The best of Craigslist: January

Here are my personal favorites, from the early going's of 2009. These are all from the US, unfortunately, and mostly from the West Coast. Apparently either Craigslist just hasn't caught on quite as much here in the East (except NYC, naturally) or Toronto just isn't as witty and swarmy as we'd like it to be. But I refuse to believe that.

girl who dumped me over the phone at 1:30am - m4w

You called me at 1:30 AM to tell me over and over that you don't want to be with me any more. The problem is, I don't know who you are, and I tried to explain that.

In retrospect, it would have been more fun to play along, but I was a bit too groggy to think fast. Oh well, next time a wrong number breaks up with me, I'll be ready.

Give me a call if you want to practice dumping guys, I guess my number's probably in your phone now. Try to call before 10 though.

Dear Mr Scammer, I am sorry

Dear Mr. Scammer

I owe you a few apologies:

• I am sorry for responding and saying sure I am happy to engage in a bizarre business deal with you knowing full well it isn’t real.
• I am sorry you wasted time to print a horrible fake check.
• I am sorry you spent $4.90 UPS’ing it to me overnight.
• I am sorry for taking a few days to get back to you after I got the check and ask you for your phone number which you can’t give me. I knew that and still I emailed you for the phone number.
• I am sorry that I lied to you and said I could not find a western union office near me, making you look them up, emailing me a list and me telling you those two liquor stores are shut down.
• I am sorry that I lied to you about getting pissed at the western union office because they wanted $1.75 to cut a check and that I said that’s robbery and left in a huff. The truth is I never went there in the first place. Sorry for wasting your time that day.
• I’m sorry I lied the next day after you threaten to call the FBI and local police on me because I cashed your check and would not pay you. I knew you would not, but I wrote you an email begging you not to call the police and that I would pay you tomorrow after I cashed the check.
• I’m sorry that I lied the next day and said the western union office girl was rude to me so I left in anger, again delaying your money by another day.
• Im sorry I lied about sending the money to western union in your name vs the shipper so you could not pick it up. I realize this cost you a day or so.
• I am really sorry that I lied and said that the money order was at your western union, but off by 1 zip code making you drive 30 minutes to find out I am a liar.
• Your last email to me was justified. Obviously from your language you were pissed. The fact that as you "YELLED” and your grasp of the English language seemed to fade away like my Mom’s when she is livid showed me what a bad person I am.
• Your phone call from Africa? was upsetting because as you were trying to explain to me how to go down to western union and pay the $1.75 and you would pick up the fee, I realized how frustrated you were getting. I also lied about being hard of hearing and asking you to yell. Sorry.
All in all, I am sorry for sucking up your bandwidth. I realize that my actions probably sucked up 6-10 hours of your time and kept you from fleecing some gullible person in America.
Please forgive me. Go ahead and send me another forged check and I will send you my cash to your shipper. Please try me again. Even though I lied you to about 15 times I won’t do it again.
Your friendly computer person.
MHF

Wanted: time machine DESPARATE!!!

Desperately need a time machine to take me back 6 weeks in time, plus or minus a day. If you have a time machine and are willing to let me borrow it, or know of someone with an impending trip back in time, please let me know ASAP!

I will pay big bucks to have myself warned to NOT sleep with that tramp at the One and Only Bar on the Boulevard.

Tell me that she is very, VERY fertile that night in question, and has a whopping 3 STDs that I will get if I copulate with her.

VERY VERY IMPORTANT THAT I GET THIS MESSAGE!!!

I WILL WRITE YOU A BLANK CHECK IF THAT'S WHAT IT TAKES!

Key things that will let the me in the past know you are for real:

*Tell me that you know about the rubber ducky incident

*Tell me that you know that I pissed in my friends pool last week, when he was in it.

*Tell me that no matter how hard I try, the lesbian at Barnes and Noble will NEVER go for it, no matter how many sex books I ask her opinions on.

If I still doubt you- use this one-----

*Mention that you know I made out with my cousin when we were drunk at a kegger last summer- NO ONE KNOWS THIS BUT US TWO!!

VERY VERY IMPORTANT THAT I GET THIS MESSAGE!!!

