Here’s a funny story: I got into a car accident yesterday morning.

OK, it’s not that funny.

Jackass pulled an illegal left turn from the THIRD lane from the left on a one way street, right into my path. He then tried to blame me. That’s not the funny part.

I had been on my way to work. At 8am on a Saturday. I called 911 inappropriately, we exchanged insurance information, and I went back on my merry way to the office.

The insurance reps I spoke with were surprisingly pleasant and competent, but getting the claim sorted took time, as did getting the car to the collision reporting centre at the police station downtown. I drove from there to a body shop that the insurance rep had called ahead to, and they provided me with a rental car.

I drove my shiny new 2007 Toyota Matrix to the grocery store for grocery store sushi, then finally arrived back at work. Since the start of my day was delayed by six hours it wasn’t surprising that I didn’t get out of the office until 1am. That was when I notice how much it had snowed. And that someone had gone over the office parking lot with a snow plough.

And that the plough had torn the front bumper entirely off the rental car.

I guess that’s not that funny either.

Here I sit, protected from the bitter November wind by this minimalist (but no less appreciated) bus shelter, battling a tiny keyboard with my unusually large thumbs, to report to you the saga of my deteriorating relationship with the only gay bar in town⁴. The establishment that no amount of cheap bar rye can make palatable.

My thumbs and I took so long to articulate those thoughts that now I find myself on a home-bound bus, swanky with city-logo emblazoned seats, the white knight of my evening, whisking me away to comfort food and flannel sheets. If you detect sarcasm in this, let me dissuade you of your mistaken interpretation. I have never been happier to be on a bus than I am at this moment.

And what do I leave behind? A dear friend, surrounded by every queer in the city¹, each of whom seems to have some deep personal history with her. Four bartenders; two of them sporting the cuteness that arrives with novelty, one with history, and one unnecessarily wearing a toque. A shockingly competent DJ. A damn cold smoking balcony. And deep unanswered questions about motivation, conformity and routine.

Where’s that damn comfort food?

Arts & Crafts time: find a piece of felt and cut out of it an equilateral triangle, three inches on a side. The measurements and craftsmanship need not be exacting. Take the felt triangle and affix it to the underside of your chin using the permanent adhesive most readily available to you at the time. In doing so, orient the triangle so that one of the points aims towards your neck, the two other points curl around and direct onlookers to your eyes, but ensuring that the side between these points would not come into contact with glass (just barely) when you, for whatever reason, pressed your face up against a window. Now punch yourself in the face for sproting the worst facial hair I have ever seen.

Everyone here is at least 30 years older than me, not counting the guy you just made an homage to in felt. And they are terribly boring. Conferences are for chumps.

Maybe I’m just in the mood to judge, but my field trip this afternoon to Wal-Mart left me with all kinds of hilarious material fit for writing about in the parking lot. Like the woman overheard saying “that’s just another thing for him to write on the internet about you.” And the register notice advising me that they didn’t want the boxers I was buying back under any circumstances. I mean, honestly, isn’t that the kind of thing you want to make a decision about on a case-by-case basis?

What extinct beast is featured on the Coat of Arms of Mauritius?

Apparently, its the Dodo bird. I think the use of the word ‘Beast’ is extremely misleading. Damn the man, damn it all to hell.

Current Coat of Arms = Flawed

It would have been way cooler had they featured a sabretooth tiger or a brontosaurus.

There, absolutely flawless.

Take that, quizmaster.

Don’t u love bacon?

Omg I’m blogging.

No internet at work means no love letters. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning.

—
Sent on my jerkberry

It’s not cool until you can do it anywhere. Welcome to blackberry-fueled internet-based stream of conciousness.
a.k.a. quantity over quality.

I just want to clarify that if you haven’t posted a video of yourself creating an acid net out of household items (from your blackberry) by the time I arrive, there will be hell to pay.