Stampede Silouette.

When in Calgary, do as the Calgarians do.

. . . and that includes eating three squares of oil a day.

How to Fail at Dating.

I recently met someone of the opposite sex online.

I know--super-duper lame, but. . .

Over a casual drink, with no sparks flying, the subject of my failing marriage came up--fine--I'm happy to discuss it, for the sake of transparency.

However, sometimes one can be too transparent:

B- ". . .you know, truth be told, I'd still rather be happily married."
D- (silence)
B- "Uh, I know how that must sound."
D- (Uncomfortable silence)
B- "Shall I get the tab?"
D- "Yeah, I'm pretty tired."
B- "Yeah."

On a first (and last) date, there are only a few other statements which could bring the evening to a screeching halt:

B- ". . . Hitler had a few good ideas, though!"
or
B- "On my 2006 'To do' list is 'No more mind games--they hurt the ones you love'."
or
B- "Want to compare prior convictions? . . . You don't have any? Come on! Everyone has something!"
or
B- "Does anyone know that you're out with me tonight? No? I see. . . "
or
B- "I've always wanted to have a threesome--are you close with your mother?"

Having not dated in forever, I'm quickly discovering that I'm hopeless at it.
Oh--and under no circumstances should you wear a gold lamee unitard on a first date.


"Unitards do not show confidence or a sense of humour--they exhibit gross inadequacies. Now let's wrestle!"

How To Fail In Business

We've been getting a lot of hail in Calgary recently.

Two hail episodes ago I was stuck on a rooftop patio for a "Summer Solstice" party; it was me and a bunch of wine guys and gals. It was hailing cats and dogs, and of course I was the only dude without an umbrella. Because I'm just the beer guy, right?

Perhaps it was the pounding my poor brainbox was taking from the marble-sized hail that led me to choose, after 15 minutes of pretty steady precipitationl, to assemble an ice ball from my table top and throw the most perfect bean ball right at one of my retailer's head. Normally I have the worst aim in the entire world.
Couldn't hit the broadside of a barn.

Normally.

This time, my ice ball connected perfectly with E's ear. She was that type of "surprised" that, if you read between the lines, was thinly veiled hatred. I felt bad. To make up for my poor choice, I threw a few more ice balls at the wine guys--and my aim, I'm glad to report, was flawless.

My arm was so red hot that an Italian guy I didn't even consider throwing an iceball at collapsed and started clutching his head, either out of fear or natural predisposition to melodrama.


. . . but at least Superman is a prick too. Hey Metropolis! Check out what kind of SPORTSMAN your precious Man of Steel is!!

Douchebag Anchorman

I recently did a "Cooking with Beer" demo for a Noon News segment, during which all the wheels fell off the wagon.

I had decided to make "Lumpy's Dressing", a very easy, very pleasant salad dressing I chose because of its bacon content. Worried that the studio burner wouldn't work, I pre-crisped some bacon; I figured that of the ingredients (fresh minced garlic and shallots, Steam Whistle, oil, vinegar, and bacon) bacon was the only real thing that presented a problem if the burner was MIA. Or the anchor Kosher.

Sure as shit, I get all my stuff arranged perfectly on the cooking set, pretty as you please, and the moment the camera turns on myself and the anchor, I discover we're up a creek:

A- "So, shall we get started cooking with beer?"
B- "I thought you'd never ask!"

(click. click. click. The dial on the burner was producing a spark, but no flame.)

B- "I'll willing to bet you a beer that this burner is out of gas."
A- (totally pissed off, no longer covered in a polite veneer)"Can we get someone in here to fix this!?"

That someone was the poor bastard standing just off camera--and he had nothing. His shoulders were shrugged, and his palms were turned upwards. Perfect. No problem. I've got the pre-crisped bacon!

I soon realised that, as a result of our little setback, my anchor buddy was now not interested in our cooking segment in the least. I was starting to sweat.

