This is what I call a puff piece

So an NZ based documentary crew reached out, looking for Kiwis in Canada who used weed post legalisation. I wrote out a big email, and realised it could be interesting for others.

When it comes to weed, it’s a big part of my life post legalisation. I wasn’t much of a smoker back home, or even once I came over here. Going to Portland, Oregon for a holiday was an eye opening experience. It was legal, the stores were well organised and informative. Nothing clandestine or back-alley, staff were only too happy to explain in depth to my ignorant self. It made me feel much safer and more secure about the experience. Once it was announced that weed would be legalised here, I grew more interested in trying it out.

A big part of the equation was having some kind of metric with which to understand how intoxicated I would likely become (edibles etc list MG of THC and it’s a very handy guide). With alcohol, you have no control over the type of experience you might have. With weed, while it’s not absolute, you can at least tailor it a little. Do I want to relax, watch something dumb and fall asleep in a few hours? Maybe an indica would be good. Do I want to release anxiety or feel slightly better in my body? Maybe a low THC hybrid would be the ticket. Do I want to be spritely, sociable and creative? I’ll smoke some kind of sativa.

Honestly, the legal weed is kind of dogshit. It’s often dry and of low quality. The provincial government fucked up big time with their roll out, because they’re a populist government who are more about making back pocket deals than creating effective public structure. They allowed something like 25 stores across Ontario, which for reference is significantly larger than the entirety of NZ. Lots of pearl clutching, etc. I won’t start ranting about this government, because I won’t stop. “Trump light” is the best compliment I could give.

I tend to go to “grey market” locations. CAFE (Cannabis And Fine Edibles) is my go-to. It’s not technically legal, but after a ton of legal troubles (and if you want a story, please reach out and talk to someone involved in CAFE about when the cops were daily putting large concrete blocks in front of their stores to prevent customers being able to enter. CAFE would just pay the fines, because they were making money hand over fist). It’s well lit, they have efficient systems worked out, the staff are knowledgeable and helpful, they have a variety of strains, plus edibles, disposable vapes, shatter bars, etc etc. I usually pay $10-14 per gram, and I understand that the illegal market is probably about half the price. While I smoke probably daily, I don’t smoke quantities enough that it’s worth me sniffing out the illegal market. Plus I’m a boring, uncool dork, so why bother doing something cool like meeting dealers by the light of the moon?

I use a vape to smoke. I grind up weed and use it in there. It’s easier on my lungs, it’s very simple to use and allows me greater control over my experience. It’s also pretty discreet, and I feel okay smoking it while walking down the street, or standing on my front porch. I have a variety of purposes I use weed for, depending on the strain. I have never and hope not to smoke before work. It’s not my style, I like my job and I wouldn’t want to compromise my ability to do it. Weed has helped drastically cut down my alcohol intake, which is wonderful. Depending on the strain, weed has been good for parties, going out dancing, or relaxing if I’m on evening shifts and walking out of the office at 12.30am. I’m actually quite into using weed with exercise, going to the gym for a light focused workout (I wouldn’t dare to lift heavy weights on it) or having a jog. I don’t own a car, but I can’t imagine I’d feel safe to drive after smoking. I think I’m a relatively responsible dude, and it’s shocking how Chicken Little of a big deal legalisation was. I thought the sky would fall, and basically nothing changed.

Give ’em the good new fashioned

My girlfriend had been telling me for months that there was something secret and special planned for the wedding.

“Is it a flashmob?” I asked. “It’s probably a flashmob.”
“A secret is what it is.” She replied.
It was a flashmob.

As the years have passed, I’ve naturally attended more weddings. Each a little different, each their own. What I’ve come to appreciate the most is how each couple tailors their marital unity to their distinct personalities. It’s neat to see all the little touches they add, whether in presentation, vows, even food. This wedding was entirely the summation of these two individuals tying the knot together.

The vows were incredibly sincere, and made absolute sense for a couple who’ve been together for the past 15 years. While distinct people, they’ve grown together in many ways. A myriad of nicknames and bits found their way into the vows, while I didn’t know the couple well enough to be in on them, I still got the gist. I don’t know that I managed to straight up cry, but there were definitely a bunch of moments that yanked on the ol’ heart strings. The vows made sense in a modern context, talking in a wider sense of trust and understanding, a desire to grow together, work as a team and see the best intentions in one another. I mean, they were worded much more sweetly than that, but the gist is there.

