Dear Sony Ericsson

Dear Sony Ericsson,

Despite what you may think, my ear is neither able to grab nor does it have an opposable thumb which would make it easier for me to hold onto your poorly designed Bluetooth headset.

Further you should note that a human being’s ear canal actually changes shape when they speak so nothing round is going to stick in there for long unless you figure a way to “dig in” without causing discomfort, pain, or diarrhea.

Thought you should take these items into account when designing your next generation of shitty Bluetooth headsets.

All my love,



The View From Broken Back Mountain

Ok, so it’s not quite Brokeback Mountain, it’s more of a clever title (which sadly isn’t all that clever either). There are no gay cowboys vying for each other’s love in my home, and they’re not dragging me out to the mountains once a year for a hidden tryst that neither’s wife knows about.

Instead I “simply” broke my back two summers ago while washing my hands one Sunday at the end of June.
I’d returned home after leaving my pregnant wife, and daughter with my parents (for only a short moment). The goal was get home find the phone number for the flooring store, and head out again to pick up my wife (J). We’d originally planned to let my daughter (M) hang with the grandparents while J and I went to town with the flooring.
I get home, take care of business, and then when washing my hands I heard a deafening “pop” followed by immediate searing pain then I collapse to the floor. I’m thinking that was weird. There’s no other pain for the moment. I try to get up and that’s when it hits. Pain like I’ve never felt coming from my lower back; it’s only at this point that I realize the reason I can’t actually get up is because both my legs aren’t moving and my left arm is paralyzed.
Using my best Jack Bauer trick, I one arm myself across the floor dragging my husk about 10 feet to the phone. I call my wife and she shows up about 10 minutes later. By this point the incredible pain and back spasms have set in deep and hard so much so I ended up having complete loss of lordosis (curvature) in my lower spine. Yep straight as a board, and very painful.
So what would bring this on in a 39-year-old man in generally good physical health? Stress my dear readers, lots and lots of inhuman stress, bad posture, working long hours for little reward, internalizing emotions, not dealing with things head on, self-wallowing, self-pity, and above all a complete a total disregard for every single warning sign my body was putting forward.
The car was moving at 400 km/h flying through every warning sign along side the road that there was with little regard for what was actually written on the sign.
When car finally went off the cliff the end result was 4 degenerating vertebrae, 2 torn discs, complete loss of lordosis in the lower back, and an inability to piss without a tube shoved up my urethra (albeit only for 2 days). On the upside at least it wasn’t something terminal like massive coronary, leukemia, or the litany of other equally debilitating things some 40-year-old friends of mine didn’t survive during the previous five years.
I used the time since my accident to bring myself back to mental sharpness, recover from the trauma of being away from fulltime work for nearly 12 months, and to find my centre. I’m a little more country and a little less rock ‘n’ roll now, you could say. Using a whole year to get your mind in gear, realign your goals, and figure out how you’re going to support your family is no easy task, and I’m still working on the right mix of elements to keep my life’s juices from turning volatile again, but it’s a long way down from the mountain and every so often I just pop.
With 2011 finally here, and 2010 sent off chasing my birth year I believe that I’m now physically fine and mostly recovered. There are still some tricky days that end with me feeling like I’ve been the shoe of an elephant, but they pass. I take no pills (save the odd Advil). I take vitamins daily; I eat breakfast on most days; and I’m still struggling with that late dinner bad habit.
This year I’ve promised to honour myself and deliver on regular tune ups with physio and therapeutic massage at least once a month. Serenity. Yoga. Better eating habits, and better sleeping habits (as you can see that’s going to take a little more work considering I’m writing this at 12:35pm).
The never wavering support and love of my wife J, and my two little one M (the monkey) and now the brand spanking new R (the id) keep me motivated on the hard days and floating on the good ones.
Slow and plodding, but ever vigilant my goals are set and shall be achieved.


Over the past few years I’ve had what–until recently–I thought was a cyst burrowing its way toward my brain just above my right eye. It was mostly in the right eye lid, as opposed to in my eye. This little bastard–we nicknamed the manatee–really got me good. Painfully so, it would taunt me on a daily basis getting bigger and bigger and bigger…why was it there? I’ve got no clue, how did it get there? I found out the other day.