To the Asian Girl Whom I offended with my Asian-ness - m4w

You: Asian, young(ish), cute, petite, left-of-center, cosmopolitan.

Me: The Asian guy you would never dream of giving a second glance.

Hi! I’m so sad that you were offended by my very presence at your favorite boutique coffee shop. Seriously, I was just there to do some work and maybe a bit of reading – I didn’t mean to draw attention to the fact that you too, are also Asian. I was just looking for a quiet place to sit, and the seat by you just happened to be open. It’s not like peed all over you, put my arm around your shoulder, and screamed to all the other patrons in a heavy Chinese accent, “She mine! You all stay away!”

After I sat down and pulled out Said’s Orientalism (no joke), you, in all of your ignorant glory, proceeded to loudly flirt with the nearest non-Asian man with a pulse to dissuade any romantic overtures from me. Lady, I already know you only date white guys; you don’t even have to open your mouth.

Ever since Chad took you out back in high school and made you the envy of all homecoming, you’ve understood the magical power of white boys. Your parents balked until they saw how well Chet treated you and made you so so so happy. You tell yourself you don’t see color lines, and that you’re ending racism by only dating white guys – and you give yourself a little pat on the back every night before dreaming of waking up with beautiful blonde hair. You’ve even thrown in a black guy or two, just to get back at daddy. Asian guys? Like, gag me with a spoon!

Hey, I applaud you. You’re totally progressive. Never mind all that bukakke stuff Jeremy keeps wanting to do (I wonder where he gets these ideas?). No need to worry about Scotty’s browser history pointing to asianteensluts.com. Totally normal! What red-blooded American man doesn’t want to bang a Japanese high school girl?

Honestly, if I were in your stilettos, I’d do the same thing. If white girls were all over me ‘cause of my nice, smooth skin, my mad computer skills and wispy peach fuzz, I’d ride that white stallion to all glory.

But since I’m 6’2”, 200 lbs. with 4% body fat and a PhD, I guess I’ll have to settle for one of our more racist Asian sistahs.

Sunshine lollipops

This ad is hilarious. Dave Perkins wrote an article in The Star about it just this morning actually articulating exactly my thoughts when I first saw it though:

Why the hell would the other guys agree to be in this commercial?

Isn't it bad for your ego to admit you're scared of a direct competitor? Even though he's been out of action for almost a year and coming off arthroscopic knee surgery?

I understand Nike sponsorship has some sway, but if I'm not sure I'd have agreed to this. It's a psychological advantage, and in the micro-sliced world that is professional sports, every little bit of an edge could be the difference between winning and losing.

Nonetheless.

Instant classic Nike ad. Right up there with Bo Knows, The Federov, and of course my all-time favourite, the Jordan 21 spot.

That's two out of the three original Pro-Stars! Sadly, Wayne's didn't make the cut. You gotta love that intro to the cartoon though.

"Pro Stars! It's all about helping kids!"

Yes I am that bored

It's a little tough to tell, but yes, that is a cookie.

Recipe courtesy Irene (via the New York Times)

I don't think I have it in me to enjoy baking. Every once in a while perhaps, but for the time, effort and patience involved, I'd much rather cook an actual meal.

More than likely, I'd feel different if I actually liked sweets.

When degradation works in our favour

There are perks to being a man.

You know how, as a society, we do this thing where something evil eventually becomes part of mainstream culture? I'm talking about the cycle where something starts off as an underground signifier, gathers counter-cultural momentum (usually with a young generation), becomes established and eventually is accepted as a societal norm. Some examples might include: Galileo's theory of the universe, electric guitars, dancing, smoking pot and Ellen DeGeneres.

Well, currently we are witnessing the gradual acceptance of a previously taboo activity. And it really, really snuck up on us.

Pole Dancing.

Think about this. Consider your reaction when you read the above statement. It was probably something along the lines of "Pole Dancing? That's not so bad. It's a good workout. I wonder if that place is free for stagettes?"

It's remarkable. There's pole dancing videos on YouTube, many of which are tutorials. Women appreciate the athletic coordination required and want to take lessons. There is a national championship for many countries, and some women are lobbying for it to become an Olympic sport.