After miming the delicious smells and preparation of "Lumpy's Dressing" I poured it over the salad which A had, gracelessly, "helped" assemble. Moment of truth:

B- "Wow! This looks delicious! Would you like to try some?"
A- "No."
B- (at a total loss for words)"Are you sure? There's plenty for both of us!"
A- (firmly)"No."
B- "Oooooooo-kay then. . .more for me."

And with that I took the biggest forkfull of lettuce I could, and stuffed it into my mouth. I'm sure it looked worse than it sounds.

B- "Well, we've got a bit of time--how about we grab a Live Eye and head out to the parking lot? I'll do a burnout demonstration for the kids at home."
A- "No."
B- "Oooooooo-kay. Well, I made you this thank you card because my mom is watching by satellite; I didn't want her to think my manners had gone to pot since I moved out to Alberta."
A- "Thanks. That's sweet. Did you want to say 'Hi' to your mom?"
B- "Sure! Hi mom!"

Take me out behind the barn and shoot me.

My phone rang once I had finished packing up and was loading my truck in the parking lot. It was mom.

B- "Yello!"
M- "That guy was a total asshole."
B- "Hi mom!"
M- "Thanks for saying 'Hi'--your aunt E saw and she just called me and told me that she thought it was sooo sweet!"
B- "I try."

So, at the very least, it makes me look that much better than my cousins; I mean, when was the last time they said 'Hi' to their mother on teevee? Like, never.

The Restorative Power of Journey

I stopped at a liquor store the other day, and the middle-aged manager was feeling pretty low. Her store had just been sold from one chain to another, and the future looks uncertain. And the beer delivery had arrived, which meant a lot of heavy lifting on a lazy, hazy Thursday afternoon.

I hate to see people suffer.

So I asked her:

B- "Hey!"
C- (Long face, joyless eyes)
B- "You look pretty down in the dumps, C--would you feel better if I went out to my truck, pumped Journey on the stereo, and did a burnout?"
C- (brightening)"Yes."

And so let it be written, so let it be done.

I climbed into the truck and my stomach began getting butterflies--this would be my greatest burnout ever. It had to be.
Turn the key.
I adjusted the iPod, and rolled my clickwheel to Music:Artists:Journey:Don't Stop Believing. I pressed the UP arrow on my stereo until it read 32--it's maximum (who makes 32 the maximum?).

I glanced in my rearview mirror; C was waiting patiently, with a grin on her face from ear to ear. Anticipating the miracle--placing all her hopes and fears on the rubber wrapped around my American Racing rims.

B- "Come on, B! Do it for the Gipper!"

Place left foot on the brake.
Place right foot on accelerator.
Begin the 'teasing revs'.
Press Play/Pause on the iPod.

S- "Just a small town girl, livin' in a lonely world. . .She took the midnight train goin' anywhere!"

I wanted to make the "boulevard" (as sang, "boul-eee-vard") know that I had been up in it.
And with that, I drowned Mr. Steven Perry out with the voice of an angel--my squealing tires desperate to grab the asphalt, but their failing tread unable to comply.

And in a cloud of blue smoke, I was gone.

S- "It goes on and on and on and on!"

The manager, from what I could see, was clapping and laughing like she was 16 again, and buying her first denim jacket with her waitressing tips.

. . .and at the Tim Hortons nearby, some men raised their coffees to me. As is custom, I raised my index finger from the wheel in a return salute.



"Journey needs Steve Perry, like Steve Perry needs a haircut"
Take that as you will.

There's Something About Scary Mary

I have a housemate who lives, and has lived for quite some time, in the basement bachelour apartment in my house. It's a dark, dismal little cubbyhole fit for dwarves, spiders, and not much else.

Scary Mary, a late-fifty-something wire-haired woman of great personal acreage seems, on the outside anyway, to be someone terrified of leaving her home. Nearly all of her goods are delivered to her via a number of different men in cars, and she views most people with a very wary eye.

She spends some of her idle time poking peanuts through her wartime storm windows to the happiest squirrels in Calgary; the rest of her time, she spends trying to seduce me.