I honestly feel that my body set itself to work as some deranged oyster would, to produce this THING, only later to have it removed from my system. And really was it worth all that much? Was it a pearl of wisdom, or something of value? No, it was some frayed and ratty piece of crap that was growing out of the roots of my eyebrow hair. Ewww is right.

What the hell is that?

I certainly don’t know.

The human body tends to do odd things when pushed, or more often than not, when it feels like it. We’re all relatively fragile creatures with a mystical nature to our complex make up. Why things actually happen in our body, we only vaguely understand…sure modern medicine may seem up to snuff, but do we really know what the cells are doing and saying to each other? What form or arcane esperanto do they speak? Is it the blood music that I hear? Or is it just my heart beating in my ear, assuring me that I’m still alive inspite of my hopes, and aspirations?

I don’t know. I’m confused, annoyed, pissed off, and now I’m marred by the surgeon’s scalpel. His tool of excision. The sharp blade and skilled hand that removed this thing from my head is clearly also that which is used to enlarge women’s breasts. Thank god I don’t have a nipple sticking out of my eyelid. That wouldn’t do me any good at all.

As people found out about the surgery I became increasingly more light with my tale. Oh yes, I’m having my eye replaced with a bionic one so that I might see through women’s clothing. Wouldn’t that be ripe if it were true. Something I’m sure the hoards lonely php geeks who’re still crying over the fact that COMDEX has been shut down, would want to get in on. Alas, poor yorick. Woe is you, for the truth be not had in this idea. Not yet anyway.

The surgery was fun and entertaining. I had been frozen, or so I’d thought. The surgeon numbed half my face and part of my neck by injecting me nearly half a dozen times directly into my orbit. One would assume the shear volume of novocaine running through me would be enough to cool even the most heated debate, but then you would be wrong, and I’d probably call you an asshole like I called him every time I felt him cutting through the fatty tissue beneath my eyebrow.

*Oh yes*, I intend to be graphic. This is not for the feint of heart, feeble of mind, nor dull of wit.

If you ever have the misfortune of not being able to perform the surgery yourself, then you’d expect the surgeon be he plastic, rubber, or otherwise, to use pre and operative words such as: routine, standard, no problem, likely, and positive. The last thing you want the surgeon to do in the middle of the operation is to say things like: Hmmm(n)…, what?, Pass me a…no the whatchamacallit, what’s that?, and that can’t be good. It’s a great confidence builder.

Needless to say my “routine” 20 minute surgical procedure was extended to a 1 hour butchery session. Butch butch butch. With a tiny sharp knife, no less. Each slice, and each dice, I felt. When I raised my leg he asked “Do you feel that?” I responded with “Asshole,” and he shot me up full of novocaine again. It felt very good, and once again he was free to hack his way through my face. Leaving me in lala land for a while.

Finally it was out. He plopped it into a dish and told me that he’d never seen anything quite like that in his life. That made me feel good–always an encouraging remark. Always indeed.

But thankfully I’m now home in the comfort of my office / bed / life, away from the hospital. Quite pleased that I didn’t have to die there–and trust me you don’t want to die in th hospital, but that’s clearly a tale for another time–and quite happy I got to go home.

We’ll see what the mutant piece of me was…what deranged possibility it could have been, and why it felt the need to befriend my eye. We’ll see…


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It’s amazing how a year in a life can affect one person. The ups, the downs, the sideways, and the asymmetrical gyrations can leave one feeling rather topsy turvy not knowing in which direction to throw up. Compress that entire year into one single solitary instance where the big bang was starting to feel the turtlehead pop out of its ass and you’ll only begin to tread on how amazing that one year in a life can actually feel.

But then again you’ve lived that one year…and the one year before that, so really you should be on par with me. Unless of course, you’ve been gladly ignoring your feelings, yourself, your family, your work, and your increasing need to neglect everyone and everything around you–if this *IS* the case then you need help. For any of this to make sense I’ll just assume that you’re not the later…

Some of you may have noticed my lack of blog over the past 6 months, and if you are one of them then that’s probably a sad indication of your need within your own life…you couldn’t possibly enjoy these silly stupid, and nonesensical rants that I’ve been leaving…or can you?

