Erin

Hi Erin.  How are ya?

It’s been almost two years since we last saw each other.  It was three weeks previous to that I had left my ex-wife and you were six months away from getting married to your partner Phoebe.  I have to admit, I was getting goosebumps and butterflies getting ready to see you again.

I hadn’t seen you in 10 years, and you looked almost identical to the girl who sat beside me in drafting class in grade 10.  I know this is going to make you blush, but you looked like an Irish princess.  Long red hair with a slight curl to it, milky white skin with a dash of freckles under your cheeks and wide, blue-green eyes with the heavy Goth black mascara.  You were so freakin’ gorgeous.  Later on, I would tell people that you were Shirley Manson’s twin sister.  And you were.  You’d even admitted it to yourself, grudgingly.

I never properly thanked you for that last visit.  You had planned on visiting family here in Winnipeg and you weren’t going to have time to see me.  I understood.  We grew apart, as people often do, and considering how awkward things had gotten between us, it was surprising we even spoke after high school.  But Randy emailed you, telling you what had happened with Annie and I, and you emailed me setting aside the afternoon so we could get together and catch up.  That put a big kink in your plans, but I was hurting and you stepped up.  That meant a lot to me.

We had lunch, and I instantly realized how comfortable I was with you again.  We laughed.  We drank beer.  We laughed harder.  And we drank more beer.  And it was a few hours later and we were both more than tipsy and we were traipsing through the Forks Market, and we were looking through various stalls looking for a present for Phoebe, you telling me how wonderful she was and how I would love her when I would finally meet her, and even though I was in a wasteland as far as relationships went, I was really, genuinely happy for you.

We finally talked about us in high school, about how we both came from middle schools where we were mercilessly teased and we both felt like we were so alone.  You knew I was special when you saw I had a (VHS, ‘cos that’s all there was back then) copy of Day of the Dead signed by Tom Savini that I brought to school one day, and you practically freaked out, and you made me promise that I’d come over to your house some day so you could show me your copy of Fangoria #27 also signed by Tom Savini, and I knew you were special too.

It didn’t take long before we were hanging out a lot.  I loved being in your bedroom, laying on the bed watching Return of the Living Dead, listening to Alice in Chains or Violent Femmes, or just talking.  I just loved the smell of your bedroom, and the bed was so much softer.  We’d hit the downtown music and thrift stores on Saturdays and always have McDonald’s French fries for lunch.  I should have told you those were some of the best memories of my high school years.  No joke.

Sometimes I came over before school and we’d smoke cigarettes and drink vodka before class.  It was wrong and we knew it, but we felt so rebellious and cool.  We both had an alcoholic parent, so alcohol was in no short supply.  We both bonded over that, I think.

And remember the time we dropped LSD and went to a midnight showing of Evil Dead II and Army of Darkness and we had to walk the 3 hours home because the buses had stopped running and we didn’t have enough money for cab fare?  Classic. You were finding the skeeziest people to strike up conversations with and trying to bum smokes at 3 in the morning, and the next thing I remember, we woke up sleeping in your bed at 2 in the afternoon, both of us naked, and both covered head to toe in mud.  We were pretty embarrassed about it, but managed to laugh about it after a couple of weeks.

And of course, I remember that afternoon in the first week of classes in Grade 12, where we cut class and went back to your place.  You were distracted and distant, and there was something different in the air, but I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time.  Your mom was at work, and we sat in your bedroom playing CDs all afternoon, me mixing cranberry juice with splashes of vodka.  We were both quite tipsy after an hour or so, and we lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling and talked, meandering from one subject to another, mostly about what we were going to do after high school.  You were absolutely brilliant, and an academic scholarship at a prestigious university was virtually assured.  I was on the bubble of getting a scholarship, but I didn’t apply myself as hard as I should have and wound up empty-handed.

There was an uncomfortably long silence, and I remember my heart started pounding before you even asked the question.

“Wanderer, why did you never ask me out?”

I so wanted to, so many times.  I was so painfully shy, but when I was in middle school, there were a group of alpha females that took particular pleasure in tormenting me for a full two years.  One of their first gags involved one of them pretending to like me only to have her publicly humiliate me in front of what seemed like half the school when I formally asked her out.  That wounded me very deeply and since then I kept my cards pretty close to my chest.  But I wanted us to date so badly.