Or, at least, that's what i think.

Our first meeting was not long after I moved in. I had been warned that SM was a bit of a recluse, but I am so full of confidence in my charm that I saw her as more of a challenge than an obstacle. And I needed help turning on the clothes washer (it's a decommissioned coin-op with it's own set of quirks, you see).

Knock knock knocking on her door produced an awful lot of crashing about, and a nervous call to "wait a minute". More than a minute later SM answered the door, her massive corrective lens aviators riding low on her nose, a nice top, and the most moth-eaten pair of jogging pants--can you call them that when they clearly serve no such purpose?--barely covering anything. So dilapidated were these "pants" that she had to clutch part of a pantleg to cover her "bathing suit area"--even still, I saw a buffet of inner thigh that I would certainly not revisit for a second helping, regardless of whether there were popcorn shrimp or not.

SM- "I wasn't dressed when you knocked."
B- (in my head) "You still aren't." (Out of my mouth)"Sorry to interrupt. . . I can't work the clothes washer."

SM moves like those large-boned beasts you see moving around MacDonald's; they always seem to be falling forward, rather than walking forward, and as a result move in a series of small hard stomps.

After a helpful tutorial on the washing machine, SM got serious on me:

SM- "If you find me lying in the hall, don't worry--unless I'm bleeding. I have epilepsy."
B- "Should I do anything? Put you in a recovery position?"
SM- "Just leave me."
B- "Good to know."

Weeks later, SM furthered her seduction of B when she approached me, in the glow of basement twilight, to tell me:

SM- "After 11pm I have my bath, and usually don't have any clothes on when I go to my bathroom."

Her bathroom is by the laundry room, outside her apartment.

B- "Oh!"
SM- "So if you could not come down--I'm not dressed."
B- "I will avoid it at all costs--I promise."
SM- "Thanks."
B- "My pleasure."

I couldn't tell if I was being propositioned or warned. I've been treating it like a warning.

Closer to the Flame

I don't say this to brag, but yesterday I got a bit of unexpected action in my bathing suit region.
Unexpected, and somewhat unpleasant, unfortunately.

Cruising along the Blackfoot Trail, with its steady volume of traffic clipping along pretty well, I suddenly became aware of a crawling sensation working its way up my inner thigh. A creepy, crawly, squirmy sensation that, the instant I felt it, drove me to the edge of panic.

Clearly, there was an insect of indeterminate size working its way towards my family jewels; a prospect that, even though I haven't had much activity in the nether regions over the past half year, did not thrill me in the least.

I immediately began fumbling with my belt buckle like an adolescent virgin on Grad night who, as the result of some dry humping on a hotel pool table, is getting very close to having his first shared sexual experience solo.
The belt buckle beat, I went to work on unlocking my button fly--my driving had begun to suffer, but it didn't occur to me to pull over--THERE WASN'T TIME!--I had to get whatever it was in my trousers OUT (and by OUT I mean I wanted it done, like, yesterday).

Red light.

Thank God; I could use two hands on the rapidly developing situation in my pants. . .
. . . and that's when I heard a voice float through my open window.

A voice which seemed to float from somewhere above me.

A voice which was clearly addressing me:

V- "What year is that?"

With both hands busy pushing my trousers down towards my ankles, and my eyes fixed like a hungry dog on my thighs for any sign of life, I had two choices: look up and calmly answer, "It's a '68! Ain't she a beaut?"; pretend that I don't hear.

Ever the salesman, I looked up into the face of a plumber, who was peering down with admiration from his Super Hemi 4x4 Monster Machine.

B- "It's a '68! Ain't she a beaut?"
V- "She sure is. Where'd you get the paint job done?"
B- "Toronto. It's a beauty of a paint job, eh?"
V- "It's a beauty all right."

Traffic lights are always too long--this one was endless.
By the time the lights turned green, the only thing that had improved was my trouser infestation, which seemed to have solved itself.

Maybe the plumber had seen nothing, transfixed by the lovely chrome and lime green beauty that is my four wheels?

