Toronto Diary – Day Three.

Monday, June 20

Waking up on a Monday morning without having to go to work is a welcome feeling, but it’s usually accompanied by going right back to bed. Not in this case, as we had to get going to two of the biggest tourist attractions in all of Toronto; The Royal Ontario Museum and Casa Loma. While brushing my teeth, I realized that my toothbrush got smashed in the suitcase somewhere along the way, misaligning all my bristles. It works much better now, honestly.

Driving to the Royal Ontario Museum took us straight into the very heart of Toronto. We parked our car just feet from the Eaton Centre, one of the largest shopping malls on the planet. We were just there to grab some cheap breakfast; shopping was for another day. I had never ate a veggie sub for breakfast before in an empty mall food court, but there’s a first time for everything.

Image hosted by

So early into the vacation, and we were all in wretched moods. I was already burned out on the hours, the Missus was in a lot of pain because she hurt her leg at the Zoo the previous day, and Ben and Sherry were constantly at each other over navigating and driving. This was the day that it all came to a head.

It was good to get it out of the way early on, as to enjoy the rest of the trip. Before we get to the meltdown, however, here are some fun facts about Canadian Television.

What’s On TV? Canadian Television & You

Image hosted by

Canadian Television is basically the same crap that we have in the states; they just have a Canadian equivalent. We have MTV; they have Much Music, that sort of thing. The one thing they have that we certainly do NOT have is a French station that played nothing but terrifying children’s shows all morning. These French clowns would prance around, singing surreal songs and riding those old-fashioned bikes with the huge wheel in the front. Sometime in the evening, the children’s programming would cease in favor of soft-core porn. No thank you.

The morning programming was similar to ours, only their weathermen were simply never right. Every day, they predicted rain, and it never rained. In fact, the only time we saw a drop of rain was when we finally got back into Madison at the end of the trip. They did the traffic report, which was the same thing every morning:

Oh, looks like a lot of congestion on the 424. Good luck with all of that, ‘eh?

And now sports.

Back to business. The trouble started when Ben (or Sherry, it doesn’t matter who) misread the map. He claimed it was only “a few blocks” from our car to the Museum. Keep in mind that it was pushing 95 degrees that day, and the Missus was gimpy. A few blocks made all the difference.

In reality, a few blocks were about 20. The Museum was over two miles away.

As the Missus limped along with me, she said “I’d rather be at work”. I couldn’t blame her. When we finally got to the museum, the four of us split up as I tried to comfort the Missus, in tears because her leg hurt so much. When we all met back up towards the end of the Museum venture, things pretty much uncorked.

Image hosted by

For the sake of fair reporting, here’s where everyone went wrong.

Ben clearly misread the map, but he’s not to blame because he had a near-flawless record for 95% of the trip. He did a much better job than I ever could have, and I respect that immensely.

Sherry was a little sensitive because she had obviously worked very hard on planning out every day of this vacation. Criticizing things was like criticizing her. That being said, she was a masterful driver in the big city, and took on a task that I never could have done on my own. I respect her for that as well.

The Missus was sensitive because of a mixture of the blistering heat and her bum leg. She was really hurting, so any additional walking in the bowels of Toronto was quite hellish for anyone, especially her. She was quite furious, but was quick to apologize and fully understand the reality of the situation.

I was always the first to criticize everything. It would appear that I was never having fun, but I usually only open my mouth when I’m angry about something. Nonetheless, if I was truly angry about something, I’d do something about it. Apart from my crotchety old man routine, I felt as if I usually kept my logic and wits about me and made sure that nobody in the car killed me. Come to think of it, I don’t know if I brought anything useful to this trip besides my money.

Image hosted by

Looking back, I think we were all in bad moods for the same reason. We felt tiny. I mean, we are four intelligent, independent people who had absolutely no idea what they hell they were doing. Everything we did was done with hesitation. Every decision had to be voted upon. Simple tasks and directions were being swallowed whole by the city. We, as Americans, felt arrogant, pompous and quite loser-y. When a city backs you into a corner like that, it’s only normal to start lashing out at each other. It’s how us shaved apes keep order. If our petty little squabble was the worst thing that happened over the course of the week (and it probably was), then we all had a pretty good week.

Anyways, we came to the (simple) conclusion to take the subway back to our car. Had we been knowledgeable of the city to begin with, we would have done that right away and saved the headache. That boneheaded misstep was enough to put all of us back onto the same happy page again.

Image hosted by

We drove to Casa Loma, which had a nice free parking lot. This place was way more interesting and beautiful than I thought it would be. It also featured the scariest basement ever.

