SAN RAFAEL, CA - JULY 17:  Packages of General...
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The path of least resistance is a futile one to follow for me…seems like everything I do or have done in my life has travelled the path of most resistance. Any attempt to take the easy way out, the low road, the most travelled path has simply never been an option.

The tests of my youth even illustrated that I was attracted only to the hard way. If there was an exam where I had the option of choosing three of four questions I would choose the three hardest ones. Regardless of the fact that I knew I would get a better mark by choosing the three easiest ones. In the end the result isn’t what mattered, it was always the challenge and feeling of accomplishment. While passing an exam is nice, “ace-ing” an exam was always elusive.

Yet day after day I see it wherever I go. The lowest common denominator running around with better toys, making more for themselves, seemingly happy or at least sufficiently numb in their lives that any hardships can easily be avoided. Why is that for them–the unwashed masses; that person who is so deathly happy with working at the local hardware store chain for $10 / hr and never knows where anything is–the life worth living is the one that requires the least effort? I don’t get it. I suppose I never did, but somehow they do get it.

Now I’m starting to see and feel what a lifetime of climbing uphill brings. Eventually the hardway becomes the only way, the high road is the only one you can see, and the least travelled path is the only path that ever really presents itself. The world starts tailoring everything for you. Things become pointier, less soft, you keep moving until one day you wake up and realize that you’re so far out to sea that there isn’t anyone around to give you a life raft;you’ve got to swim back to shore on your own.

I’m at that time now. I’ve only just begun to swim back to shore, and I’m not sure I’m going to make it all the way. Then again I suppose this is the hardway presenting itself again. I didn’t really need to swim out this deep into the water now, did I? I suppose not, it’s just that sometimes the way out is much easier to find (inspite of the hardship along the way) than the way back home. The way back home / to shore is a long swim away.

With no dinghy,
With no guiding buoy,
With no preserver of any kind.
With no lighthouse to guide me in.

I am alone in the return.

And yet in this moment the water around me is warm, feels–I suppose–like a womb-like comfort. All I have to do is to stay here and drown myself in this sea of loneliness and sorrow. That would be too easy…and there in lies the rub.

With all the strength I can muster,
With all my facilities about me,
With all warmth near by.
With all presense.

I take the long way home (again).

And when I reach shore, and open the that door to my home. I will make sure that I will balance the hard ones with the easy ones. Temper myself, and perhaps take a little corner of the page in the book of life of that woman who works at the Tim Horton‘s down the street and can’t count change to save her life, but is still happy.

There can be no more halves.
There can be no more imbalance.
There can be no more corners.
Me will mean me.

I will be I.


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Ok. Ok. So I’m just a *BIT* delinquent when it comes to keeping up with this thing…dunno maybe working harder and getting engaged have something to do with it, or maybe it’s the fact that from time to time I become a lazy son-of-a-bitch, or from other time to other time I just plain don’t care–there’s too much other crap falling from the sky that I need to dodge…

Right, so this is the abridged version of my vaction that I’m posting. I’d love to say that it was horrible, but I really did enjoy it. We had a lot of fun amidst the puking. Lets face it, when you’re chowing down on fresh lobster and crab on a daily basis, really what can go wrong, right?


Due to overwhelming response I will post an unabridged version of this story with pictures sometime when I get a break between working on my upcoming wedding and work. Thanks for your e-mails (lovers) and flames (bastards)…


My Trip (Abridged)

By Sandeep Panesar

Friday = drive to Quebec City, it’s FREEZING! sleep in damp hard bed.

Saturday = arrival in New Brunswick, rain, party at relative’s for 45th wedding anniversary, and sleep in wet bed with 1 broken spring.

Sunday = rain, fester about the chalet (chalet is new brunswickan for trailer home), visit relatives, and sleep in wet tent.

Monday = rain, lobsters (yum yum), sleep in wet bed with 2 broken springs.