V- (as they pulled away)"Well--won't keep you from your business. Good luck with that. Har har har!"

No such luck.

And as I pressed the gas, I felt some squirming and fluttering down my right pant leg.
Son of a bitch!

It eventually turned out to be a moth.

I kept expecting to get an email sent to the Roundhouse outlining how someone had encountered a Steam Whistle salesman in a green truck interfering with himself on a 'family highway'. I would have blamed altitude sickness.

Viet Cong & Beaver Trapper: Brothers in Arms

On this Canada Day I thought that I would share an interesting encounter I had with a fella from Vietnam one summer while I was working in the States.

Waiting in line with this Kiwi I was working with, we were kidding around and he began to tease me about being a Canuck. A Vietnamese gent behind me tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I was Canadian (and I most certainly am).

V- "You know, we two have a lot in common."
B- "Really? Why do you say that?"
V- (conspiratorial look around)"We are the only two countries to ever beat America at war."
B- "How do you. . .you mean the 'War of 1812'?"
V- "Yes. During the invasion we learned about your war, and how you were outnumbered, and how you won."
B- "Geez! Most kids in Canada don't know much about the 'War of 1812'--I'm very impressed!"
V- "We knew that if Canadians could beat the Americans, then we too could do it."
B- "Hell! We whooped 'em! The White House is white today because we sailed down to Washington and burned it!"
V- "YES! We two share a bond because of this."
B- "I appreciate that."

I've always loved that run-in, because: 1) I'm a huge War of 1812 buff; 2) I've always felt kids in Canadian schools should learn more about their short heritage in Canada--farther back than WWI & Confederation (although I think WWI is an pivotal moment in Canadian history--so is, I guess, Confederation). I mean, here we have a guy half a world away who likely possesses more knowledge, albeit for propaganda purposes, about a key moment in Canadian history than most contemporary school children.

To me, that's something to be very proud of. In a dark moment in Vietnamese history, gallant little Canada was a source of light and hope.

Totally radical!

Wisdom of our Fathers

Last weekend I helped out with a CD launch (Randy Hutchings--Atlantic Avenue--it's very good) and, of course, there was beer involved.

And once you break the seal, as we all know, you pay the price.

So, I was in the can settling up a debt when this dude strolled in, saddled up beside me at the trough, and decided to strike up a conversation.

I was wearing a nice, summertime straw fedora.
I needed to say that for the story to make sense.

A- "Nice hat!"
B- "Thanks! I'm pretty keen on it myself."
A- "It's very nice."
B- "Yup. It covers up my pattern baldness, which is swell."
A- "My father used to say, 'If you've got a good hat, you'll get great head'."

He smiled broadly. We were making a lot of eye contact for the urinal.
. . . .

I hadn't heard that expression before, but I was pretty sure that it should have sounded more like, "If you've got a good hat, you'll get A great head".

I was a bit at a loss for words; urinal discussions can be like that.

B- "Well, my father used to say, 'The hat makes the man'."

Up I zipped, splashed some water on my hands, and strolled out.
I couldn't tell if I was being propositioned or not. I'm used to the crowd in Toronto at Buddies being a lot more direct--like, explicitly direct--to see if they could make me sweat. One friend used to tell me that every straight guy was 10% gay, and he was going to find my 10%--which, after a few shots of Jagermeister, might make it up to 15%.

Regardless of what may have been implied, it's not a great 'saying' anyway. A good haircut does more than a good hat.

The Aging Boomers

Yesterday I was visiting one of my favourite live music venues in Calgary, Broken City.
The sun was out--it's golden rays warming all the lovely Steam Whistle Pilsner drinkers on their rooftop patio--and life, at that moment, seemed perfect.

Then I went back to my truck, which was parked in the alleyway, only to discover a rough looking guy pissing behind my wheels.