Image hosted by

The courtyard was amazing, and the views of the city were impressive. This brightened all of our spirits, and we eventually participated in a group tickle fight (I may have dreamed that last part. You should probably ignore it.).

Image hosted by
Image hosted by

I purchased an iced tea in the outdoor beverage area, while Ben & Sherry split a Spongebob Squarepants popcicle.

Image hosted by

This was a long day, and we wrapped everything up with a dinner from the hotel across the street from us. It was there that I consumed the single greatest veggie burger ever made. It took us a full three minutes to even determine if it was meat or not, that’s how good it was. I swear to you, burger technology is really moving onward and upward in leaps and bounds. A perfect ending to a rocky and important day.

Image hosted by


(Questions, comments or concerns about day three? Sound off in the comments section.)

Toronto Diary – Day Two.

Sunday, June 19

Image hosted by

That first morning in the city, I quickly realized that this wasn’t going to be a vacation as much as it was going to be a whirlwind tour of duty. Sherry had meticulously planned out every angstrom of this trip, and we only had so much time to take in every single attraction in Toronto, one of the biggest cities on the planet.

Opening my eyes, it took me a while to realize just where I was. The lush, king-sized bed in the hotel room put a good three feet of space between me and the Missus, so while pawing around in the darkness; I thought I was all by myself. Knocking my watch off the nightstand, I grabbed the remote control and turned on the television, switching to Much Music, the Canadian equivalent of MTV.

A quick word on Much Music. It’s an interesting network. We used to have it here in the states, but about five years ago they pulled the plug in favor of Fuse, a network out of New York City. They play standard Music Television fare, but then they surprise you with Canadian bands that are still an underground novelty here in the states. The first thing I saw when I turned on the station was an Arcade Fire video, followed by Death From Above 1979. I instantly felt that I belonged here.

“Happy Anniversary”, I told the Missus as she opened her bleary eyes.

Image hosted by

After breakfast, the first big Toronto stop was the world-famous CN Tower. This is the tallest observation deck in the world, at least that’s what the sign told me. The CN Tower is right next to the Rogers Centre, where the Toronto Blue Jays play. Ironically, the Milwaukee Brewers were in town that day for an afternoon ass-whooping.

It was here at the CN Tower where we exchanged more American money and bought a City Pass. A City Pass is a neat way to get admission to a bunch of local attractions for one price. For about $50, we got well over $100 worth of tickets to most of the things we had been planning on seeing in the first place.

Another quick word on Canadian money. They have one and two dollar coins in Canada. The one dollar coin has a picture of a Loon on it, so they are referred to as “Loonies”. The two dollar coin is referred to as a “Toonie”. Now you know.

Image hosted by

The four of us got into the elevator, shooting us straight into the air at about 15 miles per hour. The elevator was glass, so it was nothing short of awful watching the ground disappear from under you so quickly. Our tour guide was a funny, sarcastic young woman who kept me from vomiting all over her. Here’s some sample dialogue that she had with us, some overall-wearing rednecks and a group of French-speaking tourists sharing an elevator:

Redneck: “How fast are we going?”
Guide: “About 15 miles per hour. This is actually the same speed as an opened parachute falling from a plane.”
Redneck: “A military parachute?”
Guide: “No. Actually, the military chutes fall a little faster because they’re in a hurry…to kill people.”

(Silence and muffled laughter by the four of us)

Image hosted by

The CN Tower gave us some truly amazing views of the city we were about to dissect. The tour guide also let us know that the Much Music Video Awards were going on tonight, and they were closing off some streets and broadcasting live. We decided that we would check that out if we had the chance, or at least watch it on television. The Arcade Fire was playing live, so I was pretty adamant about checking it ‘oot.

Image hosted by

After seeing every square inch of the CN Tower, we found our car and were off to the Toronto Zoo. But first, a few words on parking.

Parking & You: How to Lose $100 a Day for No Reason

Driving in Toronto is nothing short of a sick joke. However, I despise public transportation and choose to avoid it at all costs. It’s because of this that we spent literally hundreds of dollars just on parking in those eight short days.

Parking at the Rogers Centre was $14, and we found places that were as cheap as $6 throughout the week, but we usually had to park at anywhere from 2-5 different spots per day. You can do the math. Take it from me, if you plan on spending any length of time in Downtown Toronto, I strongly recommend taking the Subway or using some sort of tour bus. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.

Image hosted by

Now then, the Toronto Zoo was beckoning. Several hours and several more miles of walking later, we came to the conclusion that it was a pretty large zoo. We saw every animal you would think that would inhabit a zoo, and we also saw some things that I had never seen before. Like turtles mating.