Essentially, as a man, you fall into two camps on this one: you have a daughter, or you do not.

If you do not, this is a golden age for humanity.

If you do, this is the equivalent of growing up in the cold war era of whoredom.

The pole is proving an even crueler double edged sword than ever we could have imagined.

Say your daughter takes pole dancing lessons recreationally. Say she then falls on hard times. Well, she has all these skills already, what might a natural stop-gap employment option become? The greatest fear of every father -- nay, the sole purpose -- is keeping your girl off the pole.

Yes, I am aware having a skill set does not preclude a conscious decision. However, this is like sending your child to meth-cooking class for summer camp and saying the skills will prove useful in AP chemistry. Just don't use that knowledge for anything bad kids!

The YouTube factor (a very accurate gauge of day-to-day society I find) is even more amusing. Sights that we once had to pay money to sit in a sticky club for are now available at the click of a mouse for pre-pubescent teens worldwide. The bonus? It's legal and culturally justified! No content warning! No secrecy! No stigma! (OK, less stigma.)

Being in the no daughter camp, I'm not going to lie; I am greatly pleased by the fact that I can watch Miss Pole Dance Australia on a whim, or some chick who calls herself a "vertical ballerina", or a talent show that places pole-dancing right there alongside break dancing and stand up comics.

And for proponents who think it can be carried by it's technical merits solely? Please, go ahead. Take all the eroticism out of it. Make it as kosher as you'd like. But you'll sell me a bridge before I believe that if Nastia Liukin hoped onto a pole in her Team USA uniform, males wouldn't flock from the five continents to judge her technical score.

You can put an ugly sweater on Natalie Portman and call her dowdy, but sometimes there's just no hiding the truth.

It's a great time to be a man.

I hope I never have a daughter.

Speaking of black and white

If only one of Charles Chaplin's films could be preserved, "City Lights'' (1931) would come the closest to representing all the different notes of his genius. It contains the slapstick, the pathos, the pantomime, the effortless physical coordination, the melodrama, the bawdiness, the grace, and, of course, the Little Tramp--the character said, at one time, to be the most famous image on earth.

Roger Ebert

Allow me to perch upon my ever precarious soapbox por uno momento, in order to discuss a topic near and dear to my heart.

Times critic A.O. Scott just yesterday posted a video review of Charlie Chaplin's immortal classic 'City Lights'. If you have not seen this movie, I implore you not to watch the review. For some inexplicable reason he shows the entire last minute of the movie in it. Do not do yourself this disservice.

For those of you who are thinking "Charlie Chaplin?" and have now gone back to looking at your spreadsheets, please, I beg you, return.

'City Lights' is probably right up there with my favourite all time movies, and in a sea of three hour comic book spectaculars, Chaplin's greatest artistic achievement is 80 pure minutes of cinematic perfection.

No talking. No colour. No fancy effects or complicated plot.

Man falls in love. Man goes on adventures. Man woos girl. Hilarity ensues throughout.

Could there be a more distilled form of on-screen entertainment?

I mention this movie only because I dug it up from the bottom of a drawer a few days ago, and it is by sheer coincidence that I noticed the feature on the Times front page tonight. So I feel like spreading the silent film gospel a bit.

In regards to the Times, it's not that there is any special surprise ending. It's just that the final scenes of 'City Lights' are such a perfect, indelible memory in the context of a fantastic film, and watching it out of that context is like playing a single note in order to express the greatness of an entire symphony.

Anyways, if you haven't already done so, go watch 'City Lights'. Great things always deserve to be shared.

This was surprisingly fun to make

And so, I gave birth to my first semi-professional sports team logo. They want old school Charlotte Hornets colours (Upon hearing that, I told them all the players should wear Grape Jordon V's).

I figure it's a little sleeker in black, but since none of that's set in stone, I'll just say it took me forever to get that cityline right. I have to say illustrator is painfully complicated at times, compared to photoshop. Drawing things like, a basketball, or an equilateral triangle, require a little more effort than I'd care to exert.

Next up, more corporate newsletters. Huzzah.

