him, she arrived stag.

Although we spent just about every night nurturing our inner-alcoholic doppelgangers and fighting off the hangovers that inevitably ensued, we were still able to have a great time during the day. Jeff, TR, TR’s friend Claudia and I spent an entire day at the popular Canadian theme park known as Canada’s Wonderland:

The cart rattled with the intensity provided by the chain-link lift that carried us up the steep slope on the old, wooden rollercoaster. Jeff was next to me as we waited eagerly for the wonders that would follow on the other side of the steep peak. TR and Claudia were in the cart behind us talking about god-knows-what when Jeff nudged me on the shoulder.

“Hey, you know what Jesse Lacey’s middle name is, right?”

“Jeff…he’s the lead singer of our favorite band and neither of us are ashamed to say that we have a man-crush on him. His middle name is Thomas. He’s Jesse Fuckin Thomas Lacey.”

“Okay okay, just checking,” Jeff replied in defense.

“You think TR knows what his middle name is? If she truly loves you Jeff, then she should take a shining interest in everything that you love.”

“Good point, let’s find out. Hey babe, do you know what Jesse Lacey’s middle name is?”

“Fuckin.”

I was jealous myself that I didn’t have a girl so amazing that she actually provided that answer when asked such a ridiculous question.

It wasn’t until shortly after midnight at Jeff’s house that we realized our tattoo appointment was the next day and we still hadn’t fully decided exactly how we wanted the tattoo to look. We had been fiddling around with the design over the course of the several month long period ever since we came to the final decision to have the words The Fever and The Focus painted on our bodies. We were quite happy with the font we chose and the idea to have the words written down the back of our calves, but something was still missing. Knowing full well that Brand New was known for toying around with lyrics without the use of vowels, we decided to put this idea to use. Although it would not be possible to sing without vowels, Brand New frequently released website updates containing lyrics with no vowels.

Fght ff yr dmns

Wrt sngs n yr slp

Sng n yr slp

Fghtffyrdmns, yr dmns!

Putting this concept to good use, Jeff suggested adding a sort of subscript text to each of our tattoos in the bottom corner. This subscript would be different for each of us, contain no vowels and still link to the other’s tattoo. Seeing how my tattoo would read “The Focus,” I would add the letters fvr to the corner and Jeff’s would read fcs. Although we were aware that this could possibly add too much to the design, we loved the idea so much that we couldn’t pass it up. It was simply another way to combine our friendship with our love of Brand New.

We arrived at Cottage 13 about fifteen minutes before our appointment was scheduled to take place. I was hoping to be able to meet our artist first so we could discuss every detail of the tattoo. If I was getting something ink’d on my body forever, then I was damn-well going to make sure it looked the way I wanted. The artist introduced himself as Os and explained that he could make our design look however we wanted it to, but that if he strayed too far from the design we printed out for him, then he wouldn’t really be drawing our tattoo; it would be his own. We agreed with him on this and told him to follow our design as best he could.

I got to take a look around the small office in the lobby of this tattoo parlor while Os printed up the stencil he would attach to the back of my leg. It was a very clean establishment, with each artists’ credentials hung proudly on the wall next to several pieces of their artwork, most of which consisted of some sort of elaborate dragon or skull design so they could flaunt their best masterpieces. I commended Jeff on his choice of artist.

After Os had the dark stencil set firmly on my leg for him to trace, he was all ready to begin the procedure. He could sense my nervousness and said that after the count of three, he would be pressing the sharp needle to my flesh, indicating that there was no turning back.

“1…2…3…”

* * * *

“Man Jeff, my leg is still really sore.”

“Yeah you’re a pretty big wimp; it’ll take another few weeks to fully heal,” Jeff replied in his usual, sarcastic tone.

“Yeah whatever, I’ll have to tough it out for a few weeks. You know, Os told me that if I came back to Canada within a year, then he’ll touch up my tattoo for free.”

“Yeah, he told me that too.”

“It gives me an excuse to see my sweetie again next year…although when I come back next year we have to make sure that we don’t wear shorts at the same time in public. Our friendship is already borderline questionable as it is.”

“Yeah, we need some time apart,” replied Jeff with his eyes still locked on to the back of his leg in fascination.

I tried extremely hard to fight the urge to reply with something witty and sarcastic that would in all likelihood question his sexuality. I restrained myself when I realized that as soon as I got home I would probably open an instant message window on my computer, greet him with a cute pet name, and add something to the list that might read “312. Leaving my sweetie after a week full of booze, pizza and tattoos.”

Keeping all of this in mind, all I could come up with to say was, “Agreed.”

The one where I listed some meaningful quotes...