I took somewhat of a hiatus–not because of lack of things about which I could write–because of a certain impersonability and detachment that I have shared with you, the reader. So I shed my old ways and try to get to the point of the matter without beating my meat for far too long. I am suddenly struck with an effervesent happiness that’s cooler than cool.

My live in girlfriend is (figuratively) exactly as she is written: one who lives in the apartment with me, shares a life with me, and a great powerful love. On a single blank page the words MY LIVE IN GIRLFRIEND are meaningless, and were I to let you know her you might be taken with her as I am…unfortunately for you I WILL NOT SHARE much about her…except that she is my girlfriend, my partner, and my mate.

She is real and brings calm sensible reality to my world, and most certainly she is a person worthy of much cherishing, much love, and much committment…

Yes I said it, and I meant it.

Having not blogged over time has given me grounds to read over the writing on the inside of my eyelids, the opportunity to pretend to have near death experiences in a jacuzzi, and sell my sports car, and become more responsible, committed, and devoted, to her–My girlfriend, the one whom *I* live with: J.

Ah, but that is all you get from me, for I dare not share more than the letter J. Could you imagine what would happen if I shared more? No. I suppose you couldn’t; a shame your wandering mind and eye can’t begin to fathom what I meant to say…or perhaps it’s just a shame I couldn’t write it. I really mean that privacy wins in the privacy vs. paparazzi debate in this case. Oh sure. I’m famous…

One year.

This is the time that has elapsed between my meeting J. and her absolutely transforming my life, pointing me in the safe and sound directions of purpose, insight, and self fulfilment. The self loathing, the self hatred, the self involvment, and sense of self righteousness, I once felt have all melted away leaving a truely new and vulnerable me.

Why? Because of J…because of our interactions, and because I’ve learned, and now I strive to be a better me, chip of the jagged edges of the me that was pulled from the casting die. Yes. A better me.

And what does this all really mean to you? Nothing. I and my life are but blips in the history of the human kind. I now know that I am to have a legacy, or at the very least the progeny I see in her eyes.

Sports car gone.

Money depleting.

Life stabilizing.

Happiness here.

In my pocket,

with you.

I am truly happy for the first time in my life.

She is deserving of a much better respect feeling, and representation than I have previously given. To eat my laid down writing is a compromise the size of eating the universe, so I release these electrons to assure–YOU–the reader that it won’t happen again.

The path of destiny is now illuminated by the glow of her heart.

With all love, and sincerity, J.


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Skier carving a turn off piste
Image via Wikipedia

So the snow is finally getting it’s act together and getting the fuck outta town. I’m quite thrilled by this, really. I get to go skiing this weekend and hurl myself along the edge of some precipice at high velocity all while trying to make sure I don’t hit a mogul, go flying into the air and come down with a broken neck or a concussion–this is how my last ski trip ended years ago, save the broken neck–while everyone whose anything but Irish will be downtown getting pissed with everyone who is Irish. Maybe we’ll have green snow on the mountain…

What would that be like? At this hour my mind can only conjure up gooey, snotty pictures in which the toothpicks I’m strapped to get mired down in that green muck. I naturally flip foward an dunk my head deep into the goo, and come out looking like something my cat might puke out of its nose when it has a sinus infection–if I had a cat…alas, poor Yorick (my cat) was eaten by the neighbouring (yes, yes, it’s the U thingy again, live with it) old woman who smells like embalming fluid. Honest, she does.

So why am I going skiing this weekend if I smashed myself silly last time? I’m trying to get over a deep rooted problem I have with sport in general. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy sports, and even some team sports, but I have this tendency to stop playing particular ones after they’ve resulted in some kind of physical injury (loss of arm–skiing, leg fracture–skiing, broken neck–tennis, eye puncture–lawn darts) or death–the tax game. Now while I realize that throwing scissors at each other like one would throw lawn darts doesn’t actually qualify as lawn darts, but I considered it a sport at the time…after all it’s neither fun nor a game until someone loses an eye.

