This song is for the people
Who tell their families that they're sorry
For things they can't and won't feel sorry for

Cancel your plans to go dancing, drink cheap beer and attend art-gallery after-parties. Stay home and listen to the Mountain Goats. Enjoy the weekend.

Last week I got an unexpected call.

It was Canadian Blood Services. They were interested in having me donate, again.

I thought back to the donor form, ticking off where I had travelled, what I had pierced and which medical problems I suffered from. Luckily, I haven't got any tattoos in Thailand, but I did remember one line on the form I couldn't ignore.

"I'm sorry, I'm no longer able to donate." I mumbled.

"Oh? Is it a medical problem?" the woman asked.

I was silent and focused on the word "problem". Eventually I spoke. "Um, sort-of.." I hesitated. "I guess."

I was transferred to another woman, who was to take me off the donor list. She asked me what kind of medical problem I was having. Awkwardly stumbling on my words, I made announcement I have stumbled over in the past. One I have lied about, avoided and side-stepped whenever possible.

"I uh.." I took a deep breath. "I had sex with a man."

"Oh.." she said. The woman was clearly uncomfortable. "When did this happen?" she asked.

Really? I thought. Does she want to know the details? Regardless, I told her when. And I insisted I hadn't donated since. She seemed to believe me.

"Just so you know," she said. "This is a permanent closure. But I want to thank you for saving six lives."

I wanted to say something. Something about hypocrisy and outdated stereotypes and a tory government. Or something about the people dying from a lack of transfusions. But all I could think about was the lives I wasn't saving. And why I wasn't saving them.

I probably should have said something. But I didn't.

I just mumbled a goodbye, and hung up.

It hurts to be the first to put up a white flag.

Admitting you are wrong is the worst of it. Especially if you spent a lot of time insisting that you were right. But, push always comes to shove, and eventually someone has to give up. Otherwise, you will both end up with a black eye, or worse.

If it helps you sleep, you can chalk it up to being the better man (or woman). You can tell yourself you are bigger than them, smarter, more compassionate, more realistic and the giver--not the taker.

You, being this bigger, smarter, more compassionate and realistic giving person, realize that at a certain point you must put the old wars in your life to rest. You've watched the history channel. You know that, eventually, even the Berlin Wall fell.

But if you call cease fire, they better point their cannons down. Because if they decline your invitation to dinner, ignore your calls or worse--pretend not to know who you are--it's on.

If that happens, remember the rule: they don't get a black eye. They get two.

I just look at the dopeness. But you, it's like you just look at the Wackness.

So that was all bullshit right? All that stuff about embracing your pain, making it a part of you? You can't do this, you can't just give up. Life is hard and it's full of pain and what-not, but we take it cause there's great stuff too. And we can do it cause we have friends- because we have each other.

Happy Thursday everyone. I'd write something, but I don't want to. I just want someone to come over and watch the Wackness with me, again.

I don't have cable. Fortunately, my neighbours are entertaining.

Housewives where I grew up would go on long walks around town so they could see into the windows of of everyone's homes. They liked to keep tabs, to see what was going on.

I don't need to go for long walks. I have what would be a view of the waterfront, if it weren't for the tall building that stands directly in front of my window's view. However obstructing, this building contains a constant source of entertainment: people.

When people leave their windows open, I always assume they want others to look in. I'm not sure who's life is more depressing, the man who lives across from me and does nothing but watch television in his underwear or me; the man who has nothing better to do than watch his neighbours watch television in their underwear.

Update: Today two men were in his place in their underwear. My life is officially more depressing.

Update # 2: There is a small ground of men sitting in a circle in his apartment. Occasionally one will get up and dance by himself. The others will appear impressed. I assume this is a mating ritual.

Above Underwear Man is a Korean couple that does nothing but cook, cuddle, and sometimes combine the two. Their lives are as dull as mine, but I'm half hoping that one day he cheats on her with a prostitute and she throws a glass vase at his head.

It would be more like cable.

Somewhere in a graveyard in Paris, Oscar Wilde is smiling.