Alright I have a few more stories to post on here and maybe some other forms of writing I'd like to share to gain feedback from anyone who may actually find themselves reading my work. The point of this section is to list some things I've heard (many from songs) that have in some way spoken to me. I'd appreciate any comments about things you've heard that have meant something to you. I'm not the only writer here you know...

1. "Always up or down, never down and out." - The Academy Is...
2. "I have burned the bush that covered my light, and know I'm scared I won't burn that bright." - Brand New
3. "Once you start rationalizing, you've already lost." - Shane Phillips' Father
4. "Let's get wrecked on pop tarts and sex and see the Taj Mahal." - Motion City Soundtrack
5. "I don't want to be one of those people who screams into a microphone just because they have one, I just like giving my thoughts a voice." - Shelley Jack (no I'm not sucking up, I really liked that quote)

A dining experience like none other...

Phase four - The place profile feature story

A Dining Experience like None Other

Upon entrance the first thing you’ll take note of is the overwhelmingly loud presence of 1950’s rock and roll music, and an excessively chipper wait staff. You’ll find yourself envious of the style of décor that seems ripped off from the movie Grease. This is normal. A large collection of hung-over college students envelop one half of the restaurant and smaller yet prevalent groups of retired war-veterans congregating over a 10 am lager dominate the other half. This 1950’s theme diner called Angel’s has become the popular proving grounds for a large assortment of character’s that never seem to clash or disturb each other in the least.

Let’s start from scratch, shall we? As you ponder entrance into this safe-haven from the worries of the modern world, remember to take the door on the right (the one on the left doesn’t open for reasons no one has figured out yet.) Wipe your feet on the massive, black, fuzzy floor matt with the word Angel’s written on it (this diner is located in Waterdown, Ontario…that’s in Canada – a country frequently experiencing excessively large snow storms to dirty up your shoes.)

This is a busy diner so you may need to wait a few moments for the host to seat you. If this is your first visit to Angel’s and you’re with a friend, comment to them about the absurd amount of corny paintings of Elvis and Ford Thunderbirds, and the rampant, yet scattered presence of old record’s and worn license plates on the walls. The sky blue, maroon red and ghost white paint scheme may also take your mind on a journey of abstraction leading you away from the new millennium.

By this point a host should have noticed you waiting in the doorway and come to take you to your seats. Ask the host if it would be alright for you and your party to be seated at a booth rather than a table, if not because of the sheer comfort factor, than because the booths come equipped with hooks for your large winter coats and your hat (remember, you’re in Canada and you won’t find a single person wearing a hat indoors.)

Now that you’re seated and comfortable, your waiter/waitress should be by shortly to take your order. I like Shannon; she is very nice and helpful. Of course she’ll run through the typical routine of asking for your beverage order first. Don’t be ashamed to order alcohol this early in the morning (if you look around the restaurant you’ll likely see others sharing a laugh over a late morning, frosty glass.) Next comes the food order, and I strongly recommend the breakfast special because the clock fails to read noon yet. With this order you’ll get two eggs any style, bacon, ham or sausage, toast and home fries for less than $4. I mean come on, that’s just awesome.

Now that you’ve placed your order, it’s time for a bit more observation of your surroundings and a generous portion of people watching. By now you’ll notice some more details of the restaurant that really help take you further into the 1950’s, such as more pictures of people like Marilyn Monroe and James Dean. Also, if you wore a leather jacket then prepare to pop its collar and stroll on over to the jukebox - Fonzie style - to select the next catchy jingle. Management says the loud music is a strong part of the atmosphere and they strongly discourage customers from lowering the volume.

Now that you’ve got a good feel for the restaurant and have accepted its style of decoration, you’ll want to look around at the other guests to see which types of people are frequenting the diner at the time. Typically, you’ve got your hung-over college students attempting to assemble a story of events that took place the night before and elderly citizens laughing and reminiscing over a morning brew. In-between these two groups, you’ll find large amounts of middle class urban families out for morning brunch (kids eat free Monday through Thursday.)

“I know you don’t visit Canada often, and because this is your first visit to Angel’s, I’ve got to share the greatness of the breakfast special with you. It’s nothing but fried grease and fat that will work its way through your body and cure anything that ails you.”

“Guess I’m going with that then. Hey, did you notice that it’s only like 10 am and the old guys next to us just ordered some high-class beer called Alexander Keith’s.”

“Yeah you’re gonna see a lot of that here. It’s funny because if you include us, about half of this restaurant is hung-over. The college students sitting over there and the probably underage high-school kids sitting over there won’t want to see another beer for quite some time and right next to us are elderly citizens cracking a fresh beer. Take a look now, Ross. The old guys are having a toast and no one else in the diner is fazed by it. Welcome to Angel’s.”