Everyone involved in the running of the wedding was absurdly pleasant. Nothing close to any drama. There was the wedding party (denoted by their silly tiny hats), helping out with little tasks around the place. Making sure the bridegroom ate, drank and had anything they needed.  The servers taking around finger foods were lovely, incredibly friendly and super helpful. The bar staff were great, and the DJ kept things rolling on. I don’t know that I’ve ever been to a wedding where both the Tetris theme and Die Antwoord have played, but it was that kind of wedding. Get on board already, geez.

The food was excellent. Instead of a personal meal, they had servers coming around with all sorts of hors d’oeuvres. The bride assured us all that nobody would go hungry. She was right. The hors d’oeuvres did not stop coming. There were calamari sticks, meat and veggie skewers, potato cake things, mushroom risotto, pad thai in takeout containers, these amazing fig and blue cheese concoctions, warm pumpkin soup in little shot glasses, and my favourite, the seared tuna. Even with my reduced appetite, I still managed to try everything. Except maybe the desserts. There was a literal wall of desserts, and I had no hope in trying more than three or four things.

We had such a great time. The music kept going until the early hours of the morning, and the dance floor stayed full the entire time. All of the couple’s friends were great, very easy to get along with. There was nothing contentious whatsoever, just a wonderful night of excellent people getting hitched. And a flash mob.

If you have to ask, it’s probably a flash mob. And it was a fun one.

Hear today, gone tomorrow

I had the best New Years.

It’s a declarative statement, and I’ll stand by it. My New Years featured nothing but fun, excess, and comfort. I basked in the warmth of intimate friendships, easily digestible films, and digesting food easily. At around 5am, after a kick ass costume party, I headed off to another friend’s penthouse apartment downtown. She has a massive deck, open plan lounge, and lots of sheets/mattresses in front of a big bedroom TV. There was ample food, booze and weed. Whatever needs I had, they were simple to tend to. Lots of cuddles and even more laughter. My girlfriend and I could nap haphazardly, or join in conversations as we pleased. We stuck around watching movies and getting collectively H O R N Y over Brendan Fraser in George of the Jungle. We continued the Fraser Festivities with Blast from the Past, and tossed on Mulan for good measure.

I couldn’t get over how many conversations I had about music. There was a tablet hooked up to speakers/Spotify, so all day we shared tracks and playlists. It made me remember how integral music used to be in my life. I was constantly searching out new artists and albums. I’d see live concerts all the time, and a significant portion of my income went into maintaining that. I had nuanced opinions on what my most treasured songs meant to me, and considered it important that I did. Friends shared some of their favourites from the past decade, and I felt a longing to jump head first back into caring about music like I once did.

It makes sense. Last year my iPod broke. I didn’t replace it for months, which meant less music and more podcasts/DJ sets. I moved away from keeping up, and disregarded a ton of new releases. The fact that both Vampire Weekend and Tool released albums last year I barely touched should be more personally significant than it was. Even having my new mp3 player, I just loaded all my old music on. While it’s been nice diving back into the vast back catalogue I have, I’m still thirsty to refresh what I listen to while out and about. It’s time to download the albums I’ve accumulated on my Deezer shortlist. It’s also the start of the year, an ideal period to comb through critics’ Best Of lists in a hunt for new favourites. While I hate New Years resolutions, I would like to see more live music in 2020 than I did in 2019. It enables parts of my personality that feel lost, awaiting reawakening.

I also realised how important it is to me that people are comfortable in my presence. At the New Years party I was chatting with someone in a hallway (prime party hangout spaces second only to kitchens), and I mentioned that I just want people to feel comfy always. I didn’t realise at the time that it applies a ton to how I conduct myself. I’m always trying to do things for others, take care of people in their own homes, etc. Later in that party, I saw one of my friends getting buffed across the room. I was sitting on a couch chatting to people. Concurrently, part of my brain was wanting to help her get the best out of her experience. She was sitting up, the sheet that was used to create a barrier between buffer and skin was being poorly applied. I was ready to shout out and give guidance, and I stopped myself. My friend is an intelligent, grown woman with agency. She was free to do whatever she wanted. While my intentions were good (knowing she has back problems, I wanted her to feel as good as possible), I wasn’t doing anything for anyone with my interference. I was needlessly getting involved in a scenario that had nothing to do with me, and distracting my brain from its current conversation in the mean time. Of course it’s great to take care of people when that’s desired, but I think I’d be wise to pull back a bit. Maybe it’s time to learn when my help is actually desired, and stop wasting so much brain space on pointless involvement.

NYE 2020 stuck the landing. Let’s see how the year measures up.

And to Al, a good night

I know that Amazon works as a fiscal enterprise, because yesterday I bought an $80 mouse to save $5 shipping on a $20 cheese slicer.