Tending to my lawn

I'm starting to get that strange antsy feeling when you haven't had anything particularly important to do for a while. Part of me wants to go back to school. I'd do graphic design, or culinary school I think. Then afterwards, I could make a food magazine entirely by myself; cook, write, layout.

That would be so awesome...

Is this normal? Is it bad that I haven't been doing any wistful thinking about finding a job in my own field lately, but rather have been spending all my time doing freelance design gigs and cooking/baking random random recipes I find on food blogs? (including Irene's!)

No matter what you do, you always end up feeling like you wish you were something else I suppose. I guess until I actually find a job that I hold down for more than a year, I don't have all that much context to compare with. Still.

All I want is to enjoy what I do as much as I do what I enjoy.

Moving on up

Thought it was time for some new digs. I was getting a little cramped on the sidebar with the last layout, so I figured I'd upgrade and make room for a twitter feed. You know, because otherwise you wouldn't know what I'm thinking in between blog posts.

Baking cookies, watching Watchmen, playing basketball and meeting friends for drinks. Also, my moonwalk is coming along very nicely.

Don't get the wrong idea

I have been watching several of those makeup tutorial videos on youtube.

What began as an innocent foray into looking for attractive girls has taken a decidedly frightening turn.

I noticed recently that these makeup videos are increasing in both popularity and volume. Many of the most viewed videos every day are titled things like "Perfect lashes!", "Makeup for glasses!" or the ever popular and direct "Fresh 5 minute makeup routine".

One of these chicks in particular (Ricebunny, if you must make me say it) is particularly adept at video production, meaning although I have no idea what the hell she's doing or saying, I still find these clips somewhat interesting to watch.

Now, a reminder per today's theme: don't get me wrong.

The first, most important, and last reason I watched this video was because the thumbnail image for this video features this Ricebunny girl, and she is looking stab-my-friends-in-the-heart slamming.

She does this thing where she shows the final "look" first, then takes you through all the steps it took to get there.

Here is where things get weird.

Chalk it up to naivety and male ignorance, but I was absurdly disappointed (and impressed) to find that, without makeup, this girl is utterly, completely, absolutely average looking. She is a six, on her best of best days.

With makeup?

Nine. Perhaps a nine point one, depending on the tutorial (Personally, I am fond of "Romantic Valentine").

I didn't realize makeup could do this.

I mean, don't get me wrong. I understood the powers of makeup. I clearly just underestimated it. I thought at best, it could turn a 6 into a solid 8. But into a nine plus?

What can I trust in this world?? My life is topsy turvy.

Also, I now know more than I ever wished to know about applying mascara. Perhaps one day this will be useful. I am skeptical.

*****

I do not watch the Bachelor.

However, after seeing it completely dominate my RSS feeds today, I grudgingly clicked to see what all the kerfufle was about.

I must say, fake or not, if I was a fan of that show it would automatically be possibly the greatest reality television moment in history. I realize this is like saying I am the best mathematician in a prenatal ward, but it still was pretty awesome.

Whether or not this was actually real or completely scripted (or just 98 per-cent-scripted-real, like the Hills) watching the Bachelor dump his fiancee for the runner up was one of the most engrossing things I have ever seen. If it wasn't real, those actors should definitely be up for daytime Emmys -- I have never seen male awkwardness captured on film so accurately.

So Kudos to the producers of the Bachelor. You don't produce reality, but for one shining night, you crafted a show that presented the most recognizable of romantic train wrecks; one every man everywhere can empathize with.

Hats off.

Like and Basketball

As an avid basketball fan, I consider the sport to be more than merely athletic recreation. Like many armchair athletes who moonlight as professional stars at the gym, I definitely feel that running around with a bouncing ball has the ability to teach us more about life and our own personalities than we often care to admit.

You probably don't remember this, but a while back I made an analogy between dating and the NBA Draft. In many ways it was an imperfect metaphor because it applied for women only. The idea that women pick men in the same way NBA GM's scout talent is -- I think -- still a wonderful notion and often times painfully accurate in both theory and practice.

For the fellas however, I more recently have observed that our love lives are far simpler than the nuances of talent evaluation and drafting in terms of long-term potential.

Basically, dating for guys is scoring -- our goal is to put the ball in the bucket. If this seems oversimplified, pause to consider the many ways that this can be done.