B- "Hey!"
A- "Sorry, buddy! But at my age, when you got to go, you got to go!"
B- "How old are you?"
A- "Forty seven."
B- "Well, to be honest, I hope when I hit your age I'm not so incontinent that I start taking slashes, in broad daylight, behind bright green trucks, in busy alleyways. You couldn't have picked a more conspicuous place to piss, pal."
A- "Yeah, well. . . you got any samples?"

I need to emphasize that while this exchange is taking place, he's still pissing.

B- "I think that you've had plenty of hydration."
A- "Bye!"
B- "Yeah."

What possessed him to try and solicit free beer from me while while standing behind my truck with his penis in his hands I'll never know.

I tried to back out extra slow so that I didn't splash any of the effluence on my lovely unnamed truck.

The Wonders of Pert Plus continue. . .

With the 21st Century phenomena of a cell phone in every hand, I've realised that social habits on the mean streets of Calgary have changed.
It used to be that if you were talking to someone, a third party wouldn't interrupt the conversation until: 1) the first conversation was finished; or 2) the third party was invited to join in on the fun.

Yesterday I was on the phone while parked in my '68 Chevy Pickup Truck (it's a very bright, Steam Whistle green) with someone who I'm not wholly familiar, nor they me, and one of Cowtown's colourful Bottle Depot crackheads approached my open window for a chat.

Now, I have a Palm Treo, which is the size of a sandwich, and is impossible to miss when it's pressed against my ear. Let alone the fact that my hand is up around my head, which can only mean two things, really: 1) I'm on the phone; or 2) I've been hit in the ear with a spitball.

But the fact that I was otherwise engaged didn't stop this admirer from interrupting my call:

A- "That's an awesome fucking truck."
B- "Yes--"(to the phone)"pardon me--yes, it sure is."
A- "What's in her?"
B- "A 350.
A- "That's an awesome fucking paint job. I'm a painter, so I know. And it's fucking awesome."
B- "I know."
A- "You know how to keep this looking like new?"
B- "Barely. How?"
A- "Pert Plus. You know Pert Plus? That shit will make your truck shine like the sun! It'll make it look so fucking hot! That green will pop!!"
B- "That's a great tip--thanks."
A- "Pert Plus. Not Sunlight or Dial or some shit. It's fucking awesome!!"

And with that, he raced off to join his buddies, who were Bogarting a joint on him.

I had to explain to the gal on the other end of the phone that my life is divided into three equal parts: selling beer; sleeping; and talking to everyone and their Uncle Kevin about my truck.

Oh--and sometimes I'm saving the universe from blond alien bombshells who are trying to take over the world by sleeping with college boys. (Look for Decoys 2:Rebirth--Coming soon!)

Parade of the Exiled Bachelourhood Brick-a-Brack!

So far the most tangible advantage of my newfound bachelourhood is that I may now repatriate some of my favourite pieces of crap!

How this stuff didn't assure my eternal bachelourhood in the first place speaks more to my dear departed E's own poor taste than mine.


Joan Collins

A stuffed crocodile? Why not? At least he died with a smile on his face. . .





Crosschecking Christ

For a guy who grew up in the desert, he sure looks pretty comfortable on skates.
Perhaps the Christians and the Jews could settle their differences once and for all with a game of shinny?

The New Holy Trinity

Santa has a lot to be thankful for--that little fella in the manger is his gravy train. If it wasn't for the Lil' JC, St. Nick would have his sleigh yolked to Irish immigrants.

Oh snap!



My most prized piece of art, "Have a Nice Day". I don't know what possessed someone to capture this particular conflict in oil and canvas, but it got me through some tough days in University. No matter how shit things seemed, I was never having a day as bad as the badger.
















. . . I've always really loved the badger's expression: equal parts of surprise and pissed off.

Never judge a book by its cover.

Yesterday, while attempting to exit one of Downtown Cowtown's most difficult street level parking lots a guy startled me by coming up to my window and poking his head in while I was tuning the old iPod to some Journey.