I decided to get myself a Christmas present, and buy a good quality cheese slicer. We’ve had a hand me down for years. People had been raving about this Boska Holland model, and I figured for $20, I was practically losing money by not having one. The only thing I love more than a good slice of cheese is a great slice, and ease in slicing it. I’ve been into a Buy It Once model of purchasing lately, and what’s $20 in the grand scheme of things? Pretty damn reasonable, in my mind. But I didn’t want to pay shipping, of course. Hence the $80 computer mouse.  I wanted a new mouse for work, and knew I’d buy one eventually. Knowing how I deal with analysis paralysis however, I understood that I’d probably spend so long thinking of pros and cons that six months would pass, and I’d miss out on all that extra productivity. I figured that while $80 wasn’t cheap for a mouse, it was still a lot less than a day’s wage. That seemed an acceptable cost for something I’d be using for eight hours in a row, day in day out. Everyone else in my studio uses a track ball, and I can’t be bothered learning one.

I dunno. I’ve got a weird relationship with capitalism right now. I’ve had a bump in earnings since taking this new job, so things are easier to buy. I’ve been buying a lot more, upgrading items that’ve gone neglected for a while. New mp3 player to replace the broken iPod. New speakers to replace the dilapidated ones I’d had for five years. A bike, lock, helmet, lights. Bluetooth earbuds. So quite a few big purchases. At the same time, I’ve stopped participating in fast fashion. I’ve bought very few clothes in the past six plus months. I’m hoping my shopping list will dry up, and I can just bank money for a rainy day. My girlfriend and I have had a recent Christmas gift buying tradition, and I’m hoping that’ll stand strong. Instead of buying big gifts, we each buy a nice foodstuff for the house. Something we wouldn’t buy on the regular, because it’s a tad more expensive than our budget calls for. This year my girlfriend bought a ton of lovely fresh garlic that someone at her work had farmed herself. I got some classic Kewpie mayonnaise and a French fruit spread that I think is basically ritzy jam. I’m looking forward to all the treat meals we’ll be able to have, enjoying the extra bounty of taste our Christmas presents have brought.

I mean, they’re already helping. This morning we had our own Christmas breakfast. Eggs/tofu on toast with smoked salmon, cream cheese, sundried tomatoes, mushrooms and grated mozzarella. Kewpie on the side for some yummy mushroom dip. My girlfriend put together snazzy coffees. Hot chocolate and concentrated French Press, with a dollop of whiskey. If there’s anything to bring on the spirit, it’s a great feast. Later on (post my lone hour of work today), we have friends coming over for Chinese takeout. A true Jewish Christmas. I’m sure the holiday means something different for everyone. For me, it’s rapidly become a time for chosen family, and new friends of friends. Also, liquid merriment.

So I say, Merry Christmas to Al.

More like vent-y two, amirite?

There’s a trend happening on social media at the moment, where people will post side by side photos of themselves from 2009 and 2019.

I thought I’d give it a try.

Since navel gazing is one my my favourite hobbies, I thought I’d cast my brain back a decade. Who was I? Where was I at in life? What guided me?

In 2009 I was living and working in Rotorua. After lingering in Auckland post radio internship, I got sent off to “the regions” to level up. I brought all my worldly possessions, a lack of worldly knowledge and an shit ton of entitlement. I was an Aucklander, from the Big City, why was I tarrying with these common folk in a dead arse tourist town? Those weren’t my words verbatim, but they probably weren’t far off. I thought I knew everything. I mean, I was 22, of course I did. It was my first time moving out of town, and I had more than my fair share of baggage. I saw it as a temporary displacement. I needed to earn my stripes, do some good work and get back to where I knew I belonged. Really what I needed was a dose of growing the fuck up, but you’ve seen the picture. Don’t worry, I got there.

The whole experience shook me to my core. I was so used to things just happening for me. I was smart and things came easily. I’d enjoyed school and university, and managed to get through both without too much struggle. It’s not that I didn’t work hard, it’s that I saw myself as constantly deserving of success. It made sense with the way things had gone. I had this innate feeling that I was gonna do well, and evidence hadn’t presented otherwise. I’d hit a bump post university where I was stuck working my government call centre job full time for five months. I naively thought that was rock bottom, then a scholarship came my way and I got catapulted to a position of privilege. I worked hard, people in the industry with Names started to know who I was and what I did. In my head, it was just a matter of time.

