Mother Father Chinese Dentist!

One of the saddest things that I hear from people is when they say that they don't go to my church any more because no one reached out to them. That sucks. I know it to be true. But it's one of those things where I don't know what to do about it. For one, it's the nature of large groups. After the service, I want to say hi to people that have never been there before, but I also want to talk a little bit to my friends, because I want to maintain some of the relationships that I built here. And I also know that no one is intentionally trying to ignore people that walk into our church for the first time.

Of course, it doesn't help that I can't recall people for the life of me. I could talk to the same person multiple times and I may not readily remember them. Or I get caught in that terrible thing where I say:

"Hey, I haven't seen you here before. Is this your first Sunday here?"

And then to theirs and my dismay, they respond, "No, I have been coming for three months. I met you four times now."

"...yeah...about that...good to talk to you again, brother in Christ."

Names as they have been, are lost on me. It's bad that I am the one that new people talk to. I mean, I try to meet new people because I know that people in general have a hard time going to talk to new people, so you need to get someone who doesn't mind putting themselves on the line to meet them. I wish new people could realize that people have a hard time meeting new people and that it's not that our church is trying to be clichy. Fuck.

It breaks my heart. I want new people to come and feel welcome. I would love it if a new person just jumped in and joined a conversation. I wish that it was more than a handful of people who greet new people (and I don't always do it). What can I do? Should I just ignore my friends completely and just focus on meeting new people. And then once I make a friend, I can then just ignore them and get back to focusing on meeting new people. That way I have a bunch of shallow relationships with everyone and then the new people will think that I am only superficially interesting in being their friend and then they leave anyway. Damn it.

I am swearing more than usual because this thing is the most frustrating thing for me. I know the people at our church are great people. And I love the things that the church stand for, but having that idea conveyed is not happening as well as it should. Mother father Chinese dentist!

So, dear people who may visit my church in the future, please come talk to me, I am genuinely interested in getting you to meet new people. And I'll try to remember your name. No guarantees. I don't even give that guarantee to my mother.

A Plot Twist in a Dream?

I had a sweet dream last night. It was like a movie. It starts off with a view looking down on a white sports car that was being chased by cop cars. The car is swooping in and out of traffic. At one point, it cuts off a red van which in turn holds up the cop cars temporarily. The sports car continues its escape and then I come to realize that I am the one driving the car. As I drive, I see that up ahead there is a spike strip and I slam on the brakes. Then I start spinning the car's wheels and turn the car to the left. More spikes. Turn to the right and more spikes. I look to where I came from and see that they have put more spikes down. I then hammer on the gas and try to dodge the spikes on the left and two of the tires are slashed. As I drive away, I realize that my car will be useless soon so I pull the car to the right and crash into the bushes. The scene cuts to me being brought to a prison and to a cop of some sort who happens to be my friend, Chris, who is supposed to ask me questions about the crime that led to the car chase. He is in disbelief that I could do something so bad. The scene then cuts to me being led to another cell where there are many other prisoners sharing. For whatever reason, it is a mixed gender prison. I try to go to sleep, but it is almost morning and I have to get up to get breakfast. Now, for some bizarre reason, they serve breakfast by bringing it to the cells on rolling serving tables and opening all the cell doors. In hindsight, that would be a terrible way to do it. Any way, people start crowding into the hallway to get food. I go as well and I see Monica.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"I was driving the red van, remember."

"Oh yeah."

It is at that point that me in dream remembers that she was apart of my crime and that she apparently didn't escape either. I leave her and continue through the crowd where I run into Tyler, another accomplice.

"Tyler."

"Hey man."

We start walking up some stairs.

"Tyler, do you remember actually robbing the bank?"

"Of course, I mean you were the safe cracker and I was the gunman."

I should mention that this is the first time it was made known to me as the dreamer. I mean, a plot twist in a dream? That is awesome!

"I know that, but do you actually remember robbing it?"

"Not really, but I definitely remember the smells."

"Something weird is going on."

We have made our way up onto a football field where the inmates can workout and such. Tyler picks up a football and hucks it high into the air. We then notice the ball is going to land near some rough looking guys. We hold our breath hoping it doesn't hit them. The ball lands five feet from them and they look up at us. Tyler starts running away. I stand and watch as one of the goons take off after Tyler and tackles him down field. I turn back to the other head guy and see him marching with his eyes on Tyler. I start to run for the guy and jump up on him and start punching him in the head. The thug carries me towards the edge of the field which looks down on the rest of the prison. He is storming with anger and as he charges he attempts to throw me through the fence, but I hold onto him and pull him with me. We crash through the fence. He falls more or less straight down, but I fly outwards and just over the outer wall lined with barbed wire. Time seems to slow as I see him land on a flagpole and I glide over. I turn in the air and gently slow my fall and land on a small strip of land between the wall and the ocean. I then wake up.

That was like a blockbuster of a dream. I mean, what happened at the robbery? Were we intending to rob it or were we forced into it? Who knows? Literally nobody.

The Ancient Cyborg Sasquatch Who is Slated to Reappear When the Tree of Despair Has it's First Fruits Blossom

Know what would be awesome? A quest. Like a quest that involves a long trek and a sword and stuff. Wouldn't it be sweet for some old man with a scroll come up to you and say that you're apart of some ancient prophecy and that only you can defeat the ancient cyborg sasquatch who is slated to reappear when the tree of despair has it's first fruits blossom. I would go into Roger's and say, "Hey, I've got to protect everything that everyone holds dear...their lives". The first I would have to do is like, buy a cape and some sweet boots. Of course I would need to go retrieve the sword from like some under water grave where Socrates died fighting leviathan. And then with the sword I have to fight the leviathan, but now it's like a huge skeleton and I have to use my imagineering and magic powder and a gun to fight it. Of course, it wouldn't be a normal gun. It would be a gun that could fire my sword at bad guys.

Then at one point this guy in totally black ambushes me on a subway train and so I have to fight him to the death and it's this long battle and he slashes he in the face and so it gives me this wicked scar but it unleashes this hidden power and I just blast him with a lightning bolt out the side door and then he gets smucked by another subway train.

Wait, suddenly this whole scenario is not as feasible as it was at the start. Although the lightning bolt thing would be pretty awesome. Anyway, some sort of quest. Enough of this humdrum life. Where's my cape? Where's my obligatory sidekick? Or my rippling pecs? Maybe I should just go to the bar and pick a fight. I mean, if you can't find something good to do with your life, the only other choice is to hit on another guy's chick and then have a bar stool broken over your back.

And That's Why I Have to Kick Dogs and Kick Them Far

Am I a jerk? It's a question I wonder about sometimes. Especially if I have just returned from my weekly meeting of Dog Kickers and specifically when I won the award that week for furthest kicked dog. I mean, I joke a lot about being a jerk, but when I do stuff like that, I just think, maybe I am.

It's not that I wish ill any specific ill on anyone. General ill, yes, specific ill, no. And look at this blog. Half the time I'm getting angry at people and the other half is fantastical creatures. Which of course means that I am so angry that mere people are not enough to satisfy my rage, but then I also have to get angry at things that don't exist.

Maybe the problem isn't with me though. Sure, I have a lot of anger, but is it my fault that humanity can't step it up and be sufficient for my rage? Stupid world. Trying to make me look like a jerk. I'm not a jerk, I'm adorable. That's right, adorable. If you think anything else, you're just apart of the problem with this world. You're either for me or apart of the problem of the world.

Sure, there will be those logicnistas that will say that by me shifting the blame from me onto others and saying that others are the problem is really me being irresponsible and not owning up to my own shortcomings and mistakes. Hey, I'm the victim here, maybe you should lay off, but of course you won't because you're a world-hugger. You hate our freedom! You are trying to take away my inalienable right to be a guiltless victim! That's in the constitution. And some of you book-readers are going to tell me that it's not true. And you know why that is. Because they are apart of the problem and want to destroy everything good about the world. And you see that's why I have to kick dogs and kick them far, because this world is so messed up because of "them" that I clearly have no other choice but to do this. After all, I'm the victim. And if you disagree, then you're with the ones that are forcing me to kick dogs. You should be disgusted with yourself.