Image hosted by

Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the sheer amount of walking. Maybe it was the pungent scent of sunscreen emitting from a million screaming children. Somewhere along the way, we all started to get a little cranky. So early into the trip, and we were starting to take potshots at each other and argue over insignificant stuff. The zoo was beautiful and one of a kind, but it was a welcome treat to get back to the air-conditioned vehicle.

Image hosted by

We had some time to kill before dinner, so we decided to check out one of the beaches in the city. I cannot stand beaches, as I can’t swim and my skin is milky white. I get sunburn just sitting too close to a computer monitor, so I normally don’t have many good things to say about beaches. This beach was no different. Some highlights were Ben getting hassled by a clearly intoxicated German man (“cut your hair!“), or a woman collecting litter dressed as a clown, complete with makeup and red nose. I couldn’t leave fast enough.

Image hosted by

My pants are rolled up in a fruity fashion because I didn’t want to get them dirty. Don’t worry about me.

Before getting back to the hotel, we drove by Much Music studios to check out the crowd for the awards show. There were already 15,000 people there three hours before show time, so we thought it better to watch the awards on television. We got dinner at the hotel, and the waitress bothered us about basically everything. She made poor Ben feel so guilty about not finishing his food, he wrapped it up just to make her feel better, knowing full well that we had no fridge or preserving device in our hotel. We had a mini-bar, but I instructed nobody to open that thing if they valued their money or sanity. A mini-bar in a hotel is like a Pandora’s Box of alcohol and cashews. Avoid it at all costs.

Image hosted by

During the Much Music Video Awards, we decided to quickly run to the nearest airport to exchange a bunch of money. This eventually resulted in an hour of wasted time, money wasted on parking, and no money exchanged. The changing station was perpetually closed, and the man we asked was nothing short of a complete ass to me and my friends. Again, we were starting to see how the rest of the planet viewed Americans. Then again, most of the inhabitants of Toronto are French, so it’s possible that they’re like this all the time. I kid the French only because they hate me. We made a vow to never return to the airport again (we returned two more times), and went back to watch the rest of the awards. By the time I got back in front of the television, the Arcade Fire had already performed. I sipped my Guinness in shame, and felt very worthless and small.


(Questions, comments or concerns about day two? Sound off in the comments section.)

Toronto Diary – Day One.

Saturday, June 18

At around 7:30am, the four of us weighed down the trunk with about 200 pounds of luggage and hit the road. The goal was to reach Toronto within ten hours (make that eleven hours, considering we’d be crossing into the Eastern Time Zone).

The travel was routine enough, as we mostly kept to ourselves in an attempt not to annoy each other. I had brought along several methods of subterfuge, including my IPod, GBA and back issues of Alternative Press magazine. I used none of these throughout the entire trip, instead deciding to bother everyone else in the car and stare longingly out the backseat window.

I was looking forward to driving through Chicago, not because I like the city, but because I wouldn’t have to stop in it. So many times have I had a complete psychotic breakdown on the Chicago Tollway; it was nothing less that a treat to give them their change, and quickly pass through their filthy city.

Image hosted by

Somewhere in this stretch of highway, this guy almost killed us because he was too busy eating.

Image hosted by

Chicago had the last laugh, though. Due to construction (which never ends in Chicago), they had raised their toll fees to an obscene level, robbing us of at least seven dollars by the time we ate brunch. We were in need of something to raise our spirits, and Alexander’s was just what we needed.

Image hosted by

Alexander’s was nothing short of a perfect 10. The place was spotless, the waiter got all of our special vegetarian orders correct without writing anything down, our food was on the table before we knew it, and it was reasonably priced. I ordered a vegetable omelette, which was my first of about 7 over the term of the vacation. Happy and well-fed, we were back on the road within an hour.

Image hosted by

The travel plan called for a trip through the heart of Michigan. This meant journeys through Kalamazoo, Grand Rapids, Lansing, Detroit and Flint. I made it very clear to everyone in the vehicle that we were not to stop in any of these locations, as I didn’t feel like getting shot so early in the trip. My terrified, white-boy attitude towards the murder capital of the world was frowned upon by the other cultured folk in the vehicle, but they heeded my warnings and made sure to get gas before the “death stretch” of highway.

Somewhere between Detroit and Canada, we stopped at the most backwoods gas station/bait shop that I’ve ever seen. As I was getting back into the car, I could hear gunshots just across the street.

Image hosted by

Before we knew it, we were quickly approaching the US/Canadian border. We had our identification in a folder for quick access, and went over some sample questions just to make sure we had the routine down cold once we got to Border Patrol. We began to see the giant bridge that led us out of the country, and immediately noticed the speed limit sign giving us an early indicator of what we were in for.