Of course, it took me almost 10 years to tell you any of this.  I told you I wanted to, but was too shy, too nervous, too scared to lose what we had.  And that was all true.  But a big part of me was terrified of reliving that humiliation.  Did I know that you’d never do such a cruel thing to me, even if you weren’t interested?  I do now.  Back then, I was pretty sure, but I was slow to trust.

And you leaned over and kissed me, and I was flooded with a rush of nervous, electric tension.  I kissed you back.  We locked in an embrace as I pulled your t-shirt over your head and tossed it on the floor.  You told me you could feel my heart pounding in my chest.  I ran my hands along your sides and pulled you tighter to me.

It was heaven.  But there was a tickle in the back of my head that it was wrong too.

I looked into your eyes and you looked like a deer in the headlights.  You looked like you were on the verge of crying.

I asked you if you were okay, and you very unconvincingly said you were.  I told you that we didn’t have to do this if you didn’t want to.  You unconvincingly told me that you wanted to.  You stripped naked and I did too.  We kissed some more.  But it was wrong and we both knew it.

I took your chin in my hand and looked deep into your eyes and you burst out crying.

“I’m sooo sorry… I’m soooo confused.  I like you, I really like you.  I just… please don’t be angry with me.”

I put your head on my chest and told you it was okay while I stroked your hair absently.  But inside, I felt like I was played all over again.  I felt so utterly undesirable.  And embarrassed.  In my immature, petulant way, I thought this was something you were doing to me, and never once did I consider how unbelievably difficult things were for you.  I guess most teenagers are like that.  Most adults too.  We drifted apart after that day.  I think we hung out a few more times, but it was never the same.  You’d say something to try and make me laugh, and I’d laugh, but it was forced and you knew it.  When you thought I wasn’t looking, you were frowning and worried, watching our friendship break up before your eyes.  Before we both knew it, we stopped talking, merely nodding and smiling going past each other in the school hallways.  We saw each other at a couple of parties, but that was it.

 I found out at one of those parties you lost your virginity to some guy on the basketball team you barely knew.  I was furious with you.  I know, I know… I’m a douche, okay?  But in my defense, I was only 17 and very confused myself.  I found myself sulking and not wanting to even see you anymore.

I had to leave home a couple of months after finishing high school.  In fact, I moved far, far away – almost 900 miles to be exact.  Yes, it had to do with my dad.  You knew that, I’m sure.  I was gone for almost three years, and I was cut off from just about everyone – my family, most of my friends, everyone.  It would be nearly 6 years before we’d talk to one another again.  I needed to be away, I think, to finish growing.  I needed to become my own person, and there were too many influential forces around me to let that happen.

The next time we saw each other was 2000, and we happen to be at the same bar that night.  At first we were both stiff and formal, but as the beer flowed, we broke down each other’s walls and we spent six years catching up.  And that’s when you came out to me.

Well, I found out you actually came out in a letter you wrote me about six months after I left, but I never got that letter.  My mom told me later she must’ve misplaced it and forgot to send it on, but I have my doubts about that.  It never occurred to me at the time, or even up until you said it that you were a lesbian, but it made sense afterwards.  I was surprised.  Not because that you were a lesbian, but because you never told me before.  You were always so open, it never occurred that you were hiding this large part of yourself away.  Then again it never occurred to me that maybe you didn’t know yourself.

You told me how sorry you were for what had happened.  You told me that you wanted to be with a guy because you didn’t want to like girls back then, and you wanted that guy to be me because you thought the world of me.  And you did find me attractive, and you had it all planned out, and you were looking forward to it, but when the time came it just seemed so wrong.  And mostly you kept going because you didn’t want me to be disappointed.

I told you about the alpha girls prank in middle school, and how I felt like I was set up again only to have the rug pulled out from under me.  And I told you I knew that’s not what you did, but I had this ‘oh why me?’ attitude, and I was selfish and it hurt so much because there hadn’t been anyone like you ever.

Ah, the idiotic melodrama of teenagers.

We made up that night, but our friendship was resigned to emailing every so often because you lived in Montreal now, like a serious artiste, and I stayed back in Winnipeg unclogging toilets and changing light bulbs in a hardware store to get through university.  About eighteen months later, you had a photography exhibit showing at a small gallery and you sent me the invitation and I didn’t go.  Well, I did go, but not when you were there.  I went a few days later, and your work was so beautiful.  