Not That I Would Punch You, But It is an Option I Want to Have at My Disposal

Facebook, WAYN, MySpace, I hate you all. I am tired of being inundated with e-mails whenever a friend or even some guy I met once is suckered into signing up and then an automatic e-mail is sent out. At first I thought it was because they wanted me to sign up to. And so I start filling out forms and making up passwords and I get on there and it is just a waste of time. Because once inside you can "customize" and search through millions of other profiles and bull crap like that. So now I gotta spend more time! And of course trying to find a person I actually know on these things is the equivalent of going into a crowded mall and shouting out the name of your friend, only to find out later that they've changed their name to "crazylittlefunbuns_00219" and now no longer acknowledge their existence. C'mon, you're killing me. Then I go and hang out with people and they are like, "oh, what's your MySpace" or "do you have a SlapHappyPictureTextHollapolooza!"

I technically do have a MySpace, I technically have a WAYN account, and I am about to be tricked into having a PoojeranSlickPeopleCircleMe account, but now I just say that I have a blog. That's it. And then I tell them it's on Blogspot. Then I have to for some reason defend the fact that I like the one blog and do not want to transfer to MySpace despite it's numerous options and gimmicks. I have one gimmick! Getting angry about things and writing about them to people that aren't actually reading the blog! I don't need people to see this. It's cool to be told that it's funny to check out and stuff, but I don't need to be a multi-media presentation. I don't believe that I will become a celebrity because of a stupid blog. I don't expect to meet friends on here. I don't want to. I want to meet real people. People that you would meet on MySpace to me is essentially meeting a fake person, because there is no true interaction. The only fake people I'm interested in meeting are robots! I don't know if cyborgs are included in the fake people category because of the whole half human, half robot thing. But I probably wouldn't want to be friends with a cyborg anyways. I mean, what are you? Robot or human? Make up your mind, we're at war!

Sorry about that. Talk about cyborg and their flip flopping always distracts me. Anyway, how I am supposed to get to know someone through text and pictures? I want to actually interact with others and at least have the option of punching you in the face if the situation warranted it. Not that I would punch you, but it is an option I want to have at my disposal. That is the advantage to talking to someone in person. You have that spontaneity. I don't want to depend on the lousy internet to maintain friendships.

"But you can keep in contact with other people that are far away" some would say and the first thing I have to say to them is how the heck did you sneak your way into writing in my blog! Secondly, e-mail, telephones and to a lesser extent telegrams are all fine methods for messages to far off places. Why do I have to maintain seven website profiles just to connect to people. I'll stick to my Blogspot and my g-mail address thank you very much.

A Cyanide Pill Gets You Out of Many a Hairy Situation

Ok, so I have had a request to finish my story from January 20th, 2006. That's a good a place as any to start up blogging again. I finally have my computer up and going and I am ready for the oncoming onslaught of blog action. In case you do not have my whole blog memorized via date, go ahead and refresh yourself on the story. I am going to pick up the story from where I am about to go on the pre-date with a girl who may or may not be aware of the fact I like her. The pre-date is a beautiful system that allows me to test the waters and see if I even see any potential without all the dramatics of official dates. Unfortunately, with the fact that the girl I am about to go out on a pre-date with is now potentially compromised, I am in uncharted territories. I take a cyanide pill with me in case things go a rye.

We wind up going down to the Forks (a grand Winnipeg landmark) and spending the morning together and it was ok. I knew that we wouldn't work as a couple or whatever. As a pre-date, it would have been perfect. I could have walked away and no hurt feelings. But alas, as she was driving me home, I knew that if she didn't know now that I had a crush on her, she would know soon. I had to do something otherwise this weird feeling would hang over the friendship. I didn't know what to do.

And then it came to me. There was only one way out. But as I was about to swallow the cyanide, a better idea came to me.

It was an idea that would resolve everything with no hurt feelings.

I turned to her and said in an apathetic kind of way, "Hey, so I wondering if you want to go on a date or something."

It was brilliant.

She said no. She dropped me off and that was that. It didn't hurt me because I didn't want the date anymore and she gets the benefit of not having to guess whether or not I liked her.

Of course, if you're reading this, it is quite arguable that I asked her out with intent and that I'm just giving you an excuse that makes it seem like I wanted her to say no. But I guess you will have to believe my word. And if you don't believe me then that's fine, a cyanide pill gets you out of many a hairy situation.

As a side note, I should that the other girl that I liked turned into another debacle worthy of a hilarious romantic comedy with out the romantic part.

You Kick Your Heroine Habit By Entering "Jig Therapy"

Here's another story to hold you over as I try to scramble to finish my script for my play. I was just reminded of it today. It happened back when I was in my first year at Prov when I was a simple newbie to the drama program. I was hungry for parts and acting and free cookies from the cafeteria. The college life of Prov was so engaging. I even created my own work of drink perfection in what I call "Chocolate Beer" in which I combined root beer with chocolate milk to concoct what I thought what was the equivalent of money in cup and later money in the digestive tract. Anyway, that has nothing to what I want to talk about which is of course, my first acting part on stage at Prov. Actually, I don't want to talk about that. Essentially, I did what actors do which must be common knowledge. You read the script, you read it again, you memorize the script, you memorize it again, you eat the script, you spit it back up, you tape it back together, you practice it, you block it, you "get into character", you do acting exercises like becoming a walnut, you listen to the ocean sounds of the prairie, you fast, you make a robot, you read the script once more, you take a quick cat nap, you pick out your costume, you burn down your neighbour's asherah pole, you read a Shakespeare play, you then read a play that makes sense, you read your script, you threaten to quit for a week, you make a crazy demand like wanting a trip to the moon, you do a jig, you call your director a jerk, you do another jig, you memorize the script one more time, you practice it with the other actors, you pick up a trendy heroine habit, you do another jig, you kick your heroine habit by entering "jig therapy", you get on stage and perform. That's all that acting is.

What I want to talk about is actually during the performance of the play. I was on the stage as Kenicki of Grease fame and I was about to destroy the phone booth from Bill and Ted's excellent adventure (I am not even vaguely making that up). It was a difficult role to do because I have never seen Grease or read it or listen to the music or performed a jig to it. However, I did better in that role than I did the off stage portrayal of Dr. Grant from Jurassic Park and my role as Elvis (both of which were also in the same play I should add. It's a complicated story). Anyway, I was supposed to destroy the phone booth and attempted to use a baseball bat, but it was not yielding the results that I desired, so I kicked it over and attempted to frog splash it. This worked because it was not a real phone booth, but rather a refrigerator box. It collapsed underneath my weight and flattened. Little did I think that the box when flattened would emit enough force to be able to kick out the frame that held up a black curtain. The frame and curtain then fell forward on top of me, whacking me on the back of the noggin and covering me like in a cartoon. People were taken aback and through their laughter I realized their concern for my well being. I then wrestled my way out from underneath the curtain and ad libbed "Take that!" It pretty much immortalized the play. That's true acting ability. Being able to make clumsiness look like you are "acting".

So what can you learn from this. Absolutely nothing. If you think there is some grand lesson to be learned in this event. You are looking too hard. Although, there is the acting lesson of knowing how much time to spend jigging and the answer is there is never too much time spent jigging.

What Reality Does is Steal the Laughter From Children

This is my 24th birthday today. How am I celebrating it? With food. A lot of food. My roommate, Aaron, just took me out for breakfast. Darwin's taking my out for lunch and I am holding a potluck at my house tonight. So much food.

I'm also learning how to cook. I mean it actually putting together meals that require a stove and do not come with the label Campbell's or Chef Boyardee. Last night I made my first recipe-directed meal, which was a Dill Pork Stir Fry. And I have to say that it was awesome. I fooled people into believing I have more skill than I do. That's what my acting career depends on.

People are always telling you to not put on masks and that is a bunch of phooey. Masks prevent people from knowing that you are disappointingly human. Instead you create an illusion. And who doesn't like magic tricks? Mennonites and Baptists. But they don't count and it hinders my point. Magic tricks are fun and entertaining. Sure, they are based on a thick coat of deception and lies, but that is what people want. They want to be fooled by a false persona. They don't want to know the real person, because a real person brings along such nuisances such as real life problems. And real life problems require real concern and who wants that? I mean why should I help you when I'm having enough trouble maintaining my illusionary mask? That mask takes a lot of time and effort to maintain. Maintaining a mask requires as much time and effort as it does to face reality. The difference is that a mask hides the hassle that is emotion and facing reality requires facing reality. Oh and there's no fun magic-like illusions in reality either. You see what reality does is steal the laughter from children and that's why we avoid it.