Image hosted by

After a lengthy wait in line, we got the car to the window, and began the question barrage with border patrol. Ben was driving the car, so he was the primary focus of most of the questions.

Image hosted by

At this time, I’d like to offer you a few tips with dealing with authorities at the border:

Border Patrol & You: 5 Tips to Keep You ‘Oot of Prison

Tip #1 – When asked a question, don’t repeat the question back to the cop.
Tip #2 – When asked a question, don’t look at others in the car for the answer.
Tip #3 – When asked a question, answer the question.
Tip #4 – When asked a question, attempt to answer the question within 30 seconds. Patrol hates it when you hold up a line.
Tip #5 – When the patrol agent pauses and cocks his/her head, you’re screwed.

Ben whizzed the interview down his leg with flying colors. Before you could say “profiling”, the four of us were standing in front of the car while three cops were tearing our luggage apart. We had been in Canada for no less than two minutes, and we were already facing immediate deportation. I didn’t think for a second that it could go any other way. A highlight of getting the car torn up was when another car was trying to exit the search area. The four of us were standing in front of the exiting vehicle (where we were instructed to stand, mind you), and a Border Patrol authority yelled at us, “Get ‘oot of the way!” We were scared about the on goings, but it didn’t stop me from laughing right at this cop without even attempting to hide it.

Border Patrol found nothing (of course), but we were now running about two hours behind schedule. We made sure they didn’t steal any of our stuff, exhaled, and began to explore Ontario.

The first thing we noticed was the metric system. We had to look at the little white numbers on the speedometer, which aren’t very descriptive on American cars. Normally, there’s huge gaps in the metric speedometer, so you could be going anywhere from 45 to 90 miles per hour without really knowing it.

The temperature was another story. I have no idea what Celsius temperature means, so when they told me that it was 32 degrees out, it meant absolutely nothing. For a while, I was living under the assumption that in order to convert the scale, you had to multiply the Celsius temperature by ten. I soon realized that it wasn’t an apocolyptic 320 degrees in Ontario, but I still don’t know the right conversion formula.

Our first stop in Canada was John’s Restaurant. We had a round of grilled cheeses, and I ordered a Labatt Blue. When I ordered the sandwich, they asked me if I wanted it on “white or brown” bread. I had never heard anything like this before, and I assumed that the waitress meant “brown” in reference to rye or wheat bread. I began to wonder just how simple Canadians were, considering they didn’t know the proper way to title bread. I, of course, was being an arrogant American.

Image hosted by

When we paid the check in American cash, we got our first taste of Canadian money. They have beautiful, multicolored cash, complete with hockey players, Queens and beavers. Sure, the $50 looks a little fruity, but anything’s better than American money. Now it’s time for a quick lesson aboot Canadian money:

Image hosted by

The Exchange Rate & You: 5 Tips to Keep You from Going Broke

Tip #1 – When you give the exchange station $100, you will get about $125 back.
Tip #2 – Everything in Canada is 25%-400% more expensive than in Wisconsin.
Tip #3 – Gasoline in Canada is .94 cents… a liter.
Tip #4 – There are about 3.7 liters in a gallon. Figure it ‘oot.
Tip #5 – A beer is at least six dollars.

Ontario looks a lot like Wisconsin, and it really should. I mean, we have the same natural features as our neighbors to the north, although their street signs have little crowns on them instead of the badge-shaped markers we have signifying our highways. Essentially, there’s nothing of interest whatsoever in Ontario until you reach Toronto and the surrounding suburbs.

Then it gets interesting.

We found our hotel and checked in at about 11:30pm Eastern time, a few hours late of our goal. We settled in the best we could considering the shape we were in after a 15 hour excursion. We set the alarm clock for 7:00am, and tried to get some sleep. Tomorrow, the vacation officially began. This was the view from my bedroom window for a week.

Image hosted by


(Questions, comments or concerns about day one? Sound off in the comments section.)

Mountie vs. Fishing Guide.

Image hosted by

My Toronto checklist is almost completely finished. Come Friday evening, me and the Missus will be fully prepared and ready to leave the country. The bills are paid, the checkbook is balanced, the goods are almost packed and the identification has been filed. The itinerary is all planned out, the directions have been printed and checked, the camera has a new memory card and CD’s are being carefully selected. The cats have been assigned a nanny so they don’t starve. I’m getting someone to tape “Lost” while I’m gone. I’m ready to roll.

This week of work has been nothing short of a crawl. Employers use the week before a vacation to spring all sorts of new stuff on you, because they know you’ll be in a gruntled mood. They figure you won’t shoot the place up just hours before you set sail.

Well, they’ve never met me.