The last time I went skiing I seem to recall being around the time that I was in CEGEP. We’d driven up with a bunch of people, and were condemned to travel to Mont Sutton in Gordon’s car (which was about the size of a football field and comfortably slept 10). Gordon being quite the lunatic that he was enjoyed his favorite driving pastime of looking for the cassette that had fallen underneath the dash (his car was so old you could actually do that). Driving there, the most terrifying thing I experienced was Gordon saying “Someone take the wheel,” as he dove beneath the dashboard while travelling at 150 kilometres an hour…this might have been vaguely amusing had not everyone dove for the steering wheel. The longboat swerved off the highway and into the ditch between our “outbound” highway and the “inbound” highway. Being 8 of us in the car, the 7 poor sods who weren’t driving were made to push the car out of the ditch and back onto highway; it was at this juncture that Gordon decided it would be fun to drive to the next rest area and wait for us to show up and beat the tar out of him. Thankfully the rest of the journey up to Mont Sutton was peaceful because I fell into a deep slumber. This–I figured–was the only real way to ensure I’d get to the mountain without having a heart attack…it was either that or at least I’d die asleep, and I could live with that.

The day of skiing was brilliant. Most enjoyable, back in the day, I was a pretty ok, but not brilliantly sexy skier. Good enough that I didn’t hurt myself, but hardly great enough to teach anything other than hitting the person skiing next to you with your ski pole. Brilliant that is–


And by WE I mean a guy named AL who peer-pressured the shit out of me to join in the fun with the 7 expert skiers on the trip. How could I say no? It was a run at death I could hardly refuse…hardly refuse–what the fuck was I thinking? My anus had clenched itself to the point where I was going to be constipated until the millennium (thank god for that–I can freely shit again…and let me tell you it’s just so very lovely…consistency is good, flavour unique, smell robust…but I digress.) Already as we were on the ski lift my bowels had calcified the shit in my lower colon…nothing was getting out so if there had been little gnomes looking for an exit down there, they were going to have had searched elsewhere.

Of course I was sitting next to Al on the chairlift. Why? Because he was a wanker and purely enjoyed taunting me (as I was smaller) and getting off on the fact that he’d let me know if the jumps were safe for me. Wanker…WANKER WANKER CANTANKEROUS WANKING WANKER OF EVIL SMELLING LOVE JUICE…he’s still the same, but I don’t spend much time with him. In the last 5 years I think I’ve seen him 6 or 9 times…not bad…he still invites me to things every now and again, but I usually fake injury or death. I think he’s becoming suspicious since he now believes that everyone in my family is dead, poisoning the atmosphere with the ashes and smoke from their funeral pyres…

Finally we make it to the top…an agonizing ride up, mute of intellectual stimulation (Al was babbling on). I know the heat is on because I’m sweating; I know I’m terrified because I’m trying to shit myself on purpose; and I know I’ve gotta get a move on because I can feel Al’s foot in my ass.

We start.

The first jump is pretty slick. Al does a nice daffy and lands perfectly. He instructs me as well as anyone can instruct me on doing ski jumps from 30 feet away, and I’m off. Now don’t get me wrong, I can ski (or at least used to be able to) and I was impressed with the way I handled myself on that first jump; it was clean, it was precise, it was total fluke.

Bang I landed very safely on the ground; for some reason it was at that time that alternate lyrics for Men Without Hats’ Safety Dance something along the lines of this:

The Skiing Stance

We can ski if we want to, we can land on our behinds

We can twist our knees, and break our skis

But we don’t mind

We can ski, everything’s outta control

We can ski, hey look out for that pole…

We can ski

Oh we can ski

Oh we can ski

(Ad Nauseum–Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera for those who are intellectually challenged [i.e. fucking idiots for those of you who are…erm…fucking idiots])

Jeez just listening to the original Saftey Dance freaks me out a bit. Not be cause it’s bad, that’s not really it’s fault, the song is terminally 80’s and so was everything else back then. I really feel bad for the strippers who were peeling to this tune…I mean the one that haven’t o.d.’d on something by now must be thinking that their lives are pretty good. What could be worse than stripping to this song? No really, think about that and let me know.