So I will continue to fool people into believing that I can cook and act and drive without a license until the point when someone gets poisoned or run over and then I will have to create another illusion and flee to Mexico. You solve discovered lies by creating new, more elaborate ones. It's worked for 24 years, maybe it will work for another 24. Although hopefully for longer than that. I want to be older than 48 so that I can complain about how you can't trust the youths these days.

Friendly Reminder of My Birthday

Even though I am still trying to focus on writing my script, I would like to remind people out there that my birthday is coming up on February 14. Thus is it important for you to get your gift out to me on Monday if there is to be any chance of me receiving it on time. Money is an acceptable gift, however, homemade cards are not acceptable unless they have money it. It's not the thought that counts, but how much the thought costs that counts.

To My Readers (Cult Followers)

I'm am writing this just to say that I know I have been putting off my blog because of more pressing matters (girls) that require my attention (flirting). Since that being the case (not being the case), I regrettably have to wait until I finish writing my play (rolling doobies), planning the 24 day (smoking said doobies), get something together for my birthday party (orgy). So, please bear with me (give me money) and keep checking back and I'll try to get back on track (out of rehab).

Sincerely (Laughing-at-your-mother),
Dave Rae (Jerkface)

That Guy is Such a Jackass. Me, That is.

This is me with my new digital camera. I can't believe I paid ten dollars for it. And it almost made me miss my bus. And look how it makes me look. I look like some schmo who fell for buying a crappy camera. C'mon, look at that thing. I could eat it. Now, that would be a great picture. From within inside my mouth. I don't know how I'd take the picture and it'd probably be pretty dark.

But that's all I have for today. I'm trying to actually finish my script, so I can't be wasting all my creativity on people who never leave comments either.

However, I'll leave you with this other picture as I am trying to figure out how this camera works. I think it's a good summary of my angry confusion with life and more accurately with this device that I was conned into buying for ten bucks. Look at it, I'm about the rip into the guy who was taking the picture. That guy is such a jackass. Me, that is.

Just Imagine How Much I'd Like Real Anger and Pride

Man, I love Faith Covenant Church. I am able to do or say anything that I want. Well, sort of. I mean I can't going around saying how I think "24" should be incorporated into canon. Because for one, that makes no sense. And two, they may actually do it. No, I'm joking. They wouldn't. I'm pretty sure anyway.

Back to my story. At church, instead of Eric doing a sermon, they opened up the mike and allowed people share different instances when others in the church showed the love of Christ. It was supposed to be a time for encouragement. A few shared and it was good.

Now, I don't know what takes over in me. It could be intuition. It could be the Holy Spirit or perhaps the devil. I would like to say the former, because that make me seem holier. Anyway, I proceed to go up there and share about how people have never made me feel alone and have been there for me. The key thing is that I did it under the guise that I didn't want people to do that and that I found it distracting and not helpful since I can't feel sorry for myself and listen to my mix tape of R.E.M. and Journey and eat my litre of Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream and how it's just sitting in my freezer going to waste. I pretended to be angry and I scolded the church for it. I love doing that kind of thing so much.

I love fake anger. And fake pride for that matter. It's so fun just yelling at people and making yourself seem so much better than everyone else. You know, if I like fake anger and fake pride, just imagine how much I'd like real anger and pride. That'd be great! Have a skewed view of the world and blaming everyone else for everything bad and taking all the credit for all the good.

Man, pooch all you guys and your Faith Covenant Church! I'm going to the Church of Me! You can have your community and encouragement. I rather complain and keep the bitterness in. And let it festoon. Yeah.

A Swift Kick to the Shin Followed By a Merciless Running Away Before They Could Catch Me

I am looking forward to Saturday Night Live tonight. The show has been so good recently. Ever since Andy Samberg and Kristin Wiig has appeared on the show, it's been getting better and better. Especially since Samberg's addition along with his two friends from the "Lonely Island". Those guys are so creative and very much down the line of oddball humour that I still love to incorporate into my sketches. Many don't even realize how good SNL is anymore because they fall into that horrible trap that so many seem to.

Ask anyone why they've stopped watching SNL and the reason is almost always, "It's not as good as it used to be." Usually, it's connected to one or a handful of performers. People five years ago would always say "It used to be good when Farley, Sandler, Myers and Carvey were on there, now it's garbage." In the last couple of years, people said "It used to be good when Ferrell was on there, but now it's garbage." Why do people just give up on the show when there's cast changes? It will always get good again. It takes incredible talent to be able to create, practice and perform a full hour and a half worth of material all within in the course of one week. And the show goes through ups and downs, but the show will never become unwatchable. In fact, with the implementation of more and more video sketches, it's starting to really open up the potential of the show. It will also be good if they can veer away from sketch after sketch of talk shows that were so rampant two years ago and that's what they have been doing.

I mean, last week with the "First Human to Ever Dance" was so simple and yet so funny. I wish I would be able to come up with stuff like that. I try hard to be original with my stuff and I'm glad to be able to come up with the little that I have (not all of which is that original). Working on Saturday Night Live would be a dream. But I don't know if I could cut it, because I don't have that one thing. What is it? Oh yes, talent. I mean, I get some good stuff out there occasionally, but SNL writers are required to submit at least one original sketch every week. Considering I always feel like I have come up with the last original thing I could come up with, that would be so stressful.

That is why I am willing to defend Saturday Night Live against all naysayers with barbarian verocity and undying devotion. I would sacrifice my own child for that show. Or at the very least, my neighbour's cat being that I don't have a child that I know of. I would shoot a man dead who would dare speak ill against Andy Samberg or at least a swift kick to the shin followed by a merciless running away before they could catch me.

That's a warning to all you out there that do not respect the efforts of one of TV's greatest institutions. Be prepared for a stern shaking of my head that would put a confused look on even the most stoic face.

I Was Not Able to Come Up With More Fart Jokes For Your Amusement

My birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks and I still don't know what I want to do. I have these other great ideas that I'm putting together and I just don't want to try to come up with more creative things to do for it. I mean, considering few people would come out to it and the day generally sucks for me anyway (with the exception of my 2005 birthday extraordinaire). It seems like more and more of my friends are getting busier and busier and I can't spend as much time with them as I used to and time is just flowing by.

I would love a kick butt birthday, but that requires effort on somebody's part. I did that last year and it was fun, but with this script that I'm supposed to be finishing and a very special side project that I'm working on, I don't want to think of anything or really put in effort for mid-February.

Some people would shrug their shoulders and say that my birthday party or some play that I'm writing or the 24 day shouldn't bother me because I am not required to do them. That I shouldn't stress over getting it done. But I do push myself to do more so that memories are created. I don't want to go through life just working and sitting home playing video games or reading books. I want life to have more meat on it's bones. I would rather do something that would inspire books.

And all of that requires action. So I just do things. And I just wish that I didn't have to be the one putting things together and rather get to just enjoy it every once in a while.

Although, really, I should be grateful. I mean, the Colvinsons and Jo Spoor (her married name escapes me...) and others put together such an amazing birthday for me and it was the coolest day of my life (and I'm not just exaggerating).

I guess, I just want something to always look forward to. I don't want to be one of those guys who always looks back remembering the good old days. I want to participate and create the good old days to come.

Money would be the answer to this one. Just a big pile of money. And maybe a pimped out car. And maybe unrestricted access to government property. And maybe Matthew Fox.

Probably, I should just be quiet, continue to push on and just let life happen. It's just that life sucks sometimes and I want to fight that but would like some help.

So in review of this, I kind of realized that this one wasn't so funny. I apologize. I was not able to come up with more fart jokes for your amusement. I guess that's why Larry the Cable Guy will always be considered funnier than me.

Dukes of Hazzard Are Ruining the Advancement of Society and Possibly Civilization in General

I am a fan of Heroes. I like the angle they've taken with super powers and the people who possess them. They aren't running around in tights and have goofy names. They just try to deal with the powers and their lives like normal. Well, with relative normalacy. I mean, they have to do something important. It would be kind of crappy if it was just about some guy who works at a fast food joint and his power is to know what side dish the customer wants and the crisis he faces include when a customer wants something that isn't on the menu. Unless it was a mini-series. It might work then.