I’m just joking (for legal reasons), but it does frustrate me a bit. I’d talk more about my job and whatnot, but I’ve seen people get fired for saying a lot less than what I say, so I’m zipping my lip until I get fired for other reasons (it’s unavoidable and really only a matter of time).

Moving on, I want you all to take care of the CDP while I’m away. Make sure you lock the door behind you, keep the carpets clean, remove your shoes and help yourself to anything in the fridge. I think there’s some honey mustard and cheese spread in there, so dig in before it expires. I’ll be back before you know it with hundreds of pictures and a handful of stories, provided I don’t get arrested or deported early. I’m planning on putting up all of the pictures in an external photo album, to eliminate lag time and make things easier to access. That being said, we’ll see how much ambition I have once I return.

When we get back, we have an appointment with the fine thieves and shameless hucksters over at Charter Communications to install our new DVR. I’m sick of giving them my money, but it’s only an extra ten bucks a month, and I can tape things while I’m watching other things. I’m sold.

My latest album review will be all sparkly and pretty looking in next week’s Core Weekly. Check it ‘oot. See, I’m learning the language already.

Share well-wishes and somber hugs in the comment section. Talk amongst yourselves until I return. I don’t want my spectacular hit count dropping just because there won’t be any new material for a week. Don’t make me come back home sad. If I were you, I’d use this time to browse the 16+ months of archives to catch up on all the hilarious and uplifting things I’ve said over the years.

Goodbye, then!

Two Thousand Days & Counting.

This Sunday will mark my first anniversary with the Missus. We’ve lived together for almost three years now (two of those years in sin), and we’ve been a couple for over five years. Let’s go to the timeline for a second, shall we?

(Timeline is revised, heavily edited and inaccurate. Don’t bother trying to correct it; I remember things that way I want to remember them.)

Summer 1999 – I meet the future Missus. Being in a band at the time, I beg her to attend one of our backyard concerts. She shows up and takes the stage for a show-stopping rendition of Green Day’s “Basket Case”. Love blossoms, but she has a boyfriend. What to do?

Autumn 1999 – I begin to spend more time with the future Missus. Knowing that she has a boyfriend, I try to keep emotional distance. Doesn’t go too well. Go crazy and temporarily die. We begin exchanging letters at school.

Winter 1999 – The Missus attends another concert without her boyfriend present. Boyfriend loses it and IM’s me, posing as the Missus. I’m onto him, though, and a typical online slap-fight ensues. Boyfriend dumped, I instantly assume said role. Letter writing increases to three a day.

January 2000 – Following a splendid dinner and conversation at a Fazoli’s in Oshkosh, I drive the Missus to her house, where we share our first kiss in her snowy driveway. As soon as I get home, I go online to talk to her for the rest of the night. From this point forward, we’ve never gone a day without seeing each other.

(When we first met and started seeing each other, it was difficult to find places to be alone. Not because we were up to something, we just wanted to be able to talk to each other in private. I couldn’t afford to take her out to dinner seven nights a week, so we eventually resorted to driving out of town and parking on dead-end streets by cemetaries. I ended up spending more money on gasoline than I ever could on food. This was in the dead of a Wisconsin winter, mind you, so when you’re sitting in an idling vehicle, death is always eminent. We would often shut the old Buick off and freeze, unable to start it up again when it was time to go home. Other times, we would seek shelter from the cold in the band’s practice space, above Ben’s garage. We had to share this intimate space with Ben and Sherry, mind you, so that explains why we’re all so close now. I’ll go no further with this.)

February-July 2000 – We act like any typical High School couple. You know, matching spiked hair, work shirts covered with safety pins, jackets that look like disco balls. We were like Sid & Nancy, only we were smart, good-looking, talented, not hooked on junk and I didn’t eventually kill her. Okay, we were nothing like Sid & Nancy. Leave me alone. I graduated in June, leaving Celia behind to finish two more years of school.

July 2000 – July 2002 – While the Missus finishes up school, I work at the Larsen Co-Op and hold off on college. Mediocre At Best tours all over the state, releses an album and plays with some of our favorite bands at the time. Friends are made, bonds are strengthened, virginity is lost, and engagement rings are purchased.

July – October 2002 – The Missus graduates. I quit my job, take out a huge loan and we move to Sun Prairie. A cat is purchased. Wedding plans begin to get kicked around.

October 2002June 2004 – I attend (and eventually graduate) College. Celia gets a job so we don’t starve to death. The wedding plans begin to take shape, and a second cat is purchased. The adjustment of living with someone (along with financial burden) is a bit of a rough patch, but we get through it and emerge stronger.

June 2004 – Me and the Missus get married. The CDP is launched, and the rest of the story is all archived somewhere on this page. We get better jobs, move into a new apartment and collectively exhale.