A- "This got a HEMI in it? Har har har!"
B- (startled to the point of prairie dogging in my shorts) "No. It's too old--it's a '68."
A- "Cool. You look like a guy who does acid."
B- "Nope, sorry."
A- (looks at me like I'm a dirty liar, then raises his eyebrows as if to say, 'What about now?')
B- "I drink beer."

He skulked away like I had stung him deep.
I've learned recently that one person can think they know someone, but they really don't.

Rectum? I nearly killed'em!

Yesterday I was walking past a falafel place in Calgary's downtown when I overheard a conversation going on between a vagabond on the sidewalk, and a dude (girlfriend in tow) who was sitting on the patio eating.

V- ". . . I've got a rectum a mile long. . ."
D- (distinct look of dismay)

I have no idea what that has to do with anything.
I would've given him some pocket change to not repeat that statement while I was eating.

He blowed up real good.

So my wife left me, and the biggest change I've noticed so far (aside from the lack of her, her belongings, and general happiness in my house) is how it's affected my relationship with telemarketers.

And let me tell you, the telemarketers and I had it good before my wife pulled the kill switch on all that.

Let me take you back to monday, and the sad duty of what I referred to as "the division of spoils". Little E, having already returned to Toronto, left me in charge of her belongings, and subsequently the two Newfoundlanders who came to move all her stuff out. I'm a natural leader, so I was happy about this.

But, and no candy-coating here, it's pretty fucking sad seeing stuff you're used to having around the house for the last 6 years stroll out the door NEVER TO BE SEEN OR HEARD FROM AGAIN! (it's also pretty fucking exciting--well, not super exciting--to be able to release all of my old ugly junk from exile). Anyway--

Just after the parade of belongings had embarked for Toronto, some poor bastard G called from "Children Blown Up By Landmines Unexpectedly Foundation" or some like-minded agency. I wasn't in much of a chatty mood.

G- "Thousands of children every year are maimed by landmines--your donation of $200 would go towards purchasing a wheelchair for one of these unfortunate kids."
B- "Sorry, I'm not flush enough right now to help out."
G- "Well, imagine this: these poor children were running and playing in the street one day when suddenly a landmine took away their freedom to be a child. Your donation of $100 could go towards giving them back their freedmon."
B- "Yeah, look, I'd love to help out, but it's like I said, G, I'm just not flush enough right now to do it."
G- "You know, most of these children have been orphaned by warfare in their--"
B- "G? G? G! I have told you twice now that I'm not flush enough to help out, okay? And I don't appreciate you pulling this sentimental manipulative 'legless orphan on a dirt floor' shit on me to try and wring out some money!"
G- "It's a serious issue--"
B- "I know landmines are bad--they've always been bad, that's nothing new--but my wife just left me! Who's going to help me out? Huh? You?"

I threw the trump card out on the table.
I couldn't believe I had just yelled such a statement, at a stranger, into the phone.
I couldn't believe that 'hanging up' didn't occur to me first.

Not surprisingly, neither of us knew what to say, so there was a laboured silence on the phone.

G- "I'm just speaking from the heart, sir--"
B- "Well, I have no heart anymore."

And THEN, only THEN did I hang up.

What kind of a line is that? "I have no heart"--what the hell is this? "The Wizard of Oz" by Tennessee Williams?

After I got over the shock and surprise of my own behaviour I realised that "My wife dumped me", as a phrase, has a lot of potential. Unpleasant company? Aggressive salesman? Drop the bomb!

'68 Chevy in Cherry Condition

Driving home on the highway yesterday a middle-aged "lady" yelled at me from the centre lane. I nearly steered into a road sign--she startled me so!

Between the highway lines, holding a fair gallop of 100km/h, the following exchanged ensued:

A- "How old is that truck?"
B- "It's a '68!"
A- (huge laughter)"I lost,"(laughing out of control)"I lost my virginity in a '68!!"

They sped off down the highway.

To myself:
B- "That's some decent mojo for my wheels, that is."

Any takers? No reason the '68 can't still work it's magic.

Coug a loo ra loo ra!