Anyways, back to what I really want to talk about. Fast food. I mean, super powers. I'm sure you've all had that conversation a handful of times about what power you wish you could have. But for me, it would be the power to read people's thoughts. It would be a great all around power to have. You could use it everyday and not just to save lives, but also to make life that much easier for people. Plus you could pick up chicks easier. School would be a snap. You'd be the big hit at gatherings because you know what to say. And you could even steal people's jokes before they tell them. You'd know exactly what to say or do with people who are going through tough times.

Of course, then when you talk to boring people, their thoughts are probably just as boring. Except it would be like listening to two of them at the same time. Either that or it would be like listening to them in stereo. I assume that boring people are literally saying what they are thinking.

Creepy people would be the same way. The difference would be that you'd hear what the euphemism is actually referring to as you listen to the overly obvious and gross sexual reference.

Violent people would be scary because even if then you might see the images that they are thinking when you tell them that disagree with the idea that Dukes of Hazzard has brought enlightenment to humanity. The images would most likely include them hitting jumps in their trucks that have over-sized tires, naked-girl-silhouette mudflaps, Calvin-peeing-on-a-Chevy logo in the back window, lights on the roll bar, and two huge exhausts pipes that underline their inadequacy and then them landing on me and then running me over a few more times and in my dying moments, I can hear the bitter melody of some Pable Cruz song. That is truly horrifying.

Maybe it's better not to have that power. And I definitely don't trust others enough to let them have it either. So let's just ignore everything I said. Except for the fact that Dukes of Hazzard are ruining the advancement of society and possibly civilization in general.

To Me, People Who Say "Such and Such Has Jumped The Shark" Have Jumped the Shark

24 has started it's sixth season and I've been loving it as I always have. And I can't resist going to the 24 website and checking out the message boards to see what people have said about various plot twists, but I don't know why I subject myself to it. Noone really talks about how cool it was or about what they think will happen next. The only things that go on there is how the show has now jumped the shark or the show has now gone too far. Those are the two biggest comments. It's annoying. I mean, why are you going onto the message board to complain about the TV show. If it is so terrible, then why are YOU WATCHING IT!?! Sweet mother of Pearl!

The thing that is the worst however is the "24 has finally jumped the shark" comments that are so prevalent. That phrase is so cliched all it does is rile me on such a core level. To me, people who say "such and such has jumped the shark" have jumped the shark. Say something like "that twist was a little ridiculous" or "that scene was like having sort of subhuman fish-like creature who has been given a lobotomy perform a lobotomy on me as we take the cable car ride during an earthquake as Mongolians lob molotov cocktails at us."

Besides, 24 has been on so long that it has done very well to not repeat itself. It has been consistently good with some great directing and acting with the glaring exception of Dennis Hopper. I would like to see those people who complain after six seasons can make a TV show to run so long and be half as good as 24. They would most likely put in a scene where they literally have someone jumping a shark.

As a side note to my readers, all three of you. If you ever start saying that I jumped the shark, I will buy a genetically modified shark that can somehow walk on land and let it loose into your house and you won't be able to jump because I will remove your legs so you will be unable to jump any sort of land shark.

Other People By This Point Would Be Writing Books and Earning Millions, But I Instead Do Not Because I'm a Moron

I was just invited today to a birthday that is tomorrow night. It's Lauren McFadden's, who is a girl I met at Heathen Camp or more popularly known as Camp Wannakumbac (oh relax, they called me 'God Boy'). She's a good girl to hang out with and discuss the issues of the day with. And this is the second birthday of hers that I will be going to. The weird part is the fact that I have spent one summer with her at camp and a handfull of days of hanging out outside of that. The reason it's weird is the fact that there are friends that I have had for most of my life and I can't recall going to more than one of their birthdays.

What makes it even weirder is the fact that we have no common associates. I went to her birthday a couple of years ago and she was the only person I knew there. She was there with work friends, high school friends and then me. Since she had a lot of people there, we talked for a total of ten minutes and the rest of the night I hung out with her high school friends (there were only two of them, making the awkwardness to fit in a lot less).

Tomorrow is going to be a repeat of two years ago and I'm fine with that. I love oddball situations, because I live in a perpetual state of awkwardness and thus have the tools to survive and in fact flourish in such circumstances. Plus, it gives me more experience in dealing with awkwardness and also gives me plenty of writing fodder for future reference.

People wonder how I have so many weird, bizarre stories. I think it's in God's good planning that He allows all of it to happen to me, because most humans would crumble under the weight of buses crashing into their house, avoiding muggers, outwitting a con-artist, messy dating scenarios, the Debacle of '05, cursed jobs, knocking down half the set during the one performance, and of course conversing with crazy racists in the middle of Wal-mart. Going to a birthday where I don't know anyone, that's a cake walk. I could do that blindfolded while I fight a bear that has been separated from it's young. Well, maybe not. I don't think I could do that without the awkward situation or the blindfold. Or even if I had a gun and the bear was tied up. Either way, the bear fight would not be affected by the birthday party. Back to my point, other people by this point would be writing books and earning millions, but I instead do not because...I'm a moron! Why don't I write a book? If Paris Hilton can write a book - wait, let me rephrase that. If Paris Hilton is able to write at all, then surely I could write a book. I should mention at this point that the list of awkward scenarios earlier in this paragraph all legitimately happened to me. Normally, I joke around with long lists, but all of that is true. Thus you can see how earth shattering my book could be.

None of That Matters, Because They Are Flying High With Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds

One of the toughest parts about people struggling in tough times is that there is nothing to really say to them. Whether it's death or illness or some other event that you have no control over, those are the times where I feel so useless. You can't tell the person why you think bad things happen to good people because bringing God into an objective light during a subjective situation, because that is not what the person needs. Yet, if you just give the pat answers of "things will get better" or "God loves you" or "the Bible says persevere and it'll make your character stronger", then it seems like you're trying to trivialize their pain and thus you're not showing empathy or even sympathy. Trying to tell them to think about the good things in life is like telling them to forget about their problems and ergo make their pain insignificant.

I mean, I believe that things will get better. And they shouldn't focus on their pain because that's not healthy either. I do believe that God loves them and everything. The only way to truly convey something like that is by action. Words just don't seem to do it. The best way of saying "God loves you" to one in pain seems to be to hug them or sit with them in silence. The best way of getting people to see the good side of life seems to be showing the good side, by going out and doing stuff with them, making a meal for them, or doing something special for them.

Sure, there is a time for words, but they seem to ring empty a lot. They always seem so insufficient. They need to be backed up by something.

Of course, doing stuff for the person may not help right away either. Hey, I know. Just get them a big bag of pot. That way they have immediate satisfaction and all their worries melt away while the pain will still linger behind and nothing is resolved and the person does not grow. But none of that matters, because they are flying high with Lucy in the sky with diamonds. Who needs to go through the uncomfortable process of growth when drugs not only trivializes the pain, but life as well. Yeah, those druggies had it right all along.

I'm Pro-People-Becoming-Like-Me

Next week's Bible study is going to be so sweet. Jason and I lead a media-based study where we watch at TV show, or movie, or listen to something and then have a biblical response to it. And next week, we are doing one where we listen to a few Pearl Jam songs, discuss the meaning and as well, whether or not we agree with what they have to say. It shall be sweet for Pearl Jam is sweet, ergo the study is sweet by association. We're not even doing the classic songs that everyone knows. We have a lot of their lesser known ones. Of course, when I say that, there are no doubt some fans who are like, "'I am Mine'? That is not that so great. I would choose the song that Vedder wrote and perform while still in his mother's womb. It's the seventh song on a rare mix tape that only true fans would like." But I don't worry about people like them. Because they're idiots.

Anyway, I look forward to it, because I can't wait to hear the reaction of some of the people because they don't listen to Pearl Jam or any other grunge band of the 90's (I'm sure some fanboys just choked on their mini pizzas at the possibility of their band being referred to such a way. Why do people get all panicky about the classification of music?). One of my favourite things is to introduce people to new TV shows like 24 and Lost and if people like Pearl Jam because of this, I'll feel good. I'm pro-people-becoming-like-me.