I still have that email telling me how hurt you were that I didn’t come.  I’m so sorry, but I was so ashamed.  I was unemployed and homeless by then, couch surfing when I could get away with it or sleeping in a buddy’s van.  I didn’t want you to see me then, half-asleep with fatigue and hunger, chilled to the bone and needing a shower.  Two weeks after that letter, I attempted suicide.  I never told you that.  That was my secret.

It was a full two years before I summoned up the nerve to write you again, apologizing for everything that had happened and hoping things were going well for you.  Things had turned around for me.  I was married then, I had purpose and drive in my life.  I’d lose that mojo several more times throughout my marriage, but then I’d felt good, revitalized and ready to take on the world.

It took you a couple of years to answer back, but when you did, things were right again.  We let bygones be bygones and you told me we’d see each other soon.  That ‘soon’ was the last time we ever saw each other, a couple of years ago.



We shopped in the Forks, looking for something you could take home to Phoebe and you finally decided on an Indian sari that looked really smart.

At that same store, I looked at a silver necklace that caught my eye, and I’m not normally a jewelry wearer but I really liked this necklace, but put it back because the damn thing was like a hundred bucks, and I was living in a spare room in my sister’s house staring down the barrel of divorce.  And then later on, when we were preparing to say so long (not goodbye, even though it’d be the last time I’d ever see you) you told me to close your eyes and you put that damn necklace around my neck and kissed me on the cheek.  And I grabbed you and hugged you for what seemed like 20 minutes because I didn’t want you to see me cry and I realized how much I was going to miss you.

Anyway, we left each other our numbers to call on the phone properly, and I had a standing invitation to come to Montreal to see you anytime I wanted.  I was planning to take a solitary road trip this summer and I was going to spend the weekend with you and Phoebe.

I was surprised when my phone rang and it was you on the called ID.  I answered, but it wasn’t you, it was Phoebe, and after a second or two my heart sank terribly, because I knew something was dreadfully wrong.

She told me she lost you a couple of months previous to cancer.  She said you fought valiantly, but succumbed despite your best efforts.   I was shocked, because you always seemed so vibrant and healthy and I simply couldn't imagine it.  My hand shook as I talked to Phoebe on the phone.  I feel for her so terribly.

I miss you so much Erin.  I know it's no good brooding on the wasted years, but I wish things had been different between us.  You should have probably been my closest friend.  But nonetheless, I feel lucky I got to know you at all.  If there is an afterlife, I hope we can at least spend one afternoon in a while watching horror movies, eating Doritos and drinking vodka and cranberry juice.  Until then, I have this necklace and yes, Phoebe did send on your autographed copy of Fangoria #27 signed by Tom Savini.  You're one of the best babe.

*Note to readers... this video link Return of the Living Dead contains a little nudity and a whole lot of heebie-jeebie-inducing zombies and generally gory unpleasantness.  Be fairly warned.

Hugs and kisses, until we meet again

- PW

A Very Belated England Football Team Post

Yes, you are all still football widows for the time being.

The one thing on everyone’s lips is that Wayne Rooney has return to the England squad. 

I’m not a fan of Wayne Rooney.  I am a fan of Wayne Rooney’s potential, to be sure, and sadly, it’s a potential that has yet to be realized for England and I’m becoming increasingly skeptical that it will ever be realized.

It may be him personally, or his inability to adjust to England’s game from Manchester United’s, where he routinely averages a goal every two games or so.  I’m not sure.  And I’d be wary to upset the apple cart and slip Rooney into a starting eleven that has done very nicely without him thus far this tournament.

But that’ll never, ever happen.  Rooney carries the Expectations of a Nation on his broad shoulders, where anything else but a cup win with him capping a hat-trick per game will be seen as a failure. 

I anticipated a positive result against Ukraine and a berth in the quarter-finals.  I cannot see England making it past either Spain or Italy.  I hope they do, and as Saturday rolls around, I’ll turn into a crazy, hope-against-hope fan again.  And who knows?  It could happen (it WILL happen… we still believe!)