To put it mildly, I’m a lucky guy. I’m going to get sappy now, so consider yourself warned.

How did I get so lucky as to find someone like you to share my days with? What deeds have I done to deserve someone like you? How can you be so strong as to protect me from myself and everything else? How can your heart be that big?

I don’t play the lottery, because I’ve already won. People like me don’t end up with people like the Missus unless they’re already rich or truly wonderful guys. I’m neither, but she sees more in me than I see in myself. She doesn’t expect me to be perfect, but she actually believes that I could be. This is remarkable, and I lay awake at night and shake my head in disbelief, unaware and amazed that people like her can exist in a world like this.

I’m a flawed human being. I’ve lied. I’ve sinned. I’ve made people that I care about cry. Yet, she forgives and continues to love me, although I know at times that she deserves so much better. She knows me better than I know myself. She’s heard every lame story that I’ve ever told, but each time, she nods and pretends as if she’s never heard it before. On those rare occasions when things become too much for her, all it takes is a kiss and a sympathetic ear to make her strong again. Her will power and clarity are almost superhuman.

I shudder to think about what I’d become without her around. I’d be nothing. My life wouldn’t be worth living. I would hate the person I’d become if she didn’t exist. She has made me someone that I hope to be proud of someday, and I hope that she will be proud of me someday as well. If I knew six years ago that someone like her was going to come into my life, brighten every one of my days and save me from everything that I was doing to sabotage myself, it wouldn’t be believable. It wouldn’t make sense, because I never did anything to deserve it.

Angels protect people. They look out for them, keep them from harm’s way and steer them in the right direction. I don’t believe in angels, but I believe in my wife. She does all those things and more. She keeps me happy and smart; she makes my dinner and folds my laundry. She opens jars when I’m too weak. She keeps my white socks looking their whitest, and she holds me when she knows I need her to. It makes no sense to me why she hangs around, because I could never offer her all of what she gives to me.

I’m not sharing all of this with you to appear sensitive and appreciative (I am, though). I just want to bring to light someone who has made my time thus far something that I never thought it could be. I’m quite simply a better man than I could have become on my own.

A year ago, we got married in the front yard of a haunted bed and breakfast in Minnesota. A psychic was conducting the ceremony, my bride-to-be was sewn into her black dress and I was doing all I could to distance myself from the goings on. Not because they made absolutely no sense to me (they did, actually), but because I couldn’t handle the raw honesty of the moment. This woman could buy me a bigger house every year for the rest of my life, and none of them would add up to the gift she gave me when she let me be her husband.

Happy Anniversary, Celia. You’re everything I’ve ever needed. Thank you so much.

Image hosted by

Where’s My Promotion?

Image hosted by

A couple weeks ago, a customer came in to work, telling me how much my office reminded her of “The Office”. Maybe she was right.

At work yesterday, I was cornered in the hallway by the frantic administrator of the Wisconsin Real Estate Board. He looked like he was in a hurry, and this somehow involved me.

“Quick, I need you to make a snap decision for me.” He said, waving his arms around.

But, here’s the thing. I misheard him, and thought that he said “snack” decision. It didn’t register that this important person would need my opinion on anything vital, so I just figured it concerned food. I mean, why would my input be necessary concerning laws or statutes? My best guess was that there was a Zagnut and a Milky Way staring back at him from behind the plexi-glass in the machine, and he needed me to break the tie.

“Sure!” I shot back to him. “What are you hungry for?”

His eyes narrowed. Then they got very wide, as he cocked his head to the side in a futile attempt to make sense of my folly.

“What?” He squeaked.

What?” I deadpanned back to him.

“Um…I’m going to go and get Bill’s opinion on this.” He said, slowly making his way around me in the hallway and eventually out of sight, leaving me to wonder where I went wrong. Later, I asked “Bill” what was up, and that’s when the full force of my stupidity struck me like a concrete watermelon.

I’m an idiot.

On the bright side, I made it through another day without having to make any actual decisions. Perhaps I should respond this way to every query I get at work.

“Hey Ryan, can you get these forms done by lunch?”

“Sure thing, are you in the mood for something salty?”

(Long pause)

“Um…you know what, Ryan? I think I’ll go ahead and take care of those forms myself. Thanks anyway, though.”

“You betcha.”

I Don’t Dream Good.

Image hosted by

Having to sleep in the blistering heat lends itself to memorable, bizarre dreams. The constant waking and nodding off keeps you from entering the deepest stages of sleep, allowing you to dream lucidly and remember most of them come morning.

Sometimes, that’s not a good thing. Here’s a peek into what I was dreaming about last night.