The easiest way to score is a layup. You're close to the net, it's a high percentage shot and even if you miss, there's a good chance you'll be able to follow up with a rebound and put back, or at least create an offensive opportunity for your teammate.

Then there is the mid-range jump shot or baby hook, probably the most under appreciated but most difficult to master aspect of the game. Considering the majority of scoring occurs in this area, it is woefully disregarded in conversations about scoring in basketball.

Finally, there is the three-point shot. It is a niche skill, requiring both natural talent and a tireless work ethic to become accomplished from this range. With this one skill however, an athlete can easily be a professional basketball player for many many years, regardless of any other abilities. An excellent and consistent long range shooter is a valuable commodity for all NBA teams.

Now, parallel the above with how you approach women.

Layups are girls you can have easily. They're high percentage, easy to make and a comfortable place to spend the entire game. In the long run however, it can be difficult and unsatisfying to just make layups. I mean, sure, the easy score is always our ultimate goal. But in order to be a fully rounded player, these forays to the net have to be supplemented by a jump shot, otherwise defenders will simply sag off you and stifle your sole offensive option. It's just not feasible to be a basketball player and only know how to make a layup.

In short, chippies are great. But slashers are dime-a-dozen in the league (see: Gerald Green). We all know this. So you got to work on your game.

Three-pointers are girls you have a decent shot at getting, but frankly so much has to go right -- be it the setup from your teammates, the way the defense is playing, or how you're feeling that particular night -- that to consistently take nothing but three-point attempts is both foolhardy and unrewarding. Hitting a game winning three happens to all of us at one time or another, and it always feels great. But veterans know when to take that shot and when not to. They also know that percentages are what they are, so even if you take a good shot and miss from deep, there's nothing to hang your head about. Good shooters always keep shooting. Still, there is inherent danger. Even shooters need to have a sense of movement without the ball. Somebody who can shoot but can't get open or create their own shot will find themselves a liability in a game, easily guarded and ineffective against active teams (see: Jason Kapono).

Coincidentally, young players almost always become over-dependent on these last two skills. They are labelled as shooters, or slashers. So what separates the inexperienced from the real players?

The mid-range game.

There is no glory in this. Which is why it's a perfectly analogy for life.

Ever watch a sports highlight package full of mid-range jumpers? Of course not. They're boring. Everyone wants to talk about the dunks and the contested, fade away three's. This is exactly like women. When dudes get together, they talk about the time they went home with Swedish twins, or the party they got drunk and did three girls they can't remember in one night. Nobody gets up and yells about the chick who emotionally understood you through tough times, then thoughtfully bought you your favourite cold cut to pack for your work lunch the next day.

But where is the game won? Pure area-wise, and as follows, pure shot volume wise, more attempts are made in the mid-range than any other part of the court. Basketball is, ultimately, a midrange game.

So is life. Much like Jordan or Kobe, often guys learn that it's not about the flash, but instead it's about efficiently settling for what the defense gives you. And almost always, settling means pulling up for the 12-foot J.

It's not glamorous. But it's smart. You avoid incurring charging fouls. The defense stays off balance giving you better opportunities to get to the rim. And much like finding a woman, it's the stable, consistent mid-range jumper that's going to eventually butter the bread of the average man.

We live in in a world where everyone practices their threes and fancy circus shot layups. And naturally there are exceptions to every rule. Shaq doesn't need a jump-hook, and Reggie Miller didn't need to dunk on people.

But in the long run, for the other 96 per cent of us who aren't phenomenally gifted in one of those areas, it's the mid-range jumper that's going to keep us loving basketball. Our quickness may go one day, or our legs to shoot from range. But a guy who can make an open mid-range jumper consistently? He's going to be useful in any basketball game for the rest of his active life.

One day, I will learn to settle for that pull-up, as I would hope most men would. In real basketball, it is probably the skill I am working hardest at to improve, so that I can continue playing effectively into my older age. As far as this analogy goes however, I would definitely consider myself too dependent on my outside shot.

I predict maybe two people in the world will truly appreciate this post. But I had to get it out there.

The game is beautiful... what can I say?