Just in case you were hiding under a rock, had better things to do, more pressing things to talk about or more "important" sections of the paper to read, here's a look at the week that was, in fashion.

Adam Senn did something this week that Whitney Port and Oliva Palermo do very rarely. His job. Adam, an actual model, walked the runway for D&G at their Oscar Wilde inspired fall/winter show in Milan.

People talked about what Michelle Obama wore for the most of the week. The reviews were mixed. And throughout most of the inauguration all I could think about was the Vogue cover rumour. That, and Aretha Franklin's suspiciously large (and fantastic) hat.

The rumours about an Anna Wintour 60-minutes special are likely a pr move either to keep people talking about Vogue or an actual attempt to soften Wintour's ice-queen image. Don't worry Anna, though we're afraid of you (and convinced you may have superpowers), we love you dearly. Long live the queen.

Designers in North America are worrying about their bank accounts, canceling parties and showing collections off-site to avoiding the steep prices of Fashion Week, but things in Sao Paulo's textile industry aren't so bad.

In Milan news, NYT fashion critic Guy Trebay wrote the best line printed in the style pages since all the other sections started using the word "recession". Dark times call for dark coats.

Thom Browne staged something of a human instillation to showcase his men's line in Florence. Innovative concept, beautiful clothing and immaculate execution. Very Anthony Goiciolea. Well played, Mr. Browne.

If our own lives were more interesting, we wouldn't need television.

We turn on the television to disappear into a world of fantasy, forty minutes at a time. Until the credits roll we get to pretend we're as slick as Jack Bauer, as stylish as Carrie Bradshaw and as clever as Tina Fey. But when you're over-worked, under-paid and facing a recession; do you really want to be reminded that, compared to the tiny people living inside your TV set, you're, well, poor?

The middle-class heros of TV past (think Angela Chase, DJ Tanner and Kevin Arnold) have all but disappeared, making way for trust fund socialites and "real"ity TV. If you're staying at home trying to forget that your pockets aren't full of paper, here are a few shows to avoid when you flick on the tube.

Californication- The life of an out-of-work writer has never been so glamorous as on this show. Hank Moody's monthly budget for cigarettes is probably more than your annual income. Plus he drives a nicer car than you, has a better sex life and is much, much more successful than you... even if his current job title is "blogger" (and let me tell you, blogging doesn't pay the bills.)

Gossip Girl- For those of you who watch Gossip Girl religiously but skip the news, I hate to break it to you, but... New York is in some serious economic trouble. Even Upper East Side "It" girls are being forced to cut back on their Saks shopping sprees, thanks to their fathers shrinking stock portfolios. So as you're sucking back a seven dollar bottle of sparkling wine and watching "B" and "S" brunch, let the dream die ladies. Your not a Waldorf and you (probably) never will be.

The City- After indulging in one full episode and three online re-caps, I'm still entirely unsure of what exactly it is that Whitney Port does. She works at Diane Von Furstenberg, but doesn't do any work, has friends with whom she isn't yet friendly and watches men fight over her; but they never, you know, punch each other or anything. Though I'm still not clear on what she does, I know what she doesn't do: budget. The clothes, hair, make-up and parties are all paid for by a daddy most of us will never have: Father MTV.

Entourage- Now here is a storyline everyone can relate to. An "actor" who spends most of his time doing peyote in the desert and buying his friends cars. Forgive those of us who didn't spend the '90s rapping in the funky bunch, starring in Boogie Nights and dropping our drawers for Calvin Klein.We're a tad bit jealous. No one is buying us a car, or, well anything.

With that in mind, I'm off to take the subway too an evening of Monday night television viewing with friends. Happy Watching.

Last night I went to one of my favourite watering holes to bid farewell to a good friend.

I was sitting along the bar with an open seat to my right when a gentleman walked up and asked if the seat was taken. It wasn't. 

He pulled out a tattered copy of a Hemingway novel and a small black notebook, sat them both on the bar in front of him and ordered a pint of Guinness. Was he really planning on squinting through his thin-framed glasses and attempting to read in a near pitch-black bar? At midnight? With a crowd of strangers shouting drink orders over his shoulder? Was he trying to be ironic? 