I was sitting at a bar that I couldn’t quite recognize. In reality, I seldom go to bars due to the fact that I was raised in them. As an adult, I know that nothing good can come from them but a headache and the sudden loss of all your money. Bars suck, but there I was, sipping brew with my elbows on the rail. I had taken a stool next to two older women who were conversing with each other, pausing every few seconds to look over in my direction. As I shot long glances towards every angle of the dive, desperately trying to figure out where I was or how I got here, I noticed them.

My eyes locked onto one of them, who started talking to me. They launched into this story about how they kept getting constantly harassed by a regular patron. Apparently this person would show up and give them a hard time, drunkenly hitting on them and making everyone feel generally dirty and uncomfortable. Having been raised in a town full of people like that, I understood what they were talking about. I told them I would stick around in case this greeze-ball showed up. Their eyes lit up with glee, and I started to get a little more confident.

Puffing out my chest like a Peacock, I took a deep sip from my bottle of unnamed, dream-beer. I was feeling pretty good about myself, playing the role of bodyguard (Minus Kevin Costner. Rent Tin Cup, it’s great.), and scoring points with the 40-somethings. If I played my cards right, maybe they’d return the favor to me. Like, paying my bills or changing my cat’s litter boxes. I waited patiently for this sexist jackass to show up, so I could show him a thing or two about what it’s like to be a gentleman.

“There he is!”, one of the ladies whispered loudly into my ear. I heard the tavern door squeak open behind me as I slowly turned around, brew in hand, to see who was responsible for bothering these ladies.

In walks my Dad.

Now, if I may step away from the dream for a minute, there’s a few things you need to know about my Dad. We get along the way that a construction worker gets along with a foreman. We’re acquaintances who get along in the same room with each other, share the same sense of humor, and talk about two times a year. Neither of us have too big a problem with this, so it’s no big deal. However, in recent weeks I’ve been having a lot of dreams where I beat him up, so maybe I DO have a problem with it. Time will tell, but until then, let’s get back to my dream.

So in strolls my Dad, and I’m instantly furious. How dare he bother these women? I never would have imagined my own Father for a classless pig, so I could barely contain myself when he took a seat next to me, not even noticing that I was there.

Here’s the twist. Those women were playing me.

Those evil women were playing a mean trick on poor, bright-eyed Ryan. They made the story up, and waited for the next guy to walk into the bar to be the “jerk” in question. I was being set up for an ass-whoopin’, but I had no idea. The double-twist is that they had no idea that the next person to walk in would be my own Dad, who was now also an unwilling participant in their cruel setup. Are you still with me? Good.

Back to the action. I’m staring down my Dad, just waiting for him to make a pass at these women (he never had and he never will, but I don’t know that). My rage was building up, my hands clenched into fists, looking at a person who had turned out to be a liar and a fraud (he wasn’t).

My Dad looked up at the bartender and politely said, “Can I get a beer?”

“That’s it.” I said, slapping my hands to my thighs. “Step outside, I’m gunna kick your ass.”

My Dad looked at me like I was insane. Turns out I was just an idiot. (See what women do to you?) Shrugging his shoulders, he slowly crept to his feet and headed for the door with me following closely behind. This is funny, because this is exactly what my Dad would do. Even though he knows that I’m about to uncork on him, he’ll tag along for the ride. Nothing bothers him (Except maybe child support payments. ZING!). I looked over to the ladies, who were laughing and pointing for some reason. I figured it was because they knew that this pig was finally going to get his.

As the tavern door shut behind the two of us, I knew there was no way that I could beat up my old man. I mean, the guy smokes like the Challenger Space Shuttle and drinks like Dan Rather during the Election, but I still think he could take me. I knew I was in trouble. That’s when I realized that I was still holding my beer bottle.

The second I got out of sight of the ladies, I cracked him on the back of the head.

The bottle didn’t break, and he turned around and looked at me, cocking his head and still wondering what the hell I was up to.

“You better fall down, old man!” I said to him.

He continued to look at me funny.

This time, I broke the bottle clean over his melon, and he went down, presumably because he felt bad for me. I went back into the bar to realize that I had been had by the ladies. I woke up feeling ashamed, used and laughing like crazy.

So, what’s to learn from this?

Is there something I need to work out with my Dad? Am I having trust issues with people? Do I think that most women exist to screw you over? Why am I so violent when I sleep?

It’s the heat, that’s what it is.

And the humidity.

My newest album review will be published in tomorrow’s issue of Core Weekly, check it out if you can.

Why Can’t I Have One For Myself?