Tuesday = rain, sunshine, clam digging in the—unbeknownst to me—sewage stricken lake, eat said clams, trip to magnetic hill, vomiting, trip to moncton, vomiting, trip to chapters, vomiting, vomiting, vomiting, vomiting, vomiting, ad nausea (literally), sleep in wet bed with 5 broken springs.

Wednesday = sunshine, Trip to PEI, miscarriage, babysat sister-out-law’s kid outside of hospital for 12 hours, drive home, sleep in wet bed with 10 broken springs with sad heavy heart.

Thursday = sunshine, Kelley beach, tanning, home, dinner with relatives (lobster yay!), slept in wet bed with 20 broken springs.

Friday = Early rise (4:30AM) lobster fishing in the atlantic with REAL fishermen (ala perfect storm), return to shore, dinner with friends, drinking at their place, square dancing for Acadian festival, return to their place for hot tub party, drinking more, return to hot tub, slip, hit head on the side of hot tub 3:30AM, emergency room trip 45 min away, no doctor on duty! Return home at 5AM wait sleep on couch with head raised so I don’t die until 7AM…

Saturday = 7AM go to the ER 45 min away, stitches, return to chalet around (see above) 11AM, sleep until 3PM in wet bed with ALL broken springs, get up, pack, drive like a motherfucker and turn a 12 hr drive into a 9.5 hr drive. Have breakfast at picasso’s on st.jacques (1st meal of the day). Go home. Sleep in MY DRY and comfortable bed.

Sunday = sleep off the vacation. Good to be home.

Very very good indeed.


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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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When I was a younger, back in the days of my pre-pubescent prime, I had two great fears a) Changing in front of other pre-pubescent boys, and b) Gym class. Thankfully I somehow managed to successfully dodge gym class and concentrate on more illuminating subjects like typing and enriched math–that’s advanced math for those who took the remedial English classes.

I’d like to say that typing class was more than dodging gym, and simply brilliant foresight on my part–given my current career choice–but I just didn’t want to get naked with the other little boys–after all they had hair on their ding dings…and since I was much younger having skipped a few grades on the way up, I had none. In 1983 the only people who took typing classes were young girls who thought that they were supposed to become secretaries or assistants. Apparently the high school guidance counselors back then, let a lot of young girls down. Naturally I was razzed even more for being in a class with just girls (for me turning 13 in grade 9 I just wasn’t into them–the opposite sex you know). Besides I figure it might come in handy if I decided I wanted to be a secretary; my private schooling in Hounslow (England) had already taught me how to take dictation.

And enriched math? That didn’t do anything for me. I was piss bored with it because I’d seen it all before in my private school hence the original reason for me being placed in enriched math. The principal didn’t think it would be wise to throw me in with the dolts in the grade 10 math class. I suppose he was right since that would have most likely gotten me beaten up by more people than necessary, and I’d already been spending most of my lunches locked in lockers. Let’s face it, a grade 10 girl can punch harder than a grade 9 girl, and coming from a conservative all boys school where sex education was brushed off as something you could learn about behind the bush at the back of the schoolyard from Professor Sutcliffe (pronounced suth – cliffy…we used to call him suck – dicky, go figure,) I was afraid of both.

As the years went by I realized that changing in front of other guys wasn’t that big of a deal as long as you have nicely groomed pubes, and your dick was longer than theirs. Most guys in the changing room play this daft game of don’t look at my penis, but I’ll try to slyly cop a look at yours while you’re changing. This way they can mentally compare their units to each others, and privately snicker. It’s just dumb…I guess that’s part of the Alpha Male’s need for dominance. Throw a bunch of sweaty testosterone infested wankers into a change room, pull everyone’s pants down exposing their John Thomases in all their glory, and you’ve got your very own WWE grudge match.