As you wait for your meal to arrive you should realize that you will not find any tension amongst the patrons of the restaurant. The parents of many rambunctious children shouldn’t mind the excessive cursing and lewd stories of the college-students. On a similar note, the elderly citizens won’t become annoyed with the loud children that often run rampant throughout the restaurant. The customers that frequently visit the restaurant understand the diversity amongst the groups and won’t say a word to one another. Quiet acceptance.

Your food should arrive shortly and I can assure you that you won’t be disappointed with the breakfast special. Comment to your party on the quality of your food and that you simply cannot believe how little you paid for it. Expect your waitress to stop by frequently to ensure that you are having an exquisite dining experience (you’ll also want to comment to your party that you should leave the waitress a nice tip.) Enjoy the friendly atmosphere of the restaurant and take note that all the employees seem more than happy to talk with you on just about any subject. Some of my favorite topics include the weather, the Angel’s dining experience, the Dow Jones Industrial Stock Exchange, and any interesting events that took place over the weekend.

By now you’re probably about ready to leave the restaurant. If you need to use the restroom before your exit then be careful because the tiling on the hallway leading up to it is always slippery, no matter how dry it looks. If you were sitting in a booth, then remember to pick up your hat on the way out, but do not to place it back on your head until you have fully embraced the cold outside the door that leads you back into the heart of Waterdown, Ontario.

p.s. You’re going to smell like Angel’s for a week.

Intermission...

I know I promised the greatest list of feature stories ever spawned from a human mind, however I must admit that you've been ill-informed. It turns out that my super-awesome list of feature stories wasn't able to break the singular digit number of three.

Anyway, I thought I'd offer an intermission between these stories because it can be fun to rant once in a while.

Phase three - Ross's magical rant about the font spacing issues on blogspot

Much of the work I've posted on here (all of it actually) are stories and/or poems I've written in Microsoft Word 2003 (eff Word 07) so the copy and paste method of text transfer has been the preferred method of blog posting. My pal Mr. Blogger has decided that he does not like keeping text spacing consistent between text typed in and text pasted in. This means that the words (like the ones I'm typing right now) receive a different level of spacing than the words I paste into my blog from Microsoft Office.
One may not think this is much of a big deal, but in the hands of an anal retentive and potentially obsessive compulsive blogger this could be the straw to break the camel's back. Upon trying to correct the less than perfect formatting situation, said blogger could become so frustrated with the layout that he might actually shatter his computer monitor with any blunt objects in the room, assault the patron next to him in the computer lab with his portable thumb drive, scream vicious obscenities while storming out of the room where he'd find an office chair to pick up and carry outside to throw at the nearest car that just might happen to be the president of the university's at which point he finds himself expelled sending him into a blind fury causing him to summon a demon from hell (how sweet would it be if you could actually do that?) to wreak havoc on all of Bradford (or whichever city he might reside in) and burn down Fisher Hall. Thanks a lot Blogger, you've brought the city of Bradford to its knees because you refused to program the correct auto-format function into your blog. I'll see your ass in court.

p.s. Three cheers for run-on sentences.

The secrets of "that guy..."

Phase two - The Humor Piece

The Secrets of "That Guy"

Ever gone to a party, dance, club, shindig, or box social and taken notice of an obnoxiously loud individual who seems entirely too into himself? I say himself because rarely do we ever see females acting in such an inappropriate manner. This guy usually dresses in a way that screams egotism and follows this up by acting just as egotistical. This guy does not care about what others think of him and typically proceeds to act as loathsome as he can just to garner a few extra annoyed looks from other party-goers.

We’ve all seen him at some point or another so this question can be easily followed up with another question. Ever wish you could be “that guy” at the party who seems to think he commands the attention of everyone in the room? Don’t worry ladies; this article does not exclude you because these directions can easily be manipulated on unwilling boyfriends who are simply just too lame.

I’ve taken the liberty of compiling a fool-proof set of directions to turn the ordinary, nice, intelligent, well-groomed, generally liked male/boyfriend into a full-fledged party animal to improve friendships and attract women in a variety of social settings! So come along with me on an adventure to rattle the ages and warp your perception of human morals.