How to not sound like a robot

I'm not a fan of voice mail.

Or answering machines.

Or any sort of voice messaging system, frankly, and I mean this both in terms of dialing in and having one myself.

Whenever I get somebody's voicemail, nine out of ten times I will simply hang up and call back later instead of leaving a message. I hate leaving a message. It's not that I am incapable of thinking fast enough to leave the most rudimentary of details (i.e. why I am calling). Rather, I find that more often than not, my ability to convey that basic information manifests itself in a way that makes me sounds like a babbling child.

My biggest flaw in this regard is not knowing when to simply hang up. I often say what I need to say, then proceed to follow with 30 seconds of 'um' and 'ah' noises, before I finally conclude with an epiphanus "...soooo yea! call me!"

There is a reason I did not enter broadcast journalism.

Conversely, in my attempts to be professional sounding, I have received myriad suggestions that my personal voicemail message sounds like I am applying for an annunciation quality assurance position.

In my defense, I purposely formalized this greeting for the sole purpose of job searching. I would rather seem like an over-organized freak then one of those dudes that just plays an R&B song for two minutes then the machine beeps.

Or was that pagers? Actually I think I did used to do that. Awkward.

Poladroidoscopy

I completely made that word up. It doesn't even remotely make sense, I just like the sound of it.

I must preface this somewhat long post by saying there is no real moral to this tale. The short form is I just read an email and was thoroughly, utterly and completely flabbergasted that it could have come from me.

If anyone has Yahoo mail, you might have noticed for the last year and a half they've been soft-selling their "new" version of mail, which is essentially a java Outlook clone instead of the typical Yahoo template (which is a lot more like gmail).

I finally clicked on it today out of curiosity (read: boredom) and was fiddling around when I realized I had over 15,000 emails in that account. And I have two email accounts! Gradually I'm finding myself phasing out the Yahoo one and simply using Gmail for everything. Ironically, of course, Gmail has a theoretical storage limit while Yahoo does not, which was my original rationale for getting a Gmail account for online registrations and all the resulting spam.

Without getting too nerdy, I will just say that it's not often we can tangibly demarcate how our communication and human interactions have shifted from an off to online paradigm. Reading emails from three years ago is one of them. And I even recall deleting thousands of emails from that account some time ago, so I could have had more... but for some reason I got rid of them. I honestly cannot remember why, but it was vaguely practical. Faster loading times perhaps? But I digress.

My point being how silly the notion would have been 25 years ago that we could click a button and bring back a conversation from a completely forgotten era. And reliving a single conversation is like being able to essentially relive a moment in time. The same feelings come back, except now we have hindsight, which in some cases is not so much 20/20, but rather the difference between having eyes and not.

"Did I really say that?" Was a thought I often found myself uttering mentally. Sometimes, but thankfully rarely, punctuated with a "Damn. That's embarrassing."

I've sent many emails I regret. This is the real point of this post.

One would hope as one grows older and wiser, these unfortunate emails become increasingly rare.

I feel ashamed, really, still, from some of those emails. I can't even describe it.

I need to shower.

Budgeting

I have no money.

But March is a veritable musical orgy in this city.

What to do...

I like how I'm feigning guilt, but in reality if I can find people, I'm totally going to at least a show a week.

At least.

OBAMAOBAMAOBAMA. Canadiana?

A little overkill on the media coverage today (or yesterday I suppose, for you normal sleeping folks).

There's this clip where a teenager is screaming because she touched the president. Like, literally screaming, as if this were a Backstreet Boys concert circa 1999. Incredible.

The fact that this guy has something like an 87 per cent approval rating amongst Canadians is even more interesting to me. What is it about this country that loves him so much? Is it his charisma, which we are so completely unused to seeing from politicians? Are we simply pining for a Trudeau redux? Is it the fact that Jay-Z and Beyonce had front row seats to his inauguration, and that's just how Canada rolls?

It's crazy. Granted, our own guys are about as endearing as sacks of potatoes wearing Sears suits. But still... wow. And why? Well... isn't it obvious? Because Obama reminds us of... us. And that makes us feel good about ourselves.

