The true meaning of Boxing Day

And Happy Boxing Day Eve to you as well! It's 8:15 in the morning and I'm gearing up for the 4.5 hour trek to visit Oma and Opa out in Windsor. They already did the big turkey dinner, but they saved some for me, my sis and my dad, you know, cuz that's the true meaning of Boxing Day: long drives and leftovers.

I got a perkolator, underware, a classical guitar, money and homemade booze. I'm telling you because that's the true meaning of Boxing Day: materialism and bragging.

Did I mention that Margie bought me a frigging solid-top classical guitar. Dang. I blindfolded her then drove her from Waterloo to Toronto, then walked her right into the Hockey Hall of Fame and removed her blindfold in front of the Stanley Cup. It went over well.

Last night I was at a gathering with the old step-family. I didn't really know anybody but there was a copious amount of wine and that's the true meaning of Boxing Day: getting drunk with half-strangers.

Merry Boxing Day everone!

Moustache Week

For my latest adventure in facial hair I wanted to be less bizaare than my marvelous half-beard and more flat-out creepy. So I grew a fumanchu. Why? Because it was moustache week, that's why. Plus my dad had a mean stache in the 80s. Not long after my parents got divorced, although I blame that on the 1994 not-world-series-winning Toronto Blue Jays.

Of course moustache week started over two weeks ago and I'm still asking the ladies if they want to "go for a ride on it," or "if they have a little sister I should know about." Once Davenport gets me the picture he took of it, I'll post it. I've decided that "moustache week" can be longer than a standard week, the same way a "baker's dozen" is always more than twelve and a "leap year" can be longer than a year.

Anyway I fed it a last meal of alphagetti and soy milk, washed it, conditioned it, then executed it. I didn't cry.

In celebration of this grand tradition, let's play name that stache!!!

STACHE 1)


STACHE 2)


STACHE 3)


STACHE 4)


First person to name them all in the comments gets a prize or something.

P.S.

Don't worry Lanny, I didn't forget about ya! Now there's a stache you can season a pot roast with!

Hutzmas: a history

I only vaguely recall what Hutzmas actually is.

It's a little holiday I celebrate with whomever is around and willing on the 13th of December. Why the thirteenth? Maybe for #13 Mats Sundin of the Toronto Maple Leafs? Maybe because it is unlucky, and I like to take chances? I don't know, I think it was just random.

I came up with Hutzmas when I was in grade 10. At the time I was frustrated with the fact that people only feel the need to be nice to each other on two days in the whole year. Xmas and birthdays. Those are the only days we (well, the christian-based "we"), feel compelled to give gifts to each other, in a general sense. I guess I just picked a random day before xmas that I would give equally random gifts to my friends, randomly. The gifts were always decidedly crude, poorly wrapped and cheap, but I try to make reference to some inside joke, or failing that give lots of cheap candy. It only works in Aurora, and you probably won't get it.

Practially, I found it easier to give xmas presents to friends before the holidays. I could get everyone in one place easy instead of driving around to everyone's houses on xmas eve. I continue to do it mostly because I enjoy continuing things beyond their practical contexts as a sort of fuck-you to practical contexts.

Anyho, a Goodly Hutzmas to you!
May you too recieve gifts of a random and hilarious nature!

Its been a slice

Coming from Waterloo, where you can usually find at least some drunken asshole or some nocturnal engineer at any time of night, Aurora and its unofficial, unenforced but oft obeyed 9 PM curfew, seems strangeley askew. I cruised around for an hour at 4 in the morning today, and I didn't see a single trace of humanity but for the one guy working at Dominion. I had a craving for bagels and imitation crab. You know, breakfast.

See, I woke up after a full 8 hours of sleep at 3:30 AM. The night before(by night I mean last time I slept), I went to bed around 6 AM. My sleep schedule is rather fucked up after an all-nighter I pulled writing an essay. Stupid essays.

I've learned something about staying up all night: don't go to bed in the middle of the next day! It's way better to stay up all the way until the next night, unless you'd rather be nocturnal. If you wake up normally on the morning of day one, don't sleep until the night of day two. See, I went to sleep at 11 AM on the morning of day two. I started my Saturday at 6PM in Waterloo, I was planning to head back to Aurora that night with Margie. That's when I sliced the fuck out of my shoulder.

Russel(my roommate) is in charge of decorating our room, mostly because I don't really care. In our room the walls are half red/black weird/cool patterns, half purple with a horizontal orange stripe. There's a pile of different neat stuff on the walls, including posters and most notably some broken fragments of mirror.

I went to the storage/laundry room to grab a CD out of my CD collection. Its in a box in corner under a little shoulder-high ledge where russel keeps what can practically be considered his "broken glass collection"(AKA the broken mirror bits he didn't put on our wall) and of course in leaning down toward my box, an edge of one of the pieces clipped my shoulder.

I didn't go to the ER because It would've ruined my whole week. That said, I should've gone to the ER. I didn't bleed much and it doesn't hurn, but this wound isn't pretty. It will take a long time to heal. It will leave a big scar. Who the fuck leaves bits of broken glass lying around?

Anyway, I'm back in Aurora for the time being doing some all-purpose recovering and eating fruits and vegetables like there was no tomorrow(prescious perishables!).

Moustache week is still on, Hutzmas is Tuesday, but those are their own posts entirely. Viva Holidays!! HYA! HYA!

If you're procrastinating and you know it, clap your hands! then play some solitaire

Damn. The sun's coming up on the day of dead dead deadline for this damned essay, and I'm still hung up on whether or not to use comma-and's, and Sylvia Plath's use/misuse of repetition in Daddy.

Fuck fuck
Fuck fuck fuck

(don't pause between the lines)


*clap*