Step one. Be sure to dress the part. If you want to accomplish this task properly then you’re going to need the correct attire. You’ll need some clothes that let the rest of the party know, “hey, that guy just got here and god damn is he sweet.” Start off with a polo shirt that is at least two sizes too small for you. Popped collar? You bet your ass. The jeans are also an important part of the whole ensemble. Be sure to select a pair that is so full of holes it’ll look like you were mauled by a rabid raccoon on the way to the party. Next comes footwear. Typically that guy will wear a pair of flip flops that you could find at Wal-Mart for $3 but instead you should put great consideration into purchasing a pair from a retail outlet in the mall, such as American Eagle. Expect to spend at least $30 so everyone knows that your flip-flops are expensive and kick ass. Next, you’ll want to find the whitest possible baseball hat you can find. Take said hat (while remembering not to curve the beak because that adds unnecessary comfort) and place it on your head at an angle so off-kilter that it actually feels awkward. Lastly, buy seven or eight Live Strong bracelets of varying colors for your dominant wrist. I’m not sure why, just do it.

Step two. You should really familiarize yourself with the closest gym or YMCA in the area. This is almost mandatory because it is imperative that “that guy” take care of the rippling muscles in his biceps. You won’t be needing many of the machines at the gym, just stick with the arm curl machine and free weights for those bicep curls and possibly tricep kickback exercises. You need not bother utilizing any of the other machines because your arms are what women are going to see through your size 3 polo, popped collar t-shirt. You can follow up on this by holding your arms against your hips all night at the party and flexing your muscles through your shirt. It has been scientifically proven by an unaccredited source that nothing arouses a woman more about a males appearance than large biceps in a tiny shirt. Sexy.

Step three. At the day of a party or a night you plan to go out with your homies, boyz, dawgs, brah’s or buddies, be sure to let them know in even increments throughout the day exactly how drunk you plan to get at said event. It is also very important to follow up on this by getting just as drunk as you told them and then proceeding to announce to those homies exactly how drunk you just got. For added affect, you could pass out face down on the front porch with your pants around your ankles because urinating will prove far too difficult.

Step four. When announcing your presence at a party it is crucial that you provide yourself with an appropriate nickname. A good rule of thumb here is to take the first letter of your first name and add an obscure noun or adjective to the end of it. Some good examples are T-Funk, J-Dawg, G-Billz, and K-Mart.

Step five. Now that everyone knows that the life of the party (you, you sly so-and-so, you) has arrived, the shin-dig can finally get underway. Start out by finding everyone you’ve ever partied with before and giving them an obnoxiously loud greeting that repeats several letters in some of the words. Something like, “Oooooooh shiiiiiiit J-Rock is heeeeeeere. The party can finallllly get starteeeed! Who wants to get druuuuuunk?!” will do just nicely.

Step six. Drink your face off. You could start by merely chugging several beers in succession but if you really want to do things right you should have numerous Jager-bombs to get the ball rolling. If you’re unaware what a Jager-bomb is then you should probably put this article down, find a nice sweater and vest combo and go play tennis or something. Once you’ve downed several Jager-bombs, chugged several beers and pounded many shots of your eighty proof or higher liquor of choice, then you’ll be all set for steps number seven and eight.

Step seven. It is important that you leap into every photograph being taken at the party. This is especially important if the subjects of the photographs are women with their arms around one another, smiling brightly. This smile is essentially inviting you to disrupt the nature of the photograph with your excellence. It is also important that you raise your arms high in the air and hold a sexually appealing grin on your face when the photo is taken. When the girls review the photograph and notice “that guy” in the picture, you should find that they are already aroused. Also, as an added bonus, your Facebook account should explode with photo tag requests, thus fueling your ego even further. You’ll need to send a friend request on Facebook to every single girl you saw at the party as well. It is also never a bad idea to write comments on their account that elude to drunken fiasco’s, sexual innuendo’s or your biceps.

Step eight. Hit on every woman at the party. By coming on to every single woman at the party, your odds have been mathematically proven by an unaccredited source to increase your chances of getting laid. The approach is probably the most important part of this section. Make sure you’re dripping with confidence of a success while making your approach. When she notices that you’re on your way over to her, you could try giving her a sensual wink or an upwards head nod to let her know that you’re going to give her the time of day. God damn is she lucky. As the gap between yourself and your target narrows you should be scanning your mind and selecting the most appropriate pickup line possible. “Sup baby? I couldn’t help but notice you noticing me, and I wanted to come give you notice that I noticed you back.” If she isn’t already swooning over you then you may as well just move on to your next target because if that doesn’t work, then nothing will. A good rule is to chug a beer every time you feel like a woman isn’t good enough for you because she isn’t reacting to your game. Alcohol has been scientifically proven by an unaccredited source to drastically increase the confidence you’ll already be immersed in.

You shouldn’t find it difficult to follow these steps and I know you’ll have fun in the process. Take it from me, R-Shark, these directions are sure to increase friendships, improve your sense of style and allow you to obtain more females than you ever thought possible. Guaranteed*.

*Not an actual guarantee.