Image hosted by
(Quoted directly from the Mystery Science Theater official website:)

What’s the worst movie ever made? The subject is open to debate, but for over a decade, many Mystery Science Theater 3000 fans have agreed on one answer: MANOS: THE HANDS OF FATE. Now, Entertainment Weekly joins that consensus with a four-page article highlighting Torgo, the Master and other denizens of Hal Warren’s infamous creation. Oh, and it quotes a certain Michael J. Nelson, too. Look for the June 10, 2005 issue in a mailbox or magazine rack near you.

Here’s the funny part: This comes exactly ONE week after I cancelled my Entertainment Weekly subscription. I swear to you, I’ve waited three years for them to talk about something I’d care about, and now they give Manos four pages worth now that I’ve given them the boot. The closer you get to me, the more things like this will happen to you. I understand that I can purchase the issue at the newsstand, but I think you’re really missing the point.

If you haven’t had the chance to see Manos (from MST3K or otherwise), you really should do so. You’ll try to remember what life was like before you saw it. Food will taste worse, nightmares will be rampant and you’ll start to resent your reflection in the mirror. It’s quite the creation. I’m in complete agreement that this is the worst movie ever made, and I have a collection of hundreds of the worst movies ever made. When it comes to crap smeared onto film, I’m your man.

So, what am I up to? Nothing much. I’ve more or less had the phone shut off for a week now, so I’ve got that going for me. We also bought a new fan for the bedroom, so I can sleep without having to install a sweat-drain in my floor. My first anniversary/Toronto trip is just around the corner, and I’ll have a lot to share with you concerning that coming up. So stop back often this next couple weeks, because I finally have some things that I want to share with you.

I’m going to go and pack my lunch for work tomorrow.

Hired Goons.

I’m in a bit of a creative rut right now.

Image hosted by

Personally, I blame the weather. Who can focus on anything longer than 4 seconds when you’re constantly peeling yourself off of the furniture? I have an anniversary coming up coupled with a week-long trip to Canada, and I can’t for the life of me think of anything entertaining to talk about. Perhaps this vacation is just what I needed.

Don’t get me wrong, sitting around the house is great. However, I’ve been feeling mostly worthless lately. Not only because my creativity has taken a backseat to humidity, but because I’m dropping the ball around the homefront as well. Normally, I’ll get home and clean the house before the Missus shows up. I pay the bills, balance the checkbook and sometimes even make dinner before she arrives from a job that’s much more difficult than mine (she works on the kill floor of a turkey slaughterhouse). I’m happy with the routine, and the Missus is content.

Nowadays, I come home sweaty and ripe. The humidity makes me feel as if I’m walking through broth, and the only thing I want to do is sit down until dinner is ready. The most I do before the Missus arrives is play a little Mario Kart on the GBA, and change from khakis to jeans. Lazy.

I’ll get out of this rut, I always do. The problem is that I still feel worthless. What I need is a little motivation.

What I need… is Tony Little.

Image hosted by

If Tony Little can’t motivate you, then you’re already dead, brother. This guy was a two-time national body building champion who almost lost everything in a horrible automobile accident some time ago. Since then, his Ab Isolator along with his Gazelle (pictured) have changed his life and the lives of millions of others (quoted directly from memory, I watched a lot of late-night infomercials in the 90’s). Quite simply, this guy’s going to whip you into shape, or at least scream in your ear until you write him a large check. I was on board.

After some light travel and dining arrangements, Tony was on his way to my house. I was worried that he would be disgusted by what I had become, but I knew that I was doing the right thing for myself. This was going to get me back to top form, and maybe I’d get a cool Gazelle out of the deal. I tried one of those at Dick’s Sporting Goods a few months ago, and I tore my groin so badly that the assistant manager could hear it all the way over by the pool tables.

I was laying on my couch with a bottle of New Glarus Spotted Cow beer, when Tony Little kicked in my door, leaving splinters and scattering cats in his powerful wake. He wrestled the beer from my tight grip and smashed the bottle over his head, shaking the shards out of his beautifully groomed, curly blonde hair.

Then he kicked my ass.

It felt like an hour. Maybe two. Turns out it was only a few seconds, but I swore I was going to die. The last thing I remember was Tony raising his massive “Mr. America” trophy over his head, and then everything went dark.

When I woke up, I was a new man. Tony was gone, and he even cleaned up the house (it was included in the fee). The only proof that he was even there came in the form of an Ab Isolator, sitting on my kitchen table with a red bow on it. I was stunned, and most importantly, I was a man again.

It’s only going to get hotter as the months roll on, but thanks to Tony Little and his beating me to within an inch of my life, I’ll function like it’s October all year round. What can’t that man do?

Read. That’s what Tony Little can’t do. Tony Little can’t read.