home sweet home...

i love being in Calgary.

i love sleeping in my own house, in my own bed with the comforter my mum made for me. i love the overabundance of boys with ink,toques, and facial hair. i love driving my emerald black ’93 Pathfinder [aka: my baby SingSing]. i love every single thing about the Ship & Anchor –mostly the burger: loaded, with half & half [if you’ve been, you know]— but also the staff, the music, the ambiance, the patio [in summer months], & the clientele. i love not having to ask directions. i love my roommate and my roommate’s black cat. i love all things Flames related: the “Red Mile,” the ‘Dome, and the fact that the team had both the moustache growing contest and the gold hard hat. i love that I know where to go to get a wicked cuppa (Beano), a great breakfast (Diner Deluxe), and a big ol’ cuddly hug (broken city). i love seven-digit-dialing. i love the mountains and the crisp, clean, dry air. i love visiting the ones I love best, in the house I grew up in. i love running into people I haven’t seen in years, reminiscing about old times, and hearing about other people I haven’t seen in years.

*sigh*

no point.

i gotta stop watching latenight hockey highlights...

i woke up this morning and had to laugh a little about the dream i'd been having as i came to.

i was in an institution of learning, of some sort --i'm not sure if it was a college or high school type situation, but i was definitely in a writing class. we had just finished a project, and (much to my surprise and dismay), we had to read something out loud to the other students. the thing that made me really squirmy and nervous was that i had written my essay/paper/short story about peter forsberg... who was sitting directly across from me...

forsberg went first. i don't actually know what his piece was about, because i was too busy panicking inside my head about what to do. i know his was funny, though, because the class seemed to chuckle in unison at all the right parts [damn you, forsberg, and your clever, witty penmanship !]. i rummaged through my notebook, looking for a suitable alternative to my real dissertation, with an obvious "fuck the grade, i'll read anything" attitude. i was sweating...

the amused-looking girl to my right leans over and states "he's pretty hot..."
i, of course, agree.
she continues, "...too bad about the face..."

after that, it gets kinda fuzzy. i know it was someone else's turn (and, to be honest, i'm pretty sure that someone was ashton kutcher), and then it would be me. but then there was some sort of recess or break, and this nameless guy [who was a perfect mix of barry pepper and mel, the guy from outlook saskatchewan who taught me how to two-step in a parking lot outside a wedding reception] came in and put his arm around me. and i was completely starry-eyed in love with this dude...

the conclusion of this dream is what my brother would describe as a typical tobes ending: there isn't one.

the end.

forty-four...

this was initially gonna be a single-line post about how i was walking home yesterday and i saw a bush of crimson roses in a garden on dovercourt... "in november ??" i thought to myself, and then i actually stopped to smell them...

but since i'm posting on taking the time to smell the roses, i might as well post on david blaine, 44, black diamonds, kent & tattoos and how they're all interrelated... or, even better, i should leave it at that.

the end.

no sleep till brooklyn...

when i think about new york city, i think of the same landmarks, historical events, clichés & pop icons that everyone else does (ie: all the things you'd find at the NewYork NewYork casino in Vegas). i think of my past experiences in the city, like watching tron at the HoJo when i was eight, and wandering the streets with lex, hagan & my cuz three years ago. but mostly, when i think about new york city, i think of the beastie boys.

"The L.I.E, the B.Q.E, hippies at the bandshell with the L.S.D !" adrock repeats over and over and over in my head as i get on the B44 williamsburg bus (that doesn't go to williamsburg, it turns out) from deep within the heart of brooklyn. i ask the bus driver if he can yell out when we get to the G line subway and he informs me, in his smooth 'i am a strong black man and i don't take shit from ANYONE' voice, "no ma'am... i can CALL it out , though." i say thank you and take a seat near the front of the bus, well within earshot.

across the aisle and a few seats up is a man in his late seventies, talking on a cellphone. imagine it: seniors on regular telephones speak loudly. on a cellphone, this man's decibel level reaches an unprecedented degree. the dude is fuckin' SCREAMING,,,

"I CAN'T COME TONIGHT, IT'S MY GRAND DAUGHTER'S BIRTHDAY PARTY !... NO I CAN'T TONIGHT !!!! NO, IT'S MY GRAND DAUGHTER'S BIRTHDAY PARTY !" it was mindboggling that whoever was on the other end was not comprehending his statement, because everyone on the bus was, to be sure. my fellow commuters snicker each time he repeats himself, and after a few minutes, we cross that strange anonymous transit rider line; the woman next to me smiles and winks, initiating a silent camaraderie.

the man sat at the front of the bus yelling into his phone for a solid five minutes. and without apparent resolution, he hangs up. the bus falls into complete silence...

the driver asks, "so, you got that sorted out, then ?"


yeah, you read that right.
i took the G train...