Running, Returning.

I just got in from a run. I haven't ran outside since January 2009. It's something I've been thinking about a lot lately. The awesome weather was a sign that tonight was the night to unleash the heel-toe-express on suburbia.
It was perfect running weather. No wind. Slightly cold. No witnesses.
I started uphill. I haven't seen my jogging shadow in forever. It felt good, got me fired up a bit. Half way up the hill the fire faded and reality started throat fucking me. Cold air builds lava inside lungs. Feel the burn bitch.
I chugged on. I made it to the top of the hill and turned right at the lights. There was no sign of ice. My tender tendon smiled under the heavy sock.
My tank was on empty. I fooled myself. I felt too good out of the gate. I was wilting 5 minutes in. I chuggalugged on.
My left calf felt like a tennis ball in a vice. A pop can traveling through a black hole. It was definitely caving in on itself. I tried to not think about it. I had a decent mix on the ipod.
I was running at such a slow pace. I might as well have been under water, that's what it felt like. I must have looked absolutely ridiculous. People who passed me in their cars must have thought "why is he fucking walking like that?". Oh well.
A mile down the road I turn right at the next set of lights. I have nothing left. My body keeps talking to me "listen beb, this is good, just shut er down and let's take this show home." "oh your tendon might be tearing, hear that? feel that? yep, the bitch is definitely tearing so you should go home and eat something high in calories". I ignore it's poisonous pleas.
I heard a dog angrily barking just off in the distance. I got flooded with fear, what if it's a rabid slut of a dog, out on the prowl looking for weak flesh? I thought to myself "damn you beast. If you come for me now I'm yours". Paranoid I kept looking over my shoulder, and that fucked with my equilibrium because i was so gassed. Shameful.
Despite how pitiful the trek was. I am happy I did not quit. I kept moving, kept stepping and kept suffering until the end. I still have it in me to suffer. This is good. This means goals will be met.

the Sambora Squat and kindness.

I went to Toronto this weekend to go visit my girlfriend. I hate taking the late train on Friday nights, the sporting fucks are always out in full force.

The journey started out on the right foot. I decided to go to the station early. The lady behind the counter was given me a bit of tude "you are lucky the train is late or else you'd be out of luck". I was confused? "I'm actually early for a change". She filled me in on the new schedule change. My train leaves 20 minutes earlier now. It was destiny for me to get on that train and encounter the "Sambora Squat".

I arrived in Toronto in decent time and was stunned to see that Union was dead. Almost empty. I got in line to get a token and two hipster guys were counting change and came up short. Some guy came up to them and handed them a bunch of change. They said "thanks man!" and he replied "I believe in karma". I thought that was A OK.
While waiting for the subway I caught wind of this amazing being. He was wearing a tuque and on top of the tuque was a fedora, tilted slightly. He had on hiking boots and awkward jeans and a gortex jacket.
He walked past me but looked me directly in the eyes, holding the contact. His pupils mostly white with a tiny bit of blue in them. I don't know what the fuck was going on with him but it flipped me out. He kinda looked like he was albino but not really. His eyes were something else. He kinda looked like "Powder" but with a bigger "wow" factor. I shall call him "Wowder"
He got on the same car as me and sat a few seats down. The indie hipster guys got on and sat close to him, talking about Crystal Castles or something.
I was day dreaming about slush puppies when I saw Wowder intercept their conversation. I hushed my ipod and eavesdropped. It went something like this:
Wowder to the hipsters, "You should read the early Toxic Avenger stuff, he has a quality about him that comes from deep within his essence. It's not like the newer stuff, it's really about life as life should be. You can find the books I'm talking about at the library, they are hardcover".
The hipsters looked a bit uncomfy but were extremely polite "wow, cool man I'll do that". I don't usually see that kind of kindness between strangers on the Toronto transit.
The hipsters got off at the next stop leaving Wowder all alone. He couldn't sit still and made awkward eye contact with everyone around him. Maybe he has Asperger's Syndrome. Anyways.
My stop was quickly approaching so I got up and stood by the doors. It was also Wowder's stop. Excellent. I watched as he stood in the middle of the car and got into a deep squat and held on to his backpack straps. He steadied himself, waiting for the G Forces to come a knockin.
People stared and snickered. He stood quiet and concrete.
The subway stopped, he didn't budge. He was like the bear costume in Super Mario 3 that turns into the statue. The doors opened and he went from the squat into a pimp step and strutted right on out of there.
He made my week.