Getting my act together and into a gym was a long ordeal of motivating myself to do it. Until last year (when I met my live in girlfriend) my self motivation techniques were excessive self masturbation, so I stayed home a lot. The gym really wasn’t in the cards. She being quite the healthy woman loves the gym, breathes the gym, and eats the gym. I had known for quite sometime that my body had long ago become a shrine to beer, cigarettes, poor food, no sleep, wood shavings and cardboard. She helped me change all that, and in 3 short months I’m already seeing results. I’ve been hitting the gym quite a bit, and of late I’ve become even more steadfast about being there at least 3 times week! Can you imagine? The vices gone, and I’m…actually…craving the gym now? Eeeeeeeesh! I’ve become one of them…one of those men who now has to fight for alpha dominance in the gym.

My girlfriend and I don’t work out at a particularly brilliant gym. I’m still a beginner, and I’m still getting used to the idea that I enjoy working out and in general being healthy. There are so many YMCA‘s in Montreal, and they’re all in the process of being redone. Ours however, seems light-years from renovations…who knows. Naturally the gym is plentiful with Gym Sharks and Gym Wankers…these are usually the same people but for illustrative purposes I’ve separated the two groups.

GYM SHARK: You know the guys that are built a little better because they’ve been working out for the better part of a millennium, and like to stand around looking pretty. They hang in groups, and enjoy watching each other do 1 rep of twice what they can normally bench press. The second a pretty woman / girl walks into the gym, all eyes are upon her. They watch her like she’s a brand new food source that has until now remained “undiscovered.”

“Perhaps I can *discover* her,” says Alpha Male Wannabe 1

“I would like to discover her.” argues Alpha Male Wannabe 2

“I am the Alpha Male!”

“No, I am the Alpha Male!”

“Clearly you are not,” says Alpha Male Wannabe 1 as he rips off the testicles of Alpha Male Wannabe 2. He chews them for good measure.

Alpha Male Wannabe 2 is wounded and skulks over to the water fountain to bathe and lick his newly ripped pussy.

AMW1 continues to eye his prey. He makes eye contact, and she looks away (of course she does, he’s being aggressive and she’s being submissive–it must be the sweat!) This dance of stupidity goes on until she leaves her exercise machine and moves to another. At this point AMW1 moves in for the kill.

“Need some help? Someone to spot you?” he desperately says.

She looks up and for a fleeting moment carries the same look of bemusement on her face that a doe would carry just before it realizes the 8:27 AM train to Ottawa won’t be stopping just because she’s in its way. She timidly smiles.


And the dance continues.

First there’s some unintelligent banter “I haven’t seen you here before,” “You really know your stuff,” “Whatever you’re doing seems to be working…” “Would you like to try a different exercise?” “I’m going to be finishing up after this, wanna go for a salad…” bla bla bla motherfucker…bla bla bla.

He makes her at ease through laughter. Then there’s an arm touch or two. A hand on the back. He has to show her how to do the exercise by pushing up against her in a very manly man way…

GYM WANKER: This wanker is a very special kind of wanker. He exists solely to stand and look pretty. Is he really working out? We don’t think so, but he’s definitely intent on hogging as much equipment as possible. These are the guys who take 30 minutes to do a single set, and encourage me to stand around in the gym waiting for his holiness to get the FUCK off of the god damn fucking bench press machine. Shit! What kind of fucking asshole leaves the 900 lbs that he can’t lift on the bar while he goes to walk around the gym massaging his testicles acting like another Alpha Male Wannabe, trying to be a Gym Shark, and failing at both attempts.

I have a lot of contempt for these people because they slow down my work out, and ensure that I’m thoroughly annoyed by the time I actually get to a machine, but you know it’s all ok. I don’t complain. I eventually get my equipment and I eventually get out of the gym, and I can get back to my normal life, and not worry about these people.

That is until today.

After meetings with my client today I hightailed it the local YMCA for my après work workout with my live in girlfriend. She’s been giving me brilliant advice, great tips, and showing me how to exercise. Apart from the fact that I’m actually going to the gym and doing the exercise, I owe the rest of my physical condition to her goading, pushing, prompting, and help.