Yesterday afternoon I had the real pleasure of spending it on a golf course pouring draught beer out of the back of my truck with a good friend and lots of sunshine.

Later that evening I was asked by a blitzed-out cougar in a cowboy hat if I wouldn't mind sharing a drink and doing a duet with her of the Eagle's classic "Hotel California" with the live band (who bill themselves as a "Jameoke" band--you sing, they play).

Lo, how quickly things can change!

Putting the 'Sub' in 'urban' culture.

The other day I boarded my neighbourhood bus in Marda Loop to begin the trek downtown for a beer-related event. Good times! The sun was setting in Big Sky Country, and the evening was turning out to be a postcard perfect summer night.

I had one of my tie-your-own bowties on (one that matched the bright red sport coat I was wearing, ofcourse) and I was ready to party. The guy in the business suit across from me did not look like he was ready to party, but as I soon found out, he was "with it". Was he ever.

An absolutely stunning gal boards the bus, and all the men are stunning into silence. The kind of silence where people are even afraid to breath. She was decked out to the nines (not unlike my own dashing self) and knew it.

Once she had found her seat at the back of the bus, the Suit (A) gave me an approving smile. I took the liberty to challenge his smile with a remark:

B- "You know, thank God for summer. The Lord blesses us for four months a year where gals wear fewer layers."
A- "Word up on that one, brother! Word up!!"

Word up? Word up, brother?
You've got to be kidding me. A dude in a suit does not get to repeat something he saw on a beer commercial.

Osama ruined my tee shirt!

During Hot Docs this year--Hot Docs, incidentally, is my favourite time of year--I was catching a between-doc pita along Bloor when I saw a fat nerd take the ball passed to him by a cute girl and pop it.

The Poindexter was wearing a tee shirt depicting Yoko's John Lennon, who in turn is wearing a tee shirt that says "NEW YORK". It's a "classic" image.

The cute girl, whether she was just trying to pass time in the line or actually start a conversation I don't know, commented:

C- "That's a really cool tee shirt!"

The awkward nerd's response?

N- "Yeah. . . I bought it before 9/11--like a day before. So, yeah."
C- ". . .oh. Cool."
N- (struggling to follow up)"I only wear tee shirts, pretty much. I've got Cannibal Corpse, Pantera, bands like that."
C- ". . .oh. . ."
N- "They're all pretty cool."

The flickering ember of his virginity burst back into a roaring fire. I wish I could have been his Cirano di Bergerac and led him away from discussing his tee shirt only clause. How would I have improved upon the situation?

B (as di Bergerac)- "These guys are never going to serve us! We need to do something or we're all going to die from hunger! Let's Roll!"

It wouldn't have improved his chances of getting laid, but come on! Pantera concert tees? It would have at least amused me.

Carry On, Diana Ross!

Doing beer tastings at liquor stores is just one of my many responsibilities. I really enjoy the activity because you meet a wide variety of folks (some encounters which I have recorded here in this very blog--the most notable entry involved a Shi Tzu dog which catapulted my Google visits into the teens!). Two weekends ago I had a classic encounter.

Two admittedly gay men in ridiculously small shorts approached my booth and I plied them with some of our fine golden brew. They were in a fabulously rowdy mood, and things rapidly descended into the realm of a "Carry On ______!" movie.

Commenting on our lovely green packaging and sexy bottles:

A- "If we choose beer by the appearance of the packaging it MUST mean we're GAY!"
I told the boys I had different criteria for establishing sexuality.

They howled with glee and mentioned something about sucking cock.
I told them they were getting warmer.

The Saturday afternoon gin shoppers were getting nervous.

He was really vamping it up.

The train really came off the tracks when I invited them to try my fellow salesman Neil's beer.

A- "If there's a Bob here then this beer will have some head!!"
Huge squeal!

Neil. Bob. Head.
But it's actually a very good pun as well; beer, of course, is best enjoyed with a bit of head.

They were the highlight of my day.
They were not Neil's highlight--he's true blue Calgarian.