My feeling is that this is a young team that still needs developing.  It’s unfair to put upon them the expectations that were put on the so-called Golden Generation of Beckham and co.  They had their best chance in 2006 when a young Rooney, still nursing an ankle injury got sent off for stomping on Portugal’s Figo.  I felt they had the talent to win that game, had they had their full team on.  It wasn’t to be and the England squad disintegrated to the point where they failed to qualify for Euro 2008 and put up their worst World Cup showing in 2010.  To put it in perspective, England scored as many goals against Sweden on Friday as they did in all four games in WC 2010.  And most of their opponents weren’t exactly top-level competition either. 

There’s a positive energy to the squad now that’s been absent for the last 5 years or so.  I’m not sure what it is – coaching, new blood or a combination of both.  I feel though this is the squad we can take to the World Cup in 2014 and show very well.

************************************************************************

England 1 – Ukraine 0

Well, England did it… sort of.  With a lot of luck they did it, because they did not play well.  And yes, Rooney scored, but to be fair it was a goal I could have put in, had I been in his position.

It really should have been a tie, because Ukraine did put one over the line, but the officials didn’t spot it.  At least we England fans can be sympathetic toward Ukraine, because fate was against us too in South Africa in 2010.  Can we please put goal-line technology in place now FIFA?  How much more convincing do you need?

I didn’t see the entire game.  I watched about 20 minutes before I took Nick to his doctor’s appointment and got a text about Rooney’s goal as soon as I sat down in the pediatrician’s office.  The doctor and I celebrated and spent 5 of Nick’s 15 minutes talking soccer while he gave Nick the once-over.  He declared Nick to be ridiculously  healthy, with the body of a young Olympic athlete, and sent him on his way with a handful of jelly beans.  England’s play was sloppy at best, frightening at worst.  Ukraine was given too free a reign with the ball.  England should be lucky they weren’t playing Spain or Germany, because either team would’ve punished them in short order.

Steven Gerrard

Okay, I’m officially eating crow now.  I was dead-set against Gerrard being included in this England line-up.  I think everyone was.  Gerrard is old and hasn’t been healthy in a long, long time.  Further to that, Gerrard represented the notion that England was clinging to the promise of the past a little too long (Frank Lampard anyone?).  I mean, it’s not like England doesn’t have midfield options, but they don’t have anyone quite like Gerrard, who can move so fluidly between offense and defense.  Two assists and two Man of the Match awards in three games, engineering vital set piece plays, and being an all around great captain.  He’s been a bright star, all that much brighter for someone whose best days are decidedly behind him.

Defense

England has a confidence defending in the box that I haven’t seen in ages.  It’s a good thing too, since Roy Hodgson’s primary strategy is to play 8 in the box and let the opposition try to hammer them down, and then counterattack when the time is right.  Goal line saves by resident adulterer and alleged racist John Terry certainly doesn’t   This strategy is meh at best.  I’m not a fan, and would rather see England adopt a more balanced attack, albeit for purely aesthetic reasons.  But it seems to be doing something, since England has had an impressive record in this tournament.  Whether England continues this strategy against top level competition remains to be seen.  I shudder to think they will

Joe Hart

Let me be blunt:  England would not have made it out of the group stage without Hart.  He has been that important.  The France game for sure would have been a loss, and I'm quite certain Ukraine would have been either a tie or another loss.  England hasn't seen a keeper like him since David Seaman, and he still has a good 10-15 years ahead of him.  A winning team is anchored by a good keeper.  This is a good start.

vs. Italy

England drew Italy.  Their other option was to draw defending champions Spain, who are looking quite comfortable right now, drawing a fighting-behind-closed-doors France.

I've got a good feeling about this game.  Italy is an old squad, while England is primarily kids, with a few vets thrown in.  Italy is a defensive side, and so is England.  Oddsmakers have them virtually even.  Balotelli will be the wild card for Italy.  When he plays well, there are few better.  But he is a prima donna and prone to erratic and bizarre behaviour.  I'll be bunkered at the King's Head Pub on King St. in the Exchange District this Sunday.

Come on Eng-er-land!!  Who are you pulling for this tournament?  Or could you care less?

A Quick Euro 2012 Thought...

... to those who find soccer boring and/or irritating, normal blogging will resume in July.

Ireland are the first casualties of the tournament, and that's really no surprise.  But it's been an absolute blast having the Irish fans there.  And we England supporters can take note what real support means.   When your team is trailing 4-0 and a tournament exit is in sight, you should not, at that moment, lay blame, look for scapegoats or boo your players off the field.  They will catch shit, no two ways about it.  But in those last few moments, they should be applauded for taking on the enormous pressure of pulling on the shirt for their country.