I get to the gym my live in girlfriend is already there, sitting on the mat stretching. As I walk in the AMW Gym Shark Gym Wanker is staring me down, with so much contempt I almost left to go home and bathe. This however has been a daily ritual, and every time I see him he stares at me. Perhaps it’s because I’m better looking than him? Perhaps it’s because he’s glimpsed my penis in the men’s changing room? Perhaps it’s because he’s a wanker? I don’t know at this point, and I don’t care. As always his empty AMW threat’s fall to the wayside, and most likely cause his dick to shrink that much more, and his balls to shrivel up a little more than the steroids do for him.

I go over to my live in girlfriend, and give her a quick peck on the lips. We chat for a few moments, as I haven’t seen her all day, and then I decide to being my workout. As I walk away from the stretching area the “Instructor” comes over to me and says,

“I’ve had reports about you, and I wanted to tell you to stop it before you even get started.” He then turns 180 and walks away.

As he’s saying this to me I’m thinking “You’ve obviously got me mistaken for someone else.” But being polite I ask him, “What did I do wrong? I’d like to know so that I don’t do it again.”

“I’ve had complaints about you playing around with girls on the mats.” He’s rude about the whole thing and then walks off…me? Playing around? Girls?

Then it clicks.

The AMW had passed a rather vocal comment when I’d last kissed my live in girlfriend in the gym some days before. “This is a weight room!” as we’re on our ways out to go home.

My live in girlfriend and I are appalled by the rudeness of the “Instructor”, and frankly I don’t feel like working out anymore after the whole thing. I wasn’t interested in starting something because my sister works at this particular gym too. The last time I stepped up to defend myself at a place where she worked was when the bouncer of a bar decided it would be fun to throw me into a car after a minor verbal disagreement on letting me in to talk to my sister on one of her shifts. Go figure. I complained to the manager, and she lost her waitressing job…that was a while back, and I still feel terrible about that. I wasn’t about to do the same thing again.

We go to our respective changing rooms, and meet at the front desk. When I get there my live in girlfriend is reporting the incident to one of the Y staffers with whom we’re both friendly. He’s appalled, and this is where it all comes together.

Apparently the guy who’d passed the comment some days before had previously made some aggressive Gym Shark style moves on my live in girlfriend. She made the AMW leave her alone, and he was jaded by his being ripped a pussy by the opposite sex in public. At some point his brain kicked in and he clued in on the fact that we were a couple, and the only thing that I can think of is that the rejection never hurt so bad for him. Clueless and crapped out he did the only thing that a testosterone addled freak could do…report me…what’s wrong with you man? Are you just another whiny bitched Gym Wanker?

Apparently he was.

As my live in girlfriend’s recounting this entire experience to the desk staff the “Instructor” from upstairs comes down and stands at the desk next to us. He starts snicker and making negative sounding noises every time she says something to the desk staffer. What the fuck is that? Are you an instructor? Or are you just another Gym Wanker who used to be a Gym Shark.

Everyone in the gym seems to treat the instructor like he’s made of gold. Sure he’s in great shape…the guy’s 70 and he use to compete professionally for Mr. Universe or Mr. Olympia or Mr. Bitch Tits, but give me a fucking break! Rudeness anyone?

So natch my live in girlfriend and I cancel our memberships, and we’re moving to a bodybuilding gym that we’d considered joining before the Y.

Why am I not fighting this whole thing out?

Casualties. My sister for one. I’m not making that mistake twice. I’m also not going to spend the energy it would take to fight this out, get the instructor reprimanded and get the AMW bounced from the gym. Sure I could do it. That’s not a difficult task, but that leaves me with a bad rap at the gym, and firmly in the sites of the other AMWs.

Choose your battles young grasshopper. Put your foot only in the asses of people you know you can, with minimal loses. Besides, people like that pay for their actions by the lives they lead.

I would have thought that childish behaviour like that would be absent at my age, but it seems that the old adage of putting two hard cocks in a blender is still true:

Two hard cocks in a blend is good for a fight.

Two in your hands is good for lots of cum.


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