Curious to see if this guy was serious, my friend casually inquired about his books, to which the man responded that the notebook was for work, the novel for pleasure. What kind of work, she wanted to know. He said he was a writer. A writer of what, she asked. He explained that he writes for several publications. Which publications, she asked, apologizing for being nosy. He claimed he'd rather not say. 

We assumed he was sad and out of work and let him go back to his beer. He dove into his novel, turning the pages with rapid succession. After six or seven pages, he put away the novel and pulled out the notebook. He stared deeply into the blank page, waiting for inspiration to come. Then he quickly began scribbling. Three lines later he abruptly pulled away his pen and stared at the chicken scratches. He appeared extremely pleased.

I would have snooped over his shoulder to see what he had written, but I didn't have to. I was just happy to have found someone in this city who is way more pretentious than me. 

Welcome back to Monday morning.

I haven't done a news round up in a month or two, so I figured I would lay down what's happening in the world this Monday, Jan 12: Obama is still everywhere, cocaine is still being widely used, Americans still love celebrities and Canadians still hate smoking. Enjoy.

Obama's people have been busy scheduling the president elect's first international trip. It seems they got ahold of Harper's people and have scheduled a play date for the boys. Obamania is heading north!

In other Obama news, Vogue is denying rumours that Wintour is being considered for a position as ambassador to France. First Arnold Schwarzenegger, then  Caroline Kennedy and now this? Which celebrity will make the next guest appearance in the US government? I'm keeping my fingers crossed that Lindsay Lohan is named ambassador to the lesbian community.

Christopher Nolan accepted Heath Ledger's first posthumous award. When Heath gets his Oscar, I'm voting for Matilda to accept the award.

White power/white powder: as it turns out, white teenagers love cocaine. Who knew?

The city of Toronto is considering extending its smoking ban to include playgrounds, an area it apparently forgot to ban citizens from lighting up in back when they took the ban to strip clubs, dive bars and other locations not frequented by children. Word is, if this passes, we may even have to stop smoking at the zoo.  

I don't have cable. Fortunately, my neighbours are entertaining.

Housewives where I grew up would go on long walks around town so they could see into the windows of of everyone's homes. They liked to keep tabs, to see what was going on.

I don't need to go for long walks. I have what would be a view of the waterfront, if it weren't for the tall building that stands directly in front of my window's view. However obstructing, this building contains a constant source of entertainment: people.

When people leave their windows open, I always assume they want others to look in. I'm not sure who's life is more depressing, the man who lives across from me and does nothing but watch television in his underwear or me; the man who has nothing better to do than watch his neighbours watch television in their underwear.

Update: Today two men were in his place in their underwear. My life is officially more depressing.

Above Underwear Man is a Korean couple that does nothing but cook, cuddle, and sometimes combine the two. Their lives are as dull as mine, but I'm half hoping that one day he cheats on her with a prostitute and she throws a glass vase at his head.

It would be more like cable.

The importance of being Ernest.

Ernest Hemingway was once challenged to write an entire story in six words. He wrote, "For sale: baby shoes. Never worn." He won the bet.

I challenged several of my friends to do the same. Here are some of the results:

He missed his train... years ago.

He said. She said. They vanished.

"What's on your face?" "Teeth marks."

I don't write... but I'll write.

Fuck, no papers. Wait, the pipe!

"Do you have a minute?" "No."

And, of course: The start. The middle. The end.

All comments (include those made anonymously) must include exactly six words.

Hotel California

I always sleep better in hotel beds. I don't know if it's the blackout curtains or the way the maids fluff the pillows to perfection, but if I could wake up in a room with foreign wallpaper and single-serving mints every day, I would never be sleep deprived.

In the days before I owned a television, I used to sleep in at my ex's apartment and watch PVRed re-runs in bed, pretending I was in a hotel. I fancy hotels to be the perfect mix of comfort and escapism.