But why stop there? I should start hanging out with people who look like the exact same. And then they would be able to wear the same clothes as me. And then we would always do whatever I want to do. And then I wouldn't have to talk to them, because I already know what they think about anyways. I mean, when I talk to people, do I really want to hear divergent opinions on things and grow? No, I want you to nod in agreement as you pass me the chips.

Sex or Pie Would Be Just Fine

My new roommate has moved in! It ends the three month dry spell of no roommate. And it's not some stranger. He's a guy I went to Prov with. He's even met some of my non-Prov friends at a party at my place a month and a half ago (My infamous "Pre-Decemberween Celefest & Apple Cider and Juice Menagerie 2006"). People must have liked him, because the next day, there were even girls asking about him (and yes, he is single).

However, there are concerns. I mean, the guy is great and everything. But he's clean. I've been described as "not". It's fine, but I always feel bad, because I know that if the apartment is messy, he will notice it. And he will notice that I am not cleaning it. I always figure, "it's not that messy" and then I'm paranoid that other guy is thinking that I'm just sitting on my butt. And then I feel really bad when the guy is cleaning, because I'm not cleaning as well and yet I don't want to clean, I want to rock and roll all night.

I mean, the guy moved his stuff in and then the first thing he did was wash some of my dishes that I got dirty. I intervened, but I don't like this. This guy is gonna cause me to become disciplined and I don't like that. My slothful lifestyle was going great and now it's being ruined. I mean, how am I supposed to be one of those guys that the ladies want to fix up and make better if this guy is forcing me to be cleaner by association? Isn't that what women want? A guy that doesn't do anything and then the girl is going to love him and make him a better man and then he will do so because he loves her. At least that is what the guy has her believe, but really it's just a facade that he puts up so that he can get sex. Or pie. Sex or pie would be just fine. Depending on the mood I'm in.

I mean, why would anyone want somebody that lives with you and actually helps out at the start? That will just lead you to disappointment. If you go for the lazy, dirty guy, then you can tell yourself, "it can't go downhill from here". But you're wrong. It can only go downhill. Unless you give me sex or pie. Then I'll think about it.

That Glimmer of Hope Was Vomitted Upon By the Cruel Demon of Reasons for Suicide

Ok, so I know for those who have spent any significant amount of time talking to me know that I am frustrated with the dating scenario in my life. Or more like the lack of one. Things are usually convoluted and strange. And I don't know how it happens.

But as of tonight, I have another weird story to add to the pile. My good brother, Darwin, invited me out to his company's party which happen to take place at Celebrations Dinner Theatre. I always wanted to go but it was so expensive for one meal. That's why I was all over it. I'll take any meal that's free.

I arrived by bus to the restaurant and I was ready for laughter and tears and heck, maybe I'll even learn something. I walk to the doors and see Darwin and go up to him. It was not long before I was accosted by one of his co-workers.

"Is that your brother, Darwin? Is he single?"

I should have lied. Said I had a girlfriend. But it was too late.

Now, I don't usually believe in auras. But if you could summarize "maneater" in an aura, that was the feeling I garnered from within moments of encountering her. I don't know what I mean by "maneater", but it seems suitable.

Apparently, I am tall and that is the thing that won her over. Apparently, she thought that we looked like a good couple when we stood together. She gave me her number. Actually, that is how I learned her name. Her name was on the piece of paper with her number on it. By this point, I have barely gotten my coat off and have said maybe ten words total since entering the building.

I wanted to leave. As we stood in line, she was playfully telling Darwin that he was in her way and that she wanted to stand next to me. I thank the Lord above that Darwin gets along with her and while he did that, I could quietly pray for sweet death.

One hope that I had was that the tickets to get inside indicated a specific table and seat. And ours were nowhere near her. That glimmer of hope was vomited upon by the cruel demon of reasons for suicide. We were let in and as long as we sat where the company had tables reserved, we could sit anywhere! Yea for freedom of choice!

Fortunately, Darwin and I got it first and I'm a fast thinker and quickly proceeded towards a table and went for the far chair so that there was only one chair next to me. Darwin sat there. It was fortunate that Darwin sat there, because The Crazy was hot on our tails. She sat next to Darwin. She then continued to complain that he was in her way of sitting next to me. Normally, I'm not a fan of Darwin's unending stubbornness, but it saved me tonight. I then pointed out to her that if she wanted to talk to me, she would talk to me and not be seemingly flirting with my brother.

That was the mistake of the night that led her to move to the seat across from me. Damn.

I was hoping that if I could imagineer a way out of my physical body, that I could escape. She then noted that I didn't talk much. I responded that the only thing that was talked about so far was how she wanted to flirt with me. She said she was trying. It was trying in the same way, that old, dying donkeys try not to fart so much.

I needed a strategy change. I figured if I could prove that we did not match up at all, then the whole thing would disappear. I needed to draw all my powers of awkwardness to full fruition in order to end it. I've been doing that since I hit puberty. And all my awkward dating scenarios having been prepping me for this night. I would need all my strength and skills of strange jokes and terrible social negotiations to make sure it ended right.

I go about trying to have a conversation by asking her what she likes, what she does and the like. Normal questions. Or so I thought. All her answers were "I don't do that" or "no" or "country music" and if there could be a vague possibility of innuendo in a question, she would say, "You don't want to know what I'm thinking." But no matter what, they were always dead end answers. Yet, if there was a long pause, she would demand that I talk and keep the conversation going.

Of course, when I told her about the things I like, it was like trying to explain how to make the perfect crumble cake to a dead otter. She knew the name of Johnny Cash. That was it. She may have known that he was a musician, although the jury is still out on that one. She didn't know anything about Nirvana, because "that guy is dead, right?" In fact, if the person was dead, it was a strong chance that she didn't know anything about them.

She has no interests in sports, hardly watched movies, barely any TV (except for "Dr. Phil"), did not read, did nothing in the creative realm, has no aspirations.

Her reaction to finding out that I want to be a mortician was an audible gag reflex. She was horrified that any human would want such a job.

Things were going well. Or so I thought.

To my horrified surprise, she still thought we would make a great couple. Apparently good conversation is not necessary. Or the fact that we share nothing in common (me liking anything at all and her not). Or the fact that my future profession nauseates her.

The night ended and I told Darwin that I never want to see her ever again.

The thing that bothers me most of about this night is the fact that the one person who is obvious about liking me, is clearly desperate. I mean, is it really a compliment if the person is desperate? I mean, it would be completely different if the girl wasn't so over the top at the start or even if we actually shared anything in common, but there wasn't. This girl didn't want me, she wanted anyone. That is so depressing. People tell me that I will find someone someday. I'm assuming that they are talking about someone that likes me and wants to be with me. Some one that I will enjoy being with. Someone that I love and cherish. However, it seems like I might have to settle for some one who likes me because I'm tall.

Put It on the Web in Between Crack Deals and Prostitute Parties

Due to my Roger's powers, I have been able to see the 24 season premiere two days early! That's right, I already know what happens! Of course, it's already beened leaked out on the internet and when I called one of my friends to brag, he told me he had already seen it. I was silenced quickly. Lousy 24 pirates. How am I supposed to make others feel jealous with you people spreading it on the internet?!

I mean I watched it on my crappy 13 inch TV through my PS2, which has the most atrocious DVD player designed by humans. You may say that it can't be that bad. Ok, hot shot, how would you like to watch the greatest TV to happen in this lifetime and the whole time, I sit there with my hand on the contrast dial and turn up and then turn it down. For two seconds it looks fine and then for the next thirty the lips of the women look like they have been infected with gangrene. Because that is what it's like. And I suffered through that crap so that I have the priviledge of saying that I got to see it first and now any old shmuck can get on the interweb and look at it because of the criminals who stole it and put it on the web in between crack deals and prostitute parties?

That is the most grotesque thing in America. I mean, sure, children are taken advantage of, the war in Iraq is injust and messy. And sure, violent crimes are on the rise and racial intolerance is still horribly rampant and this global warming thing is getting out of hand, but none of that has affected me!

Now, they are screwing with televisionistic priviledge! They are screwing with me and Jack Bauer! Ooh, you bastards have no idea what's coming!

