Sunday, January 29, 2006

1st Place Dick

The other night my lovely wife E and I were taking in the open mic night at Karma (a very cool little art house bar in Calgary's uber-hip Marda Loop) when some muscle bound tool--wait, I'm getting ahead of myself--when some guy with a crew cut came in with his girlfriend hanging off of his arm. Did I mention he was wearing a medal.
Out to the bar.
A medal.
Around his pickle barrel neck.

I was dying to know: 1) what the medal was for?; and 2) what on Earth possessed him to wear it to a bar?

Thankfully beer has always provided me with enough courage to be so brazen as to ask strangers wearing medals exactly what I should be celebrating them for, and this evening was no different. The owner of the bar was sitting nearby our "hero" and I stopped to ask him if he knew why A was all glamed up in gold medalions. He didn't, but shared my thirst for knowledge and encouraged me to go forth and ask.

With so many people counting on me, I plunged into A very intimate conversation with his girlfriend, G, and asked:

B- "Sorry to interupt, but I noticed when you came in that you were wearing a medal. Mind if I ask what you got that bit of hardware for?"
A- (wondering if he should punch the grin off my face and onto the floor)"You can ask. . ."
G- "--it's mine! I won it in a marathon! He put it on at my place--I don't know why. "
B- "Oh! So you're riding on her coattails!"
A- (clearly not pleased at my implication that he couldn't have done it on his own)"What's your name?"
B- "Brad. What's yours?"
A- "Scott. What's the date today?"
B- "The 25th--if these are going to get tougher, I want the medal."
S- "One year. One year from today I'll have my own marathon medal--BUT, you got to do it too. We'll meet back here, one year from today, and if you don't have a medal for running a marathon I get to kick your ass!"
B- "I'll be here!"
S- "And if you don't have a medal, I get to KICK. YOUR. ASS."
B- "Tell you what--I'll be here, but if I can't win a marathon I'm going to work out so that you can't kick my ass. Fair?"
S- "Shake on it."
B- (shakes pudgy hand)
S- "One year. I get to kick your ass. You better be here!"
B- "I will be. But don't get your hopes up about kicking my ass. I'm going to work out--pump iron. I'll be ready."
S- "One year."
B- "One year."

The owner was killing himself laughing. This dude Scott was a total pilon.

Thing is, I never got a satisfactory answer to my original question: why on Earth did he think wearing a medal to the bar would be cool? I mean, I only know of a handful of guys that could pull that kind of shit off, and they're all in the photo below:

Don't bother checking; Scott isn't there.

Men are not created equal.

I have made a number of new friends out here in Cowtown; some of them totally awesome, and some of them opened their conversation with me like this:

S- "Hey Brad! Good to meet you! I just got done directing some porn--sorry I'm a little late."

He wasn't late at all.
Some segue.

S then went on to describe to me how to win a fight in a pool hall, as he had done, by using a splintered pool cue to break a man's collar bone. Or bones. He made two karate chop motions, so he must have really done a number on the guy.

S is nearly 5'5", and the best part of 175lbs.

He was also with John Lennon the day he got his hair cut when the Beatles broke up. And introduced Rock and Roll to Denmark. Yes. The whole country.

There will, no doubt, be more to say about S in the future.

Anyone else have friends they'd like me to look in on?

Friday, January 13, 2006

There's a worm in my Apple.

So. . .my beloved iBook Gord has been sick, as I have mentioned.
Well, last night, while performing a simple work exercise to get it back into shape, my little buddy expired. There were no friends or loved ones at his deskside during the final moments. He was discovered by a technician this morning who quietly folded down the screen and unplugged Gord's power cord.
Then I received a telephone call, one that no computer owner ever wants to get, informing me of little Gordy's passing.
The Tech could have at least drove a black Cadillac over to tell me.

This final, gruesome, turn of events follows close on the heels of a phone call I made to Apple Canada to complain that FileVault was the reason why my iBook had been so sick. The end of the phone call:

A- ". . .so, it's a software problem, and if you recall in your agreement, software is not Apple's responsibility. We would recommend you not use FileVault, as there are issues with that programme."
B- "I realise that. Everyone is telling me that I shouldn't use FileVault. Why is it on the bloody computer if Apple is advising me not to use it?"
A- "In some situations it is an appropriate application."
B- "Do you guys use it in the office?"
A- ". . .no. We've been advised not to."
B- "Aha. So, can Apple do anything to compensate me for the large service bill I'm about to get?"
A- "As I said, I'm sorry, but Apple doesn't cover software issues."
B- ". . .so, you're telling me, basically, to go sit on a tack?"
A- ". . .um. . .I guess."


So now, as the second month of B's Computerless Existence begins, Apple agrees with my boiling down of the situation, and THANK GOODNESS all that is left in my home office is tacks!
The guys at MyMacDealer in Calgary have been fantastic, mind you. It is through their diligence that the hard drive fault was discovered. Some time next week Gordy should be reincarnated into Robogord. Rebuilt. Better than before. Part Gord. Part warranty hard drive. All mine.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Put seat in the upright position.

My computer has been in the computer hospital since December 16th.

The delay is not the computer's fault; the blame for this protracted illness lies solely upon the shoulders of my certified Mac service team member, S.

My lovely wife E and I were up in the City of Champions sniffing around, and found ourselves at the doorsteps of a Chili's Restaurant. Yes. The same Chili's who employed N'Sync to sing "I want my baby back, baby back, baby back, baby back, baby back, baby back, baby back ribs!".

In the middle of dinner I had a pretty serious lapse of wits and suddenly dropped my fork and reached down to my lap to fasten my seat belt. E wasn't quite sure what the hell I was up to, and to tell you the truth, neither was I. I regained my senses in the middle of searching the bar's bench seat for my lap belt just in time to see my wife quietly asking herself if she made the right choice in marrying me this past October.

Why it happened? I can't say. The Smokey Chili Cajun Chicken Something-or-Other wasn't that awesome.
In fact, it wasn't awesome at all. The only thing I can think of, is that the bar's bench seat reminded me of the bench seat in my new ride--a '68 Chevy.
So sexy. Dual chrome exhaust. 350 Engine. AM/FM radio. We're thinking of calling it: Betsy (E's choice); Lucky (B's choice); or Betty (our compromise). Any feedback would certainly be appreciated.

I'll be back in the swing of things once my computer gets it's shit together.