Plus, any decent hotel has another necessity: a bar. The number of hook ups that go on in hotel bars give even clubland and the gaybourhood a run for their money. In a room full of horny strangers, your chances of waking up to room service are plentiful, even if you secretly live down the street.

After a late night date with a haunted hotel on vacation and a last minute family weekend in the type of establishment that houses a waterslide, I was ready to return a very Toronto hotel bar.

What's in the box at the Drake provided me with everything I need in a night out: a good (but not great) local band, a few shameless cougars to provide comedic relief and a basement full of good looking drunks who are too self-involved to bother me.

One more whiskey sour, please. Oh, and what time is check out?

Two thousand and eight reasons to keep trying.

In all likelihood, 2009 will be exactly the same as 2008. We will spend a lot of time talking about the economy, complaining about our political leaders and hoping our sex lives pick up. There will be a new number at the end of the date, but our lives won't feel any different.

Britney Spear's PR machine will convince us that she is either a) making a comeback or b) taking a well deserved break. iPod commercials will provide us with new bands to adore and then complain about when we discover other people like them too. And formerly respectable publications will continue to print overly-analytical articles about the mystique of "hipster culture."

New bars will open that are almost exactly the same as the bars we already go to, but we will insist the new ones are much, much better. The artists and the gays will move further into the ghetto, and will soon be followed by pricey coffee shops and condo developments. We will complain, just like we did last time.

I will continue writing wordy, self-indulgent blog posts, and you will continue reading them, even if it's only so you can make fun of them later, with your friends.

It's going to be that kind of a year... just like it was last year. I wish you all the best, in 2009.

A Case of the Holidays

Saturday 7:00 pm (or some time not unlike 7:00 pm)

The plane shakes, intensifying your headache. You feel strange and sober and immediately depressed.

Two hours ago you arrived at the Winnipeg airport to an unruly line-up of irritable holiday travelers who had no doubt come directly from returning their Christmas presents at the nearest Wal-Mart location.

An airport worker gives four passengers permission to cut you in line. As the last woman passes you, you mutter under your breath, “This is why you show up to the airport on time.” Your sister insists this makes the woman cry. You feel no remorse.

The worker then informs you that your flight has been delayed and you will not be able to make your connection. She smiles and offers to put you on a flight the next afternoon. You give her a hateful glare and tell her it will be a snowy day in hell before that happens. Your family is embarrassed.

Eventually you agree to spend the night in the Montreal airport, waiting for a red eye flight back home. On the plane you are irritated to be sitting next to the fattest woman on the aircraft, until you discover that she is funny. You are momentarily cheery. All fat people should be funny.

An overbearing man in a worn Boston Bruins hooded sweatshirt is grumbling behind you. He swears (to no one in particular) that he is never returning to Winnipeg for Christmas again. You silently appreciate his sentiment and hope the floor of the Montreal airport is comfortable.

Thanks for reading.

Dorothy, we're not on Queen St. Anymore.

Last week I quietly slipped onto a bus with a plane ticket neatly tucked into the front pocket of my bag and made my way to the airport.

A week later, I've let my blogging duties slip. But you can't blame a guy for taking some time to catch up with the life he once lived.

Since making the prodigal's return to Manitoba, I've sipped beers, smoked shisha, and caused as much trouble as possible celebrating friends both new and old.

With Christmas morning now making its inevitable appearance, I'm starting to get worn out, ready for my own bed in my own condo back in the city that has firmly become home number two.

With a new ticket to Paris arriving in my e-mail inbox this morning, I'm in debt, and happy.

Merry Christmas.

Oh, and My dad rules, hard.

Newsprint fingers.

As an underemployed writer pursuing an education to work in a rapidly disappearing industry, I am on one of the lowest rungs of the impending recession.

To pinch an invisible penny I spent the afternoon wrapping gifts in a newspaper I picked up for free. Each gift is wrapped in the recipient's favourite section. My mother: life, my father: sports and my sister: the crosswords.

If the economic situation gets any worse, I may have to stop taking Mondays off and actually go into the office. Until then I'll continue to spend my days waking up late and having coffee dates with Toronto's most quote-able "fringe-hipster."