It's Just Upsetting Because the Mafia Never Pulls Through

I can't help but think of the 24 day that I'm planning. For those of you don't know, last May, I put together a 24 day for my friend and fellow fanatic of the show, Chris Klowak. It was a gift for him getting married. Or at least that is what I said. Some of you are probably thinking that all days are 24 days. But you are missing the point and making me angry. In my 24 days, I give a person the opportunity to become the main character from the show, Jack Bauer. He then runs around the city saving the world from a terrorist attack. Mind you, it is more like an overly elaborate treasure hunt filled with actors and a story line and tasks. The main reason for this is because I don't know any real terrorists. If you want to read about last year's 24 day, go to my July 20th entry for a full disclosure of the story line.

Anyway, I have been planning this year's and I am so happy with some of the ideas that I've come up with. It should be really good. Big changes this year, too. For one, it will be a full 24 hour period. I have a plane at my disposal and I might have access to a chemistry lab (fingers crossed). I plan on having a section of it in another city where I'll have people there helping me out.

The biggest question I get about this is how can I afford to rent a plane and pay the cell phone bills and hire Abe Vigoda to make a special guest appearance and I tell them that I have the financial backing of the mafia. People immediately recognize that as a lie and then tell me to tell the truth. Then I tell them that it is from my tax return. But that's a lot less exciting than the mafia thing. And that is when I put out the contract for their hit with the mafia that I don't know. It's just upsetting because the mafia never pulls through. I mean I put thirty grand of my hard earned dollars into an envelope marked "The Mafia" into the mail and they have the audacity to take my money and not do anything? That's bad business.

With Paris Hilton Being One of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse

Thank goodness I found a roommate. It was a long arduous and often disheartening experience. That's a lie actually. It wasn't too bad. I mean, it kinda sucked that I didn't have as much money to spend on golden shoes and imported orange juices, but it was not that bad. And sure some times it wasn't that great being by myself and feeling all lonely. And sure, maybe I created an invisible friend and got addicted to eating caviar and eventually even injecting caviar straight to my veins. Worse yet was getting my invisible friend addicted to the caviar as well which of course led to that fateful night when he was dancing on the roof to Gwen Stefani that was playing in my head and he tragically fell onto an invisible picket fence.

Other than those minor details, it was an alright time. Maybe it was good for me to be on my own for a bit. Of course, I look forward to having someone around so that I don't go looking for caviar and have someone to talk to.

I've found that the older I get, the more extroverted I have become. I love talking to people about life, love and how I like the simple life. The philosophy, not the show. That show is at the very least is slowing the progress of civilization and is a sign of the end times if there ever was one with Paris Hilton being one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Probably Pestilence.

Anyway, I feel this tug to be around people and that need of finding comfort with the companionship of others. It consumes a lot of my thoughts and I having a roommate again will be good in fighting that. Or at the very least, fighting my caviar habit.

Better Than All This Book Reading Crap

I had a dream this morning and because I rarely remember mine, I like to recollect them as much as I can before I lose them completely. This one isn't really funny, though, I should warn you. Before I start into the dream, I would like to point out one of the coolest things about dreams. It is easily the best part of any dream and it is simply that no matter how crazy the circumstances of the dream are or how everything is unrecognizable anything is, as you proceed through the dream, you have a sense of unspoken knowledge in the dream. It is never explicitly told to you, noone ever informs you of it. You simply know. It is built-in knowledge. For instance, this dream of mine starts off in a smaller town that I am unfamiliar with. Now, there is nothing that tells me that this is a small town. It doesn't seem like it would necessarily seem so. If you're plunked down onto a random street anywhere, you may not know how big the town or city is. But I knew that it was a small town and so it was. And the reason I knew I was unfamiliar with it was not because it didn't look like Minnedosa or Brandon or Winnipeg, but rather, my built-in knowledge supplied to me for the purpose of the dream told me it was an unfamiliar town. I wish that in reality, there were times that you could just have knowledge come to you at will. That would be so sweet. Better than all this book reading crap.

Anyway, on with the dream. I was walking down the street, there was a back-up of cars, I don't know why there were a back-up of cars, it was just so. I was walking along and decided to cross in between a couple of the cars because no one was moving. Then one of the drivers of one of the cars, started to yell at me. It wasn't because of my jay-walking either. From built-in dream knowledge, I knew to just ignore her. I wasn't supposed to make a ruckus. Then a couple of dogs come up to me, one of which is more on the playful side or perhaps curious. The other had a bit of more aggressive side, as it stood on it's hind legs and had its paws on my shoulder. Now, because this is a dream, I should point that these were normal dogs. They weren't dogs that could walk around on it's hind legs as it spout out old Beatles' song backwards as they drank martinis. It was more that this was a big, grey dog. I don't know what kind it was. I don't know my dog types. Which brings me to another cool thing about dream knowledge is that it doesn't try to give me knowledge that I don't have in real life. I don't know dog types in real life, but I do know that I still do not like dogs and so it is with dream me.

Anyway, the lady said a lot of things that were trying to attack me, but the one that stands out to me now is, in reference to the dogs, "They can smell your kind!" And due to dream knowledge, I knew she was talking about how the dogs could smell that I was a Jew. And it had that edge that she wished me dead because I was one.

For those of you out there that don't know. I'm not Jewish at all. My name is David and that's as far as she goes. But due to dream knowledge, I knew that I would not be able to have a reasonable discussion with an ignorant racist, because it is effectively useless. Wait, screw dream knowledge, that's just common sense. And I guess that also shows how wrong the dogs were if they could truly smell the Jewishness in me.

Anyway, I knew I had to get out of there before others in the town found out that there was a Jew in the town. Or at least an accidental Jew.

Now, more dogs start crowding around, not aggressively mind you like the one, but I go down to the river's edge in an attempt to get the dogs away, because they were getting in the way. It's like how I feel about dogs in real life. I then push the big, dumb dog over and keep moving. I hear a gasp as I do this. I go into the water up to my knees and I turn around to see a park rangery type police officer coming down the river bank. I knew this due to the fact he wore shorts. He was stern and knew to be cautious of the Jew.

"What is going on here?"

I knew he was talking about me pushing over the one dog.

"Well, that dog was on top of me..." I start to explain, but I know I must be careful with my explanation. I walk back to the shore and that's when the officer pulled out a stun gun and zapped me and I fell to the ground. My dream knowledge told me that I was in a lot of trouble. And the dream ends.

Of course, I was thinking through the dream and made me realize again how incredibly difficult it is to stand up for yourself in the face of ignorance. Whether it's in regards to race or religion or whatever, ignorance is the one thing that a logical explanation is useless against. I mean even if I would have tried to explain that I wasn't Jewish, it would have done me no good. I was screwed.

That's why I think I've been trying to be open-minded about things, because as soon as you start being heavy handed and start shutting out other opinions simply because they differ form your sanctimonious version of reality, that leads to the path of violence and discrimination. You start to see people as less than. And that's the thing that scares me the most.

It Would Be Heroic AND Delicious

This past week, a man bravely threw himself in front of a subway train in New York in an attempt to save another man's life. And he was successful. I guess I should clear that up that he didn't jump "in front of a subway train". He more jumped on the other guy and held him down as the train went over the two. Otherwise, it sounds like I'm saying the guy was successful at being hit by a train. At that point, I don't know if that would be much of a "success". Anyway, both guys turned out alright and everything's wonderful.

But a story like that always makes me wonder if I'd have the balls to do the same thing. I mean, I see a train heading for another guy, I don't think I would see me jumping down there would help much other than add another guy to clean up.

It's the same thing as seeing someone drowning in a lake or river or some other area where you'd have to swim out to them (like a large pool of root beer). I would like to be heroic and jump in there and try to pull the guy out, but what would more likely happen is that I would jump in and then I would start drowning immediately and now nowhere near the other guy. And then you'd have to save two guys. One of which is some proud jackaninny who has a hero complex.

Which brings me to my point, could I even be a hero? I mean, it would have to be a circumstance where I would not be adding to the problem. I would like to think that I would be willing to sacrifice myself for someone else to live, but it's not like I have any useful skills to help in a time of emergency. Unless I could somehow save the guy drowning in a large pool of root beer by drinking the root beer. Because I could do that. I don't think that happens a whole lot. It probably happened to one guy so far. And he was probably drunk. Drunk on real beer that is.