Ireland got battered by Spain today.  And their fans responded by belting out 'The Fields of Atherny'.  It gave me goosebumps.

So long Ireland, hopefully until the World Cup.  And Shay Given?  Don't sweat it, you're still one of the best Newcastle players to put on the gloves.

Euro 2012: Match 1 England v France

England 1 v France 1

Every major tournament is like this.  I wax philosophical about England’s place in world soccer stage now, that their light is diminished among the brighter lights of Spain, Germany and the Netherlands.  Their ideas are old, their squad too riddled with injury, their appointed-at-the-last-possible-second manager too ancient to take this tournament.  And the closer and closer I get to kickoff time, the more child-like I become in my belief that England will triumph against all odds over the forces of evil.

As the whistle blows and the clock starts ticking, I become giddy again.  And that’s a good thing.  England has a charming football song called ‘Three Lions (Football’s Coming Home)’ that describes this very thing.  England famously underachieves, but when it comes time, it’s okay to give yourself over to impossible hope and just cheer your heart out and live in that shiny, brief moment in wonder and glory that makes the inevitable disappointment worthwhile.

Roy Hodgson craves simplicity in England’s play and with a definite emphasis on defense.  Suits me.  England scored all of 3 goals in all of the last World Cup so I think it’s safe to assume that goals are not going to be England’s strong suit. 

England was happy to let France come at them and counterpunch when the timing was right.  It wasn’t brilliant.  But it was sound.  France couldn’t break down England’s back four, and even when they got a good shot away, Joe Hart was there to mop up.

By far, the man of the match (apart from Hart, who made at least 3 game-saving stops) was the ageless Steven Gerrard, who seemed to marshal both England’s defense and offense, putting through some majestic through balls to Milner (who missed an open net around minute 15) and Young as well as orchestrating the set piece that saw Lescott scoring from a free kick.

The Pros:

England’s defense was nothing short of brilliant.  I truly believe that France threw everything they had at England’s defense and apart from Nasri’s wonder strike, they came up empty.  Of course, Joe Hart played his part too, and played it well.  He made a brilliant stop off a French header in the first half that in many other instances would have been a goal.

Gerrard’s midfield play was also fantastic.  For a man written off as too old and beaten up (by yours truly as well), he stepped up to the plate and quarterbacked England’s meager offense into a goal and what should have been more. 

The Cons:

England’s strikers were non-existent.  I mean that.  I don’t recall Ashley Young’s name being mentioned once.  For all of England’s emphasis on defense, they need strikers who can put the ball in the back of the net when the opportunity presents themselves.  

And England's crossing?  Oh God, the crossing.  It was bloody atrocious.  More than a few crosses into the box sailed way past the far post.  England is, has and always been a cross from the wings kind of team.  If they can't do that, they are going to have big time problems.

But England's passing has been their Achilles' Heel.  England smacks of a team that is woefully underprepared and it showed this afternoon.  Apart from a couple of series in the second half, I was hard pressed to remember if England strung together more than a few passes in a row.  More than once, a pass back to Hart was understroked, forcing Hart into very compromising positions.  Other times it was the midfield who turned over the ball after a mistimed pass.  It's as if half the team is playing one system and half the team is playing the other.

The result:

I think most England fans will be (or at least should be) happy with the result.  I certainly was bracing for an England loss, especially when looking at England’s abysmal record against top flight competition over the years and France's solid rebound after a dismal World Cup.  It was England’s toughest game in the group stage and they got a point.  It was dull as dishwater, but Hodgson isn't playing for the fans.  He's playing to get his team advanced.  He took a step in the right direction.  

Do I think this team is going to get past the quarter-finals?  A lot depends on who they draw, of course, but I can't see it happening, to be honest.  A lot of it is going to come down to how Hart keeps goal (brilliantly, thus far) and if Wayne Rooney finally will rise to the occasion and play good football for England.  He is in his prime right now, and it is his tournament to show the world he is Christiano Ronaldo's equal.  2004 he was too young.  2006 he struggled mightily with an ankle injury.  2008 England didn't qualify and 2010 they didn't live up to expectations.  I think this will be Rooney's final chance.  He may have a place in 2014, but if Rooney has a bad tournament here, it think it is time for England to develop other options.  He is currently sitting out a two-game suspension.  We will see.