I guess it's important to understand in all this how different we, as a country, still really are from our lovely neighbors to the south. To truly understand how amazing it is that Obama was elected president, just take a gander at stories like this one, from the Times.

Can you even imagine this ever occurring anywhere in Canada? I don't care if you're in the most wheat-covered corner of Saskatchewan, or the middle of an Albertan oil patch. Nobody is going to shoot down a high school edition of Rent because of questionable content. It just isn't going to happen. I mean, parents might oppose, but a high school of Canadian students would never stand for that kind of censorship. The play would go on. Guaranteed.

I think we forget that, unlike Canada, where the general populous is so often a diverse-yet-heterogenous cultural tapestry that just suffixes our ethnicity's after the word 'Canadian', there are still a whole whack-load of people in the states who think George W. Bush was a great president, and that Iraq is still going to nuke us.

We like to think we're liberal up here, but often we don't understand just how far we've evolved as a country in so little relative time. Even compared to a lot of Europe, where smokes, sex and booze are as common as Tim Horton's coffee, our standard cultural deviation on things like social welfare, rehab, immigration, gender and racial equality... we're right there, arguably tops in the world.

So yes, I love Obama. But I would never want to have to live in a country that NEEDS Obama.

Canadians love Obama basically because he wants to turn the US into Canada. He's the embodiment or our intrinsic inferiority complex, and we think he's amazing. This is the same reason nerds love him. And minorities in general now that I think about it.

So yes. I like the dude.

But if anything, he's just a reminder of how much I like living in Canada.

Maybe if people expressed as much enthusiasm about our own country as we do about the one below us, instead of living our lives being self-deprecating, we wouldn't be so star struck by guys like Barack.

When chopsticks themselves are a novelty

Strangely enough, I have had several conversations regarding the Chowhound forums over the past few weeks, and eventually we always end up laughing at good old Charles Yu, this dude who posts intensely detailed reviews in a very helpful and knowledgeable manner. Perhaps not so coincidentally, all these conversations occur between the same three people, so maybe we're just huge nerds.

Anyways, for those who don't frequent Chowhound, Charles Yu would be the equivalent of Mahjongmaniac (aka The Pochacco guy) on RedFlagDeals.

And if none of these references make sense to you, then you have already judged me. So let's move on.

Anyways, I always find it surreal when people on Chowhound swoon over common restaurants in the suburbs. Places along the Hwy.7 strip that I would go for family meals every week or so, sometimes get all this fancy praise heaped on them, with flocks of foodies making treks from downtown just to get a taste.

This blows my mind. I mean, I feel like being Chinese has so spoiled my perception of the food I consume daily that my standards have been skewed. I'm like a guy who's been dating Minka Kelly and now is no longer impressed by the likes of a Kristen Kreuk. It's madness.

It takes a lot more for a Chinese meal to impress me than any other cuisine, and I can probably only list on one hand the number of times I had Chinese food and was completely blown away.

I have never had this conversation with any non-Chinese people before, so I am curious if this ungrateful phenomenon applies to all cultures. I would imagine the appeal and novelty of different ethnic flavours always carries some clout in a dining experience, so to some extent this is not an uncommon thing.

But still. When people are making a ruckus about restaurants you've already filed under "good on an average scale", it makes you reconsider your edible world, y'know?

And great. Now I'm hungry. If I ever became a food critic, I can already tell I'd be one of the fat ones.

Snow!

That last week of temperate weather really lulled me into a false sense of spring. I was quite surprised to see snow out my window today. Not that I'm angry, I guess I had just taken for granted that there's probably another several weeks of bitter winter goodness to come. Tobogganing anyone?

I'm starting to run low on essentials. I'm all out of Johnnie Black (both bottles!). Half my Bacardi Black is gone. I still have an unopened Beefeater on my desk, but I'm not going to bother making GT's to drink by myself. People need to come over for that kind of effort.

Also, still unemployed and bleeding funds. But I don't so much mind that part. I'd rather go out enjoying myself till the very end than saving up scratch and being miserable every day about it, y'know? I'm pretty optimistic things will turn up fine. They always seem to, although my parents are starting to worry a little bit about my unwavering self-assurance. I don't blame them. I do drink all their orange juice and probably account for half their monthly utilities bill.