That or I'll start a prescription pill addiction, like everyone else. God bless the holidays.

This is my reaction to being punched. This is Zach's reaction to my being punched. Circa 2004.

Boys Night Out-I got punched in the nose for sticking my face in other people's business is the first song I'm putting on my playlist for my trip home. I plan to listen to each song in a very specific place in Manitoba. This band put out two terrible records, but recorded two very specific great songs that bring back amazing memories.

Long titles that don't-mean-anything-but-sort-of-mean-a-lot please me. They remind me of the days before Ashlee Simpson had heard of Fall Out Boy. Also, this title is special because it actually happened to me.

In high school I made a girl cry one night when I had been drinking and didn't think much of it. A few days later her boyfriend found me and forcefully shoved his knuckles into my face. It wasn't until my friend threatened him with a skateboard that he backed off. I was stunned the entire time; I hadn't even set down my beer. But I learned an important lesson that day: make friend's with anyone who skateboards.

My December, two thousand and eight.

The days blend together sleepily between solitary late breakfasts and compliments in the work place.

You are a Decemberist. In the winter things change, but not too quickly.

At work, new furniture has been purchased in a colour scheme reminiscent of the IKEA furniture that was all you could afford to put in you're home. It's still all you can afford.

But as you remind the cashier in the smoke shop, things could be worse. You are thankful when someone else cooks you dinner. You only drink when you can sleep in, and every morning you wake up uncharacteristically well rested. It's about time.

So you take the phone off the hook, put the plane ticket on the table and stare at the ceiling. The ceiling is very pretty, in its own way.

Puck Fuck?

The NHL just got a little bit sleazier.

At my high school, the hockey players got all the girls. Despite their missing teeth, scarred faces and tendency to shower with other men, they had their pick of the ladies. Girls with bleach blond hair and the sluttiest snowboots money can buy flocked to games in hopes that they would be the girl chosen to spend the night drinking Coors Light with whoever was at center ice.

Most of the guys who played hockey for my high school team have long since gotten chubby, grown bad goatees and found jobs at gas stations. But for a few lucky hockey stars, the good times continue to the major leagues, where they ditch their old puck bunnies and date b-list celebrities.

Sean Avery is the Dallas Stars resident bad boy. Ed Belfour used to be the team's
troublemaker, who coincidently did go to my high school, before I ever attended. During his days as a Star, Belfour caused enough chaos to inspire the phrase "Goin' Belfour"; as in: JR has had about 8 drinks so far...he's goin' Ed Belfour.

Recently, Avery has easily outdone Belfour's legacy. Before facing off against the Calgary Flames, and his latest arch nemesis, Flames defenceman Dion Phaneuf, Avery decided to have a quick chat with the press.

Avery called out Phaneu, who is dating his ex-girlfriend and fellow Canadian, Elisha Cuthbert. Before dating Phaneu, the former Girl Next Door was linked to Mike Komisarek of the Montreal Canadiens. Avery decided he had had enough.

Facing the cameras, Avery spewed, "I just want to comment on how it's become like a common thing in the NHL for guys to fall in love with my sloppy seconds.

This is exactly the type of excitement the NHL needs if it wants to attract viewers south of the border, where most of its teams play. But in true Canadian tradition Don Cherry got his plaid pants in a twist and the league slapped Avery with an indefinite suspension for the comments.

Which serves as a reminder: gentlemen, this isn't high school anymore.

I'll trust anyone with a kitten.

Whether you support the villainous tyrant with the beady eyes, think the Francophones are crybabies, dream of taking the Via Rail with Elizabeth May or are trying to grow a mustache to rival that of Jack Layton, one thing is certain.

This is not about any of them. It's not about men in over-priced and under-styled suits or women whose heels tap as they walk down the long hallways ontop Parliament Hill.

It's about you.

So find your MP, shoot them an e-mail, and let them know what you think.

Participating in a democracy is like having sex with the government. If you let them do it alone, it'll just be a bunch of politicians jerking off.