A Day in the Life: June 4. 2012

5:10 AM – I’ve fallen asleep on the couch again, watching Youtube on TV.  This is not a good habit to get into.  I strain and peer to try and see the clock but I cannot see the time without my glasses.  I pad the coffee table for them, put them on.

Damn.  Too early to get up and too late to fall back into deep sleep.  I plod to the bathroom to pee, plod to my bedroom and doze until the alarm clock goes off.

5:45 AM – The alarm clock goes off.  I hit snooze and try to wring every last drop of sleep out.  It’s of little use, but I try nonetheless. 

6:00 AM – I plan to have a bite of breakfast before work as I always feel better when I do, but I get distracted reading emails and Google Reader.

6:20 AM – Oh shit, I gotta get moving.  Brush teeth.  Put on clothes.  Run out the door.  No breakfast.  I stuff two apples and leftover curried bean soup into my lunchbag.

6:27 AM – Catch the bus to work.  It’s the same 3 people every day when I get on.  Cute young Asian woman, who looks up from her book and smiles at me every morning.  I smile and nod back, frowning a little on the inside when I see her wedding band.  Next is a middle-aged native woman, who is nice enough, but will chew my ear off the entire bus trip, so now I wave and smile, but keep my distance.  The third is a sullen man in the back, wearing a construction safety vest and ridiculously loud bass booming out of his headphones.  We never acknowledge each other.  I read a couple of stories out of Kurt Vonnegut’s Welcome to the Monkey House.

6:45 AM – Get off the bus, and leg it the remaining 5 minutes to the office.  The first person I always see is Svetlana, our receptionist from Russia with the thick Boris dahling accent.  She is young and very nice and we banter a minute before I get to my desk.

10:30 AM – I have been snowed in with paperwork and invoices all morning and I can scarcely believe it’s this late.  I go for a walk to the Wal-Mart, which is about 5 minutes away and buy pre-cut, pre-washed broccoli and canned pasta for lunch.  I make a mental note to set aside 10 minutes to make my lunch before I go to bed tonight and I also note with bemusement that I’ll get lazy and I won’t bother. 

1:00 PM – Now there is virtually nothing to do.  The classical music playing on our small office radio is making me drowsy.  It’s liable to be like this for the rest of the day.  My workmate in the office, Stan, only works part-time and has gone home for the day.  I’m all by my lonesome in my corner of the building.

4:45 PM – I walk in the door and resist the urge to sink into the couch to play video games until midnight.  I survey the place; it’s like a toy-filled bomb went off in here.  I can’t rest now.  I’ve got to make supper, go for a jog and head out to Nick’s soccer practice.  I put a chicken breast with a splash of olive oil in a pan and set it to medium.  I wash some dishes while it cooks and set up the rice cooker.  While that’s going on, I do two loads of dishes and change into my jogging gear.  The rice is done, so I cut up the cooked chicken, add some frozen veggies and throw it all in a pot with a few dollops of one of a dozen half-filled bottles of sauce I got in the fridge.  I think it’s some kind of rib sauce, but I’m not positive.

5:30 PM – I go for a jog, debating on whether or not to run the 5k route or the 3k route.  I’ve got a lot to do tonight, so I opt for 3k.  The route takes me near my ex-wife’s workplace, and I worry about bumping into her.  I don’t want her to think I’m showing off by running near her workplace, but at the same time, this is the most convenient route for me; no busy streets to cross and lots of shade from trees.  For this reason, I keep this route and let her think what she wants to think.

6:00 PM – I eat supper on the couch, shoveling in chicken and rice with a big spoon right from the pot I cooked it in.  I annoyingly realize the pot is too hot to set down anywhere, least of all my lap.  I eat while holding the pot in the air in front of me by the handle.  This is really awkward, but I don’t want to get up; I’ll just eat really fast.

6:45 PM – I’m at the field for Nick’s practice.  I’m the only one here.  I’m paranoid that I’m in the wrong place.  I text my ex and yes, this is the right place.