You see, knowing my luck, even things that are pretty straight forward, I would probably screw up. Like pushing a person out of the way of an oncoming car. Knowing my luck, I would probably push the person out of the way of the car and into the way of a semi. Or I would slip and look like an idiot. Although the person being hit by the car would take all the attention and nobody would notice. Except for one guy who will point out to me and make me feel like an ass for slipping and thus failing the guy shmucked by the car.

Too bad there wasn't a way to save someone by doing like a sudoku problem. I could do one of those pretty good. Or maybe by playing Guitar Hero. But until someone comes up with some way of helping me become a hero, I will just have to be Jack Bauer in my head. Or pray that someone happens to fall into a vat of root beer when I'm close by. It would be heroic AND delicious.

Debacle of '05

Gather round my children for I will take you by the hand and lead you into the mysts of time and show you what could very well be the funniest/worst/funniest again week of my life. Mortal men would have been brought to the brink of sorrow and lapped up the murky water of devastation that would give them a tapeworm of depression. But I prevailed due to the fact that I used a Brita filter.

Let me take you back to the summer of 2005, when I was on Mr. Chapel. One of our stops was cancelled, but a friend of Jessica and myself from our year of CBC invited our group out to her place in Cochrane, Alberta where we would perform at some Remax event. It sounded ok and so we agreed. Our path to our battle of Evermore began.

We arrive at her parents ranch which covers a vast piece of land. They clearly do well for themselves. Her father has the classic rancher look. Full on beard, wears the cowboy hat along with those weird multicolored collared shirts. He's also very conservative. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I am trying to paint the picture of the scenario in which the Debacle of '05 rests. He used to work with lighting or sound or something and had come to not like actors very much. Mind you, all of us, with the exception of our one tech, were actors. But I was the creator, the writer, and director. I felt perpetually uneasy around the guy. I think he even smelled my fear. Cowboys can smell fear. Or is that dogs?

Either way, we had a week before we performed. And then it hit that we were going to perform for kids. With Mr. Chapel. Mr. Chapel goes over the head of some adults. It's satire. I could see how this is going to end. It was like being handed a prophecy. However, the daughter and the father both assured me that kids would like it, because I had a superhero in it. I tried to explain that the superhero was only a small part of the grander show. But like how the prophet is not listened to in his hometown, the actor is never listened to. We don't know anything about engines and hockey, so concordantly we don't know anything. Even the stuff I learned about.

Anyway, we had time before the performance at the end of the week, which I was predicting to be an unmitigated disaster. And you may be thinking that that is the thing I am referring to that brings me the previously unattained level of angst in my life. You are mistaken and you should just let me tell the story!

People thought it would be fun to maybe ride the horses. People typically think that horses are fun. I don't know why. But being that I am a fan of comradery, I agreed to go. But knowing that there was a good chance that I would fall off, decided to wear clothes that could get dirty. In this case, it was baby blue hockey jersey for some backwater team along with a checkered pants and grey cowboy boots. I looked like an idiot. When they were deciding who got what horse, they gave me the one closest to death and who was a show horse. They assured me that a show horse are trained to never gallop and the fact that he's old means he wouldn't want to anyway. I fell for that and got on the horse. The horse was also in on it and was behaving just fine as we went around in a circle in the training yard. That is the not the name of the area, but I am actor.

Once we got used to the basic stuff, it was decided that we would hit the dusty trail. It started off fine. Everybody was sharing laughs, talking about how their horse and how much they missed Full House. I don't actually remember due to the fact my horse wanted to go another way. As we headed down the road, my horse veered against my will towards the neighbours house. Now let me set the record straight, I didn't panick. I remember what I was supposed to do and that was to pull on the reins. And that's what I did. But the demon horse started to pick up speed instead. It was a mere trot, but it was mere trot away from where I'm supposed to be. I started to yell "Whoa!" along with the tugging. This made the horse go inexplicably faster. Despite my feeble attempts to stop the animal that is five times my weight, it sped to a gallop, the apparent thing that the horse is unable to do. It was a miracle! Unfortunately, the horse was headed towards a fence and I was thinking that show horses that have never galloped probably have never jumped fences either. I then thought that this may very well be my death or at the very least, it would go all Christopher Reeve on me. What? Oh, the Reeve comment? Too soon?

Anyway, the horse realized it could jumped, so it slowed down and turned around. I thought that I was safe, but the horse then continued on it's terrorizing rampage and went back towards all my friends at blistering speed. I then started to think that I was going to be sent headlong into one of them. It was at this point that Shannon, the girl who brought this death trip upon my head, come to meet me and stopped my horse. I looked over to see the father, who had watched a horribly dressed clown of an actor being tossed around like a rag doll on the back of a dying show horse. Strike one.

It turns out that when you tug on the reins and yell "whoa" while you also dig your heels into it's sides, you are sending "mix signals".

Two days later, we go quadding a thing I haven't really done before. It was fine and funny. We got muddy, we didn't crash, the thing didn't misinterpret me to the point that it almost killed me. We get back, turn them off and put on clean clothes. It turns out that you need to do something to drain something from the something in order to stop it from leaking something on their lawn and killing a large patch of grass. I was informed of this later and I asked the mother and daughter if the father was mad. They said, "He'll get over it." In other words, he was extremely upset. Strike two.

It came to the day in which we had to perform. I was more anxious than ever. I find out that the show is for little kids, not even junior highs who would be able to catch some of it. I accepted this fact as I got ready to move things into this igloo of a tent. I got into the van, started it up and moved forward, the van lurched and was up on something. I then heard yelping. I looked out my window and saw that the 15 passenger was currently standing on top of the father's favourite dog. I said "uh oh" and put it in reverse and back off. The dog runs off yelping and crying. Strike three.

Didn't see that one coming did you?

People arrive and the father starts advertising the show and they got all the kids excited to go. And as I looked upon their smiling faces, I knew that it was like I was sending them to the death of their joy. The kids all crowd into the tent. We have our screen up and start to perform. And every time we come out to do the next sketch we lose half the crowd. By the end, we had like five kids in there. All of which were the older kids. If I could've swore so loud that I would've finished off the dog who whimpering over it's wounds. The thing that I was supposed to be good at was one of the biggest disasters of the week. I was talking to the father afterward and he was clearly not satisfied. Strike four.

I only had 36 more hours before we would be out of there. 16 of those hours would be spent sleeping. How hard could it be?

Two hours later, the daughter came up to me and told me to go chase the llamas again. You see, two days before, when we were out in the pasture I jokingly tried to pet their llamas and the llamas would run away and I looked hilarious for trying to run after them. It was quoted as being "entertaining". So I figured, why not? Maybe I will regain some of my lost status. You know, any of it. So John and I tried to trap them and people were laughing. It was great. Then I got tired and that was enough. But then I noticed that the llamas were still running. In fact they were running for entrance to the whole ranch. I said "uh oh" and ran through a wooded area, jumping over fallen branches and through the thickets to head them off at the gate. The llamas saw me and actually picked up the pace and one of them escaped out the front. I hung my head low and walked back to Shannon. She, her sisters and the rest of Mr. Chapel helped me to go track them down. I was hoping it would be me who would bring it back, but it wasn't. Strike five.

I spent the whole week trying to not be the stereotypical idiot of an actor and instead fulfill and even move the step beyond to fulfilling the characture of an actor. It was awkward. It was one of the worst blows of the summer and it was only the first week of touring.

I was thinking that I should pull out a final stunt and ask permission to marry one of his daughters (of which he is very protective). Maybe the one who was eighteen. That would have been awesome. The main reason I didn't would be the fact that he may very well murder me. And I'm pretty sure I would not be able to fight him.

This is a "Sidewalk", Not a "Jack Me of All My Money Area"

People often think that I can't handle myself. They think that because I have never been from the "hood" or from the "streetz" or from the "soowerz" or just because I have never owned "gat" or have never "pulled the strap from the nine" or know what a "grill" is or just because "rap music frightens me" or I punch like an "infant" that I am somehow unable to handle myself in the city. And that is proposterous!