The only thing I can think of is my vagina being on fire. But really…

So I’m thinking that I’m pretty hot shit and I’m starting to get cocky enough to get the hand of daffy’s and other assorted stupid aerial tricks that I shouldn’t be doing.

Al drags us all of donw a particularly icey area and one by one they all fly off the jumps and land perfectly making me feel like a star, because of course I can ski EXACTLY like them..NOT! Yep I hit the jump go into a daffy, it goes all wrong.

That was one of those moments that while I was in the air I contemplated life, the universe and everything, had flashes of Right, Said Fred pass between my ears–I’m too sexy for this life, too sexy for this life. Life’s gonna leave me–and knew whole heartedly that the landing was going to be bad. What was even worse was the fact that I knew from the second that my left foot lagged back on the jump that I was going DOWN.

The end result was less vertically motivated than it was horizontally motivated, and let me tell you that tree hurt like a motherfucker. That is still one of the most painful impacts that I’ve ever experienced…and I can say this because I’ve experienced many.

I lost my left ski and my left pole, and managed to strand myself some 10 feet above the snow. How the fuck did that happen? I don’t know. Al the wanker that he is/was (not ’tiswas for all you people how were condemend to the sodomy of growing up in England with me) laughed until I started to bleed. Some how I came down from the tree (most likely fell) and then lightly skied my ass to the chalet where I would sit looking slightly less retarded and dejected than I actually was, waiting for the 7 ski masters to haul me off to the car.

When they showed up I was convinced by Al to get back on the hill for the final run. The Chinese Downhill. Now as rude and offensive as the nomenclature sounds this was something that we stole from the Hot Dog…The Movie…stupid stupid shit…but as classic and necessary as the entire Porky’s and Police Academyserieses, or Snowboard Academy–I was indirectly involved with this film…not sure I should be badmouthing it, but I wasn’t actually a paid member of crew and / or staff…

So up I went again, and I really wasn’t feeling all that well. When we got to the top however, I felt that the brisk air had cured what ailed me. I was ready to bomb down the hill and make it out unscathed.

For those who have not seen Hot Dog…The Movie

The chinese downhill–rude and offensive as the title is–consists of as many people as possible throwing themselves down the hill as fast as possible. The winner is the person who makes it to the bottom. Anyone who fall is disqualified, and anyone who gets killed is also disqualified. Naturally as part of the rules there are no set rules…and that means pushing, shoving throwing, punching, biting, licking, sucking, coaxing, fucking, and rubbing are definintely allowed.

Well I got pushed, shoved, throw, punched, bitten, licked, sucked, coaxed, fucked, and rubbed right into the ski lift, and that was the moment when I should have said “Charlie?” but I was too unconscious for that.


I wake up at Al’s apartment because they were too wankerish to take me to a hospital because they wanted to get back to his place so they could drink heavily. I wake on the floor in a pile, and not feeling all to well…three beers later and I’m puking on everything: Al’s TV, Al’s girlfirend, Al’s toilet, Al’s brand new carpet, in Al’s bathtup, in Al’s sink, on Al’s 360k Apple Unidrive, and when I was able to control and direct my vomit, in Al’s spaghetti sauce pot….ok I did that one on purpose….

My father was eventually summoned, I was hauled off to the local hospital where they stripped me, deloused me, probed my anus for crack, and told me I had a light concussion and that I should be more careful whe skiing…no shit woman.

Hospital card collection +1…

The rest of the evening was spent entirely in bed, and face down in my own puke. God what a trip that was…

And it’s been since then that I’ve strapped a pair of toothpicks to my feet. My live in girlfriend and I found a great $ deal on skiing this weekend with the YMCA nearby, and we’re going to go. She’s an avid skier, and hasn’t been skiing this winter most likely due to my apathy over the whole skiing thing. So I hope you all get it now…

So that’s it.

I’m committed.

That’s where I’m headed.

She must be one hell of a woman to get me back on skis.

That accident happend in 1988. I’m still having flashbacks, and nightmares about all things with rotating knives.

Damn, she *is* one hell of a woman.

We’re gonna have fun!



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