7:00 PM – Nick and two other boys from his team are here, but no one else.  The coach doesn’t show up, nor does she message or call anyone.  We watch the boys play in the park for an hour, before I leave.  I observe, with more than a little Schadenfreude how cool and distant the ex and her new fiancée are with each other.  They don’t sit together.  They don’t hold hands or show no affection toward each other at all, and that is not par for the course for my ex.  Then I put it out of my head.  It is none of my business.

8:00 PM – No one else shows up and we go our separate ways.  I kiss and hug the boys good night and head over to a pub to meet up with a couple of friends.

8:30 PM – We have a beer at a tavern I’ve never been to before, even though it’s been around for nearly 20 years.  They carry good local brew, but at about a dollar a pint more.  The ambiance is nice, but nothing special.  A dozen other places in town have the same beer and ambiance, and it’s cheaper.  We order another round, and they forget about us.  There are literally five other people in the place.  We try to flag the bartender, but he’s busy surfing the web on his laptop.  We get fed up, get up to pay the bill and tries to bill us for the second round.  After a minute of ‘discussion’, and the other people at the bar sticking up for us, we pay for one round, no tip and hit the road.  He scowls at us.  We won’t be back.

9:00 PM – We head over to our usual watering hole.  We’re greeting by our usual good-hearted, if spinny waitress.  We sit on the patio and chat peacefully while the sun sets.

9:45 PM – A van pulls up in the parking lot and some woman, who looks exactly like Snooki from Jersey Shore if she were 25 years older and about 80 pounds heavier spills out onto the pavement.  She is shouting at another car in the parking lot a full five minutes after that particular car drove away.  I don’t know and I don’t want to know.  I only hope she isn’t going to sit on the patio.

9:50 PM – Yup.  She’s sitting on the patio at the next table over, her and a man who looks about 25 years older than her.  She tells everyone in a loud voice that he is her neighbour who was good enough to drive her to cash her cheque, so she’s buying him a beer.  He looks a lot like Jasper from The Simpsons, says nothing, looking straight ahead.  I’m wondering intently what his deal is.

10:00 PM – Snooki Sr. is starting to hit on me.  I think it’s only because I’m sitting closest to her, and her being drunk (and God knows what else) rather than any je ne sais quoi I may possess.  I try being gracious and polite but my gut tells me that that isn’t going to work here.

“Hey cutie, you like to party?  You got beautiful eyes, you know that?”  She is really drunk.  My two friends talk amongst themselves, creating a bubble within, and leaving me to fend for myself.  They look over at me, their eyes smiling, thankful it isn’t them.

I tell her I’m flattered, but I’ve got to get up early for work tomorrow.  It isn’t a lie.  “Hush baby, you can sleep at my place… it’s all good, I won’t kick you out.” she tries purring at me, but it comes out sounding like a slurring mess.

10:10 PM:  She latches onto someone else for a few minutes, before him and his girlfriend get up and leave.  She immediately turns back onto me.  “Hey honey,” she slurs “Give me a smile… I don’t bite… well… not much HAHAHAHAHA!”  Jasper, the neighbour, continues staring straight ahead, pretending to be intimately interested in a billboard on the street.

“I know what boys want.  I know what all boys want.  You wanna see them?”  At first I don’t realize what she’s talking about, but soon, it’s clear enough.  She’s trying to get her tits out.

Except she can’t. 

She’s wearing a very professional-looking button-up blouse and she’s too drunk to work the buttons properly.  I emphatically DO NOT want to see this woman’s tits.  My friends are barely able to contain their laughter.  Thanks a lot, assholes.

“Please, it’s okay… I’m not interested, and I don’t want you to embarrass yourself.”

“What… are you a fag?  All the boys love my breasts, and you’re… gonna see them… and you’re going to love them too.”  She’s trying to talk seductively, but she’s speaking like she fell out of a tree and hit her head.  And she’s still struggling with the buttons on her blouse.  As sad and pathetic is this little attention-seeking stunt is, I’m trying hard not to laugh.  I look over at Jasper, and he just shrugs and holds up his beer bottle as if to say ‘this is all I’m here for, man.’

Sweet Jesus.  I’m actually holding up a hand to my eyes, averting my gaze.  She’s got her blouse buttons unbuttons, and now she’s trying to get her tits out of her bra. 

“Excuse me ma’am, you’ll have to leave the establishment.”  It was the bar manager, making the save.