One night, I was out going around in a walk-type manner and I was taking in the fresh cold air, thinking about fine wines, fine clothes, and fine ladies and fine ladies wearing fine clothes and drinking fine wines and then being taken in by my fine charms. It was while I was having this magical journey of self that I saw someone walking my way on the street. I was fine with this, because that is what a sidewalk is for. "Walk" is right in the word and who am I to argue against this guy that he can't walk on it? I then moved over to one side of the sidewalk so that he may pass, because that is also suggested in the name.

As he approached me, he then veered towards me and pulled out an inch long blade and said to me "give me all your funky money". At least that is what I thought he said. He may have also replaced money with "monkey" but that doesn't make sense due to the fact that I clearly had no monkey on me. Although I did not necessarily discount the fact that maybe he wanted a monkey, because who wouldn't? I know I wouldn't but that is because they are high maintenance and if I would have had one, I would have given it to him. But the money thing seemed more likely and I was a bit incensed that he would demand my money. I mean, this is a "sidewalk", not a "Jack me of all my money area". I was only incensed for a split second as I realized that he was willing to cut me for my money (or monkey) and that is when I went into survival mode. My eyes opened wide and I paused a moment and then did the only rational thing and ran past him as fast as my gangly legs could take me. He started running after me, but I was much faster. Probably due to the fact that I walk a lot and unlike him who probably focused on his knife work or possibly homemade Christmas cards. He gave up and then turned to walk away as I ran for the safe haven of a Burger King. I noticed that he turned away.

At this moment, I knew that I could survive on the streets or streetz. And I did the only rational thing to do at that time. I yelled out, "EAT IT!" and then I went to go into the Burger King for safety. I got to the doors and to my horror, found that they were locked for the night. I checked to make sure that the mugger was not following me. He wasn't so I went home.

In hindsight, I should've followed him at a distance and called the police on him, but that was not on my mind as "I don't want to get stabbed" or "shanked" if you will.

A Real Prophet, Healer, Preacher But With Money

One of the great games for the Wii include Trauma Centre: Second Opinion. In it you get to become a surgeon and perform operations. You become a doctor like House. Maybe not the exact same. House was not really a surgeon. But I love playing it and pretending that I am House but the kind of House that does surgery. You know, with his hilarious sarcasm and his cutting witty comments. And as I play I start to believe that "Hey, I could do this for real". Now I'm saying that I would just start doing surgery if I see someone clearly in need of surgery. That's just silly. I mean, I would really have to practice a lot before I start doing that. But in theory, maybe one day I could. Because I'm pretty awesome at the game. Cutting guys open. Using foreceps. Using the defibrillators. Yelling stat.

That reminds me of Guitar Hero, which I'm also awesome at. In that game, you play a fake guitar to play along with popular rock songs. And as it the difficulties get tougher, they make the songs more complex. And I start to think, hey, maybe I could become a real rock star and play a real guitar. All I would have to do is beat the game on Expert, go buy a real guitar and head off to my first rock show. And if I keep practicing Trauma Centre, I would be able to save my fans if any crash through a plate glass window or get shot. I would be a famous rock star surgeon. All because of video games.

I would be famous like Benny Hinn. Heck, maybe I could become Benny Hinn. All I would have to do is learn a couple of Bible passages, learn how to pray, learn how to convince people that I could heal them and then I would be a real preacher just like how I would be a real rock star and a real surgeon by playing video games.

That's it! I make a video game where you become Benny Hinn. You start off at the beginning of one of his shows where you walk around and pick the people you want to plant in the audience and then pick some other suckers and bring them to the front. Then you would have to time your button pushes in order to properly say "Bless you" and the proper time to make a bull crap speach. And if you do well, the more money you get. And then you can spend all the money you earn by going to the presidential suites of the ritziest hotels and spend money for you private jet to take you to resorts around the world. And then you'll become a real prophet, healer, preacher but with money. A ludicrous amount of money. You know, the ones that Jesus wanted for us to become. I would call the game "Deity Complex" or possibly "Biggest Jackass in the World".

The Day I Learned How to Love a Woman and to Scold a Child

To state the obvious, the Nintendo Wii is great. I can play old games from my childhood. Including one that has unleashed a floodgate of memories and nostalgia that makes me sigh. The game itself is not that good. It's quite not good in fact. But, I will play it because of what it reminds me of. What game could possibly stir up such feelings in a 23 year old man who is renewing the landscape of intellectual thought through inspirational blogging and Guitar Hero rock solos? It is none other than Ice Hockey. Now, it doesn't bring back memories of me playing hockey (although if I was a player in the game, I would definitely be one of the skinny guys that are quick like a mongoose but are easily knocked over like a toddler learning to walk). I never even played hockey. Except once. It was a game versus the girls' hockey team (I even got a shot on net and when I say "shot", I mean I fell and the puck moved towards the goalie).

Anyway, the memories summoned by the game are two fold. For one, it is from when I played with my dad and he would always comment on the sloppy job of the zamboni operators that cleaned the ice during the second intermission (he was a zamboni operator himself for the Brandon Wheat Kings).

The other memory is none other than that dark day that would revolutionize the very core of my being. It was the day I became a man. It was the day I learned how to love a woman and to scold a child. The epic nature of the event would be recalled by numerous bards and passed along to following generations as a story of hope and cooking recipes. I was seven at the time. I was young and naive. The world was wonderful. Smells delighted me and I enjoyed the sunshine on my face. Little did I realize, I would grow up fast that day. It was May 19th, 1990. I was in the dining room, next to the TV, set up with my bowl of Golden Grahams, my obligatory glass of milk and a Nintendo controller in my hand as I was playing none other than Ice Hockey.

I was the Canadians, of course, and I was playing against the USSR. I was winning as was usually the case. And that's when I heard the crash of metal on metal and the shattering of glass. With my curiousity piqued, I went to investigate. But I wasn't irrational. I made sure to pause my game, because I was not going to let the commies catch me with my pants down. I then proceeded to the porch, but before I got there, a miniature apocalypse slammed into my reality and the house in which I stood lurched under the command of a thunderous collision. I was thrown from my feet and was launched into the door frame. I then reacted in the most rational response for a 7 year old and that was to run around in circles, screaming. This would usually solve most other problems in my life, but it didn't seem to work this time. The house was still shaking. I then tried to run for the back door of the house. When I got there unscathed, I composed myself and went outside. It is then that I saw two city buses crashed into the side of my house.

We would move into a hotel later that day. Normally, this would shake a child's world, but for me it would be the greatest blessing of my life. For the next five weeks, I had access to cable TV and was able to rent Super Mario Bros. 3 from a store a couple a blocks away. Wisemen believe in God when they see a mighty work by His Right Hand. And that's what happened to me when I got to play the most cutting edge in Mario technology.

Of course, I could've died that day. The two buses hit the porch I was headed for and it has been my experience that a child versus two city buses is a little lobsided for the buses (because there's two of them and only one of the child). But because I learned my lesson well of pausing my video games, I did not make it to the porch so that I would have become just another statistic of deaths due to buses hitting your house.

Oh, Ice Hockey, you bring that good lesson back to me every time I play you.

Silent Non-Deadly Killer

I have some troubling news to reveal to those who read this (next to noone), I have been diagnosed (by me) with the dibilliating condition known as Raynaud's Phenomenon. Raynaud's affects the victim's quality of life and makes him more vulnerable to the harsh conditions of the Canadian winters. Affecting nearly 0.4% of all North Americans, it is a silent prison ridiculed by the uneducated. What does this terrible dictator do? It makes the victim's hands turn blue or white faster than other people causing a minute amount of excruciating pain. It means that I am unable to spend as much time outside without complaining sooner. It means that if I touch your hands, they are going to be freakishly cold. And the general populace does not understand. The will mock the victim's of this cruel twist of fate. They will call them "undead" and "weird" or "cold handed" and victim's of Raynaud's have been burned at the stake for being witches or vampires (citation needed).

But there is hope. I have taken up the challenge of this silent non-deadly killer with the creation of the David Rae Suffers From Raynaud's Phenomenon Foundation. And you can help by giving generously of your money and assorted pies to David Rae, the president and sufferer of this tolerated disease. Money given to DRSFRPF will be used to buy hand warmers and pies and the pies will be used to feed David as he struggles to continue on.

So help the many David Rae's who suffers from Raynaud's and give today.