I think if I did have more money to burn, I'd probably spend it on classes. I am currently aiming to improve my graphic design and guitar playing abilities. Part of me still believes I am somehow a prodigy at some instrument that I have never played before.

Every time I sit down in front of a piano, I think maybe now I'll be miraculously amazing at it.

In hindsight, this may be a rudimentary form of insanity. Rather, I like to think of it as harnessing my latent superpowers bit by bit...

The love post

You know what I've never understood about Valentines day? Hearts.

Hearts to me represent emotion, desire, passion, life.

These are all important facets of our romantic relationships. But in the end, the most important part of being in love is the brain. It's the ability to make logical choices in a process that celebrates insanity.

Without our brains, we'd all go crazy chasing our own tails in endless circles.

So be a trend setter. Give out little candied brains this weekend instead, with phrases written on them like "I know you're an asshole, but at least I can admit I am too".

It may not make your significant other swoon, at first.

But it will.

Once they've had some time to think about it.

frack

It took me almost a week, but I am now completely caught up with Battlestar Galactica, minus only those web episodes and that bonus movie with the half-asian chick in it. I'm too lazy to download a two hour movie at this point.

Anyways, if I have learned one thing from this show, it is this:

I want to marry Grace Park.

A quick IMDB search reveals that she was on Edgemont (She was? So that show gave us Grace Park and Kristen Kreuk? In retrospect it's the english-speaking Asian males wet dream.)

She was also a dancer in Romeo Must Die.

From humble beginnings indeed.

I officially hate the Raptors

*Apparently I am not the only one who feels this way. Globe and Mail reporter Michael Grange, who's job it is to cover the Raptors for a national newspaper, has decided to stop watching Raptors games.

Against my better judgment, I tuned into the game tonight to watch us get massacred by the Cleveland LeBrons.

I only watched the first three minutes then turned off the television in disgust.

- Wally Szczerbiak three (made)

- Missed layup by Chris Bosh

- Wally Szczerbiak three (made)

- Anthony Parker jumper (missed)

- Wally Szczerbiak three (missed)

- Jermaine O'neal travelling (TO)

- Mo Williams jumper (made)

- Chris Bosh jumper (made)

- Wally Szczerbiak three (missed)

- Offensive rebound Ben Wallace

- LeBron James, alley-oop dunk

CLE: 10, TOR: 2

The Raptors gave up a back-to-back-to-back three's to Cleveland's shooting guard to start the game. That's three times, on the first three offensive possessions. Another open jumper to Mo Williams on the fourth possession, then another open three to Wally Sczerbiak.

To compound the matters of this absolute futility that we call a basketball team, Ben Wallace gathered the offensive rebound off this fourth miss, in the middle of four Raptor players.

Also of note, the layup Chris Bosh missed on his first touch was a wide open lane, with Zydrunas Ilgauskas standing directly under the net in the restricted area.

Any number of NBA player would have dunked on Z and gotten the 'And one' call. Instead, Chris Bosh purposely avoided contact, and missed the layup instead.

For a team to give up the same open three point shot for the other team's best shooter four times in the first three minutes is absolutely unacceptable. I've given up on this team before, but after watching the first three minutes of this game, I knew they no longer even deserved a shred of my attention.

They're dogging it out there. And if they've given up on the court, why should I bother caring?

I hope the rest of the city and Raptors fans do what's right, and stop supporting them until they show something worth being supported.

To my own dismay, I couldn't help but check in on the score at the end of the first quarter.

Cleveland 37

Toronto 15

Long distance secret lovers

I have a problem.

In the past four days I have watched roughly 40 hours of Battlestar Galactica. My eyes hurt and my body feels like what I imagine a bowl of soft butter must be like.

Anyways.

Sometimes I get calls on my cell phone from numbers that I do not recognize. The most recent, after a quick google search, have been one caller from North Bay, and earlier today, somebody from Orange County, California called me (the O.C.!).

I know these are just wrong numbers, but sometimes it's nice to imagine someone completely out of the blue might happen onto your cell phone.

Like "Hello, this is the Anaheim Angels. We'd like to sign you as a relief mascot."

Yeaaa... that's the dream.