I was 18 over ten years ago.

I was watching some of my old football tapes tonight. It's weird to see yourself playing in a game and not remembering fuck all about that day.
I saw the sunburn on my arms and I slightly recalled being in agony later on that night but the hits, the blocks and the game all draw a blank.
Football was my main interest for a lot of years, I was watching my first season of varsity and I look like a rookie. Awkward in the huddle, going buck wild on every play. It was fucking fun to watch myself in a game that happened a decade ago. The commentators were cheesy, the stands were empty and the sun cooked us in our black jerseys.

I wonder what I did after the game? Was there a party? Did I get wasted? Whatever I did I'm sure I had fun. The best part was always the ride home after the game. Talking about what went down, who fucked up, funny shit that happened, the illegal shit you got away with and figuring out where to stop to eat. Usually it was "Fast Eddies".
Ten fucking years. Wow.

heel please heal

I ruptured my Achilles tendon on January 20th while training at an MMA gym. I wasn't doing anything special, just sprints during the warm up and I heard a loud pop and fell to the ground. It felt like someone booted me hard in the back of the leg, like a charlie horse on PCP. The pain kept growing and I felt barfy. I knew I had tore the tendon, I could see it all bunched up and my foot was twitching.

This is my first week off of crutches. I was on them for almost 8 weeks. The cast has been on for 8 and probably will be on for 6 more. I sleep with it on, I'm actually used to it now.
I am praying to the tendon gods that I can run this summer. My foot is in a cocoon and there is a butterfly in it, just waiting to spread it's damn wings

"Time isn't on my side anymore than you" AKA: OLD BALLS

I was talking to my girlfriend the other day about those old WWF wrestling stickers you'd get in hostess chip bags. I was telling her that I was really into Dill Pickle chips during that time, even though my allegiance was to ketchup, it was a small exploration phase before going back to the red dust kingdom. While telling her about this pointless memory, I realized that the year of those stickers was 1987: 22 years ago.
The realization kind of punched me in the gut. Those moments happen to me somewhat often and I hate them but enjoy them at the same time.

I found out yesterday that my dad has throat cancer. I'm not real close to the old man. But it is still weird to find out. Sometimes with aging, and the people around me aging I compare it to Agatha Christie's novel "And Then There Were None". A mysterious killer is running around knocking everyone off in creative ways.
My dad looks old. His lifestyle is a testament to how not to live and his looks show it.
He was telling me about how when I was 5 he took me to a car show in Toronto or London and they had the Knightrider car there. He said one of the car models left her leather jacket in the front seat of "Kit" and I asked him "is that Michael Knight's jacket?", he said he told me "yeah it is" and I instantly became mesmorized. I stood in one spot staring at the jacket for a half hour. I do remember seeing that car, but it's a flash memory, blurry and the colours are all wrong. I was probably standing there waiting for Mr. Knight to come back and do a burnout and bust through the wall.
Hearing the story gave me the same feeling as the WWF stickers. There are so many experiences in my life that are blurs. I recall them but there is no clarity. I would give all my belongings away to be able to go back and see myself at 5, my mannerisms and to see how I looked at things. See myself before I figured out what was lame, or had embarassments that roped me in and killed the unaware piglet that I was.

