Blog.

I recently discovered a group of people on the internet who I am hoping to befriend. They speak my language of disarming sarcasm and smartly veiled verbosity. Armed with an acute wit and unassuming brilliance; decked out in a strong variety of plastic rimmed, “I drink Lattes and drive a VW” glasses; subversively dressed in V-neck sweaters normally fitted for the highest of the highfalutins; these cool dudes with attitudes are just so damn funny and I like funny.

If I can get one person from that group to comment on my blog I will name my first born, Funny. No joke.

Today I cut up a banana into 10 well proportioned pieces. I covered each piece with peanut butter. And then I ate each piece. Each piece was very good.

I am going to be so sad when bananas become extinct.

Normally, I would be outside having a life.

Picture this – a press conference packed with 300+ media, everybody spanning the spectrum of ‘AOL’ to ‘MTV’ to a collection of other top tier outlets. The first two rows are lined with corporate executives – the seriously elite, big bushy wigs, “I founded the company”, types. Up on stage are four employees demoing the company’s latest Wii product. One decides that the best way to present herself with utmost professionalism is to wear a gray zip-up hoodie that happens to be sprinkled with toothpaste stains from brushing her teeth earlier that morning. This same employee, in her nervous haste, also accidentally selects the wrong area of the menu screen, bringing up a game that puts the presentation off momentum and leaves the speaker (aka executive producer, aka GM of Wii products) to dig deep into his bag of ad-libs. Very deep. She then proceeds to lose control of the Wii mote cursor and stalls the presentation for another good 15 seconds.

Yes – 300 + top tier media and two rows of CEO, CFO, COO, presidents, vice presidents, GMs…are in attendance.

Flashback one week ago –

Boss: We’ll need someone to help demo the game
Me: [with ridiculous excitement] I can do it, no problem!!

Okay, this isn’t as horrifying as I’m making it sound. The dress code was casual and believe me, a little flub on the part of me, a mere speck in the company, could not ruin this mega press conference. No one was reprimanded and the toothpaste stains weren’t even noticeable. So I will not dwell on a bad memory that merely elucidates the fact that even the most awesome of people aren’t perfect. How’s that for being less self-deprecating?

Here’s to making a lot of mistakes and then learning from them. White suits are for dirtying…and for gay men.

Please don’t wake me up from my nap. I’m very sleepy and I still have key messages to write.

Back off – and get your own sandwich.

Vancouver is painted with memories. That’s a phrase I often reiterate to myself post break-ups, when my frail emotional state finds me extracting significance from every mundanity in life – think crying over a nondescript paper napkin because it reminded me of the way he would wipe his hands. It was not a healthy state, my friends – I would’ve put Britney Spears to shame. Thank God my mom hid the razors and strictly enforced a mandatory underwear policy.

But today I went for a drive – hitting my familiar route – making the same sharp turns, pausing at the same reflection spots, turning back at the same dead end. This time, however, I was minus the emotional baggage and plus one irritated tailgater.

I was out there, aimlessly meandering for the sake of aimless meanders. As I passed every strip of pavement, I could place myself in that exact spot five years ago, two years ago, eight months ago, seven days ago. If my life were a cheesy TV movie, at that point we would be cuing the obligatory montage, chronologically intercutting my various memories to the soothings of Sarah McLachlan.

As I was venturing through memory lane I realized how integral the city of Vancouver is to my identity. My defining moments, up to now, can all be sourced to some area in the lower mainland – that Kingsway market, that Selkirk school yard, that log on Kits Beach, that Fifth Avenue Cinema, that Main St. cafe…and the list goes on.

Despite these deep, almost intrinsic, connections, for the past five years I’ve been planning my reason to leave. Remember this, this and this? Me too.

I remember having an exchange with a couple of friends and gawked at their refusal to never experience life elsewhere. “Not me,” I vehemently affirmed. “I’m out of here at my first chance.” — But, I have yet to go. The truth is whenever I scribbled down plans to leave, there was always a more opportune reason to stay. And shamefully, I’m a sucker for stability.

I’m confident that one day I will pack my bags and go, though. Maybe the next time I come across two diverging roads, I’ll choose the one made for travel. Maybe I’ll go line another city with memories – New York, San Francisco, Sydney, Port Coquitlam? Maybe.
Not a very determined conclusion, I know. Claims of ‘maybe’ are for lamers who wear dess shirts with sweat pants (it’ll catch on, you’ll see!) – but empty promises to myself are starting to depress me.

This was long. Thanks for reading.