Thank freakin’ God.  I was expecting a Jersey Shore-style public spectacle, but he just led her outside and her and Jasper walked away, with her shirt still wide open.  It looked like she was sobbing quietly. 

10:45 PM.  I finish my beer and call it a night.  It’s a ten minute walk to my apartment and the night air is cool and refreshing. 

11:00 PM  I get into my apartment, strip to my underpants, and turn on the TV.  I find nothing interesting, so I open my laptop and catch up on my Youtube subscriptions.  As I doze off, I realize that I didn’t make lunch for tomorrow yet.  I’m too tired to get back up.

I’ll do it later.  

ipad Shuffle: Your Future in June.

Shamelessly stolen from Maria from Just Eat Your Cupcake. Take it away...

Rules: Easy peasy. Just put your ipad on shuffle and answer the questions in this order when the songs come up. I dare you to just do one or two if you don't want to jump in for the whole thing.

Thanks. All clear? Here we go!

1) What will your love life be like during the first part of June?
I by The Velvets. Well that’s depressingly pathetic and lonely, but more than likely true.

2) What will your love life by like during the last part of June?
Creatures of Love by The Talking Heads. That’s better. At least it’s more than just ‘I’.

3) Family life in June.
Jaguar by The Who. The boys can move like jaguars, and can fight like them too, when they take a notion to it.

4) Other family life....family that doesn't live with you.
Liddy Buck by John Stewart (no link... sorry!). I don’t know a Liddy or a Buck, but we aren’t a close family, so who knows?


5) Eating habits in June.
Spiralling Shape by They Might be Giants. Like pasta? Sounds like pasta. I don’t eat much pasta, but it’s cheap and filling and easy to make (the packaged stuff anyway). Ate it all the time in university. I hope I’m not so poor that I have to eat it all the time again this month.


6) Workplace in June.
Emelina by Nathan. Hmm. I don’t know anyone named Emelina. According to the song she ‘burned the whole damn kitchen to the ground’. While I’m somewhat ambivalent to my work, I don’t want no one burning it down either.


7) Getting along with friends in June.
Truthfully by Lisa Loeb. Oh Lisa, I always hoped we could be more than friends. Can we please be more than friends? What’s that? Oh. No no, that’s okay, I understand. Really I do. *sigh*.

8) What your co-workers will think of you this month.
Begin by The Wailin’ Jennys. Begin what? Begin taking my work seriously? Grow up? Never!

9) What you think of your co-workers this month
Being for The Benefit of Mr. Kite by The Beatles. Well, sometimes I do work in what seems like a circus…


10) What your sex life will be like in June.
Sister Don’t Cry by Collective Soul. Well this has gotten bloody awkward…


11) What your arguments with spouse will be like in June.
Pineapple Heart by Bela Fleck. My ex-spouse and I don’t argue. I’ve long given up trying to make her see reason.

12) What strangers think of you when they walk by you in June.
Hazy Shade of Criminal by Public Enemy. I do have a past. But criminal is something that people do NOT think of when they see me.

13) Weekends in June.
Travellin’ Band by CCR. I’m not in a band, and I have no travel plans. We are planning a pub crawl for the opening weekend of Euro 2012, but that’s about it.

14) Name five important people in your life. This song describes your June with them.

Nick: Never Let You Go by The Five Discs. No I won’t, at least not until you grow into manhood.


Gerry: Pay the Man by David Lindley. I love you son, but it would be nice when you get older to pick up a check once in a while.


Heather (my sister): Wild is the Wind by David Bowie. All respect to my sister, I love her very much, but wild she is not.


Uncle Fred: Ritual by The Pursuit of Happiness (sorry, no link again!). If we can perform a ritual so Newcastle United can win the league title, then let’s do it! Here is an alternate song from TPOH, which probably contains one of the best lines in song ever: 'Kiss me like you'll never see me again, my angel'.


Karly (my 12 year old next door neighbour): I’m Only Happy When it Rains by Garbage. Kiddo, you’re happy ALL THE TIME. I’ve never met such an effervescent kid. And you are a good soccer player. You just need a little confidence.


That was genuinely fun. Gotta do that again sometime. Good night all.




- PW

Drinking the FREEEEEEE Strawberry Pop and Eating the FREEEEEEEEEEEE Soda Crackers

This is about the 20th time that Gerry and I have watched this, so I'd thought I'd share with you too.