Pick Up Artists

I'm watching a doc called "GameOn" which follows some guys who are learning the art of picking up girls.
I have heard people talk about "The Game", everybody raves about it. I saw some clips of "Mystery" and I was let down. I'm not doubting that the strategies in the book work, but for the most part I think it's bullshit.
This documentary features guys going to seminars with chalk boards and pamphlets, sheets with ice breaking one liners. Then there are the online communities where these guys can go and talk about strategies, make cool nicknames like "Woodhaven" "SlickTrixx" or "DateRape" (not really)
They are a huge legion of nerds and non nerds who's only quest is to dip their dicks in the sweetest of honeys, and I can respect that.

My problem with the whole pick up thing is it's a bit misleading. Yes some guys are better than others at meeting and eventually sleeping with girls. You can study those guys, break down their habits and their methods, turn that information into a bunch of colourful graphs and charts and sell it to the horny and lonely. What bothers me is it's all unnecessary. A deep fried douche bag can walk into a bar, and ask out 100 girls and probably be successful once. Now from what I'm seeing in this documentary is guys that are pumped up, given gold material to use on girls, they practice it, then they go get gussied up with silk shirts and Rick The Temp leather bracelets and harass woman.
They have a thing called a "routine stack" where they have a bunch of stock material to spew. Let's look at some choice "Banter" that I've seen practiced so far:

"This place is such a meat market, I hate the way girls look at me. I feel like such a piece of meat"

"Something smell great in here! Oh it's me!" <-----that is real, i am not making these up Now go to youtube and search "Neil Strauss on Jimmy Kimmel"
he talks about the lingo that guys who play "The Game" use and it goes a little something like this

"Hey, I was in a 2 set and and i was trying to neg the target but I got blocked from the target should I DHV it or DLV assuming she was an SHB 11"
I don't hate Neil Strauss like I hate "Mystery" even though he looks like a tendon and laughs like a goat getting it's balls tickled.
A "neg" is a backhanded compliment that is to bring up your value and knock hers down. The example given is: "Hey, I really like your outfit, the scarf, the jacket and the skirt, they're great, but those shoes, those shoes have to go"

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for a guy neglected in high school coming back strong and fucking the hot chick that never gave him the time of day. But thinking about all of these guys in bars doing step by step strategies to ninja their way into girls pants, that creeps me out and irritates me.
I don't think it's fair game that a guy will walk in with his "wings" and use rehearsed material to manipulate them into bed. I can't see this shit working on a sober girl, but in a club where a girl is wasted, or rebounding from a break up, it might just work if she's feeling self destructive enough.
It seems sketchy as fuck.

Seeing "Mystery" do his shtick makes me want to kick his balls through his ass. They think they are so suave, but where is the talent? Picking up drunk dummies? stringing them along with "negs" and quirky facts? it's like thinking your an excellent hunter, when all you're doing is bringing a shotgun to the zoo; you're bound to hit something.
At the same time, I don't have much sympathy for a girl who gets railed by a disciple of "the game" if they make themselves vulnerable enough to get gamed. There are also times when girls just want the man jam slammed in their clam ham and it doesn't matter who does it.

I hope girls everywhere read "the game" so they can pick out the slippery snakes and humiliate them in front of a live audience. I also hope that the guys that really need the book's help get it, and enjoy the fruits of their labour.

I wonder what it's like the next morning when the guy wakes up and doesn't know what to do with himself? Are there chapters in the book about that? Or is it just how to get the kill, not how to sustain a relationship?

mixtapemixtapemixtapemixtapemixtapemixtapemixtape

I was going through my old tapes last night, figuring out what was worth keeping and what was being trashed.
I found lots of older 4 track mix downs that I thought I lost. I also found a bunch of mix tapes I had made for driving when I was like 17/18. Each one of them reminded me of the long drive from the trailer park to school or to a friend's place, each one made the drive more adventurous.
I still listen to a lot of the same songs, and always will.
I got all nostalgic thinking about the old buick, baby blue and chunky, always full of garbage and the corpses of past mix tapes that had been worn out.

I would like to make individual caskets for the recent mix tapes i trashed, have a funeral in the backyard, pour out a 40 and bury em deep