Maybe it was, but I was 22. My perception of time was very different than it is at 32. I expected I’d be down in Rotorua for maybe six months, a year tops. I’d be back in the big leagues before I knew it. That was where I was meant to be. At 22 I’d drive back from Rotorua to Auckland maybe once a week. Sometimes more, depending if there was a concert mid-week. Two and a half hours’ drive, I’d sometimes do it closer to two. At the time I’d memorised the entire trip, and could visually recall every single intersection in my brain. At 22 I devoured content voraciously. Every week I’d download several albums and listen through them. It was of the utmost important that I was at the forefront of indie music developments. It was imperative that I had an opinion, because I was 22. I had an opinion on everything. I was always online (before that was the norm), and most of my nights in Rotorua were spent drunk in front of the internet.

At 22 I loved drinking. It was at the uncomfortable point between an interest and a hobby. I drank desperately. Desperate to escape fears that maybe I wasn’t going somewhere. I was “stuck” in a small town and the only friend I’d made there was off 4chan. I had no luck with women, and I was at the stage of life where I thought that defined me. I was incredibly insecure, and I have no doubt that I carried the stink of it. I felt lonely, isolated, and- once again- entitled. I didn’t want to be a Nice Guy, so I was an edgelord instead. It’s the kind of mind frame that’s a roadmap to incel culture. At my core, I just wanted to be wanted. But I looked past my lack of real confidence and blamed external sources. I had so much potential, and somewhere in there I had the potential to become a real piece of shit. Like so much of my life, I was lucky to be surrounded by people who thought when I didn’t, and weren’t afraid to speak up. I had friends who’d known me since age 1, and they course corrected where I wouldn’t.

At 22 I clearly thought I was the protagonist, years before realising we’re all here to help each other. I was deserving of far less than I had, and I wanted so much more. At 32, I’ve earned the lines in my face. I’ve started to realise what’s important in life, and what’s fine to let go of. Some might say I got bailed out again by stumbling into a job I love, and that’d be fair. The difference a decade makes is that I’m now humbled, not emboldened. I’m no longer lonely or isolated. I’ve found so many connections that I deeply treasure. I look for opportunities to help, rather than take. I’m thankful rather than expectant. I love where I’ve ended up, instead of feeling inadequate for not being somewhere else. It took ten years, but those were ten years well spent.

Egads though, I miss having 22 year old joints.

You wouldn’t think those were strict criteria…

Y’all ready for a “let’s get this out of the way” post?

I sure am. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in just over an hour, and while I could probably just write in the inevitable half hour waiting room break, I don’t wanna. I’m doing my check in post anti-depressants to gauge how things are going. Oddly enough, my doctor has gone on mat leave and I’m meeting her year long replacement. With something personal like this, I’m starting to understand the mentality of people wanting to see their specific doctors. The decision for me to go on these meds was thoroughly discussed, and would’ve been a rollercoaster if not for the time and patience my doctor had for looking at all of our options together. Ultimately, I know they’re working and have been an outstanding decision, so I’m not worried about talking with some new dude about them. At the same time, it brings me closer to the importance of a personal doctor relationship kind of thing. Usually, I don’t care. I trust that the clinic I visit has qualified professionals. I’ve had only good experiences with the staff there. The receptionists are very hesitant to put me with anyone else unless it’s an emergency. I don’t blame them whatsoever. That’s just policy. Still, if there’s something wrong with me, I will go to most anyone who has more knowledge than I do. Just put me in, coach.

I’ve got a fancy, fancy party tomorrow night and I’m excited. I got so excited that I bought two tickets by accident. See, I can trace back the idiocy of this decision. Let’s back up. I go to this Library fundraiser every year. It’s the one event that’s very costly (over $100 per ticket), and I get all dolled up with friends. We’ve gone for the past few years. Tradition, and all that. There’s early bird pricing, which we generally tend to get. This year, because of my shift work, I wasn’t sure if I’d be free on the night or not. We have a big group chat going about it (and other neat events). I re-read the chat yesterday. Everyone chimed in back in early September about having purchased early bird tickets. Normally with these events, I post something like “got my ticket” or whatnot. I hadn’t. A few weeks ago I was like oh shit, did I get my ticket? I know I missed early bird. I looked in my emails for a sign of a ticket purchase. No confirmation emails. I looked back in my bank account. No sign of an earlier non-early bird ticket purchase. I bit the bullet and bought a billet. Then yesterday, I got an email telling me to activate my ticket. I logged in and saw two tickets. Weird. I looked back in my emails, and realised that I didn’t have a ticket purchase receipt for the second one either. So that was clearly what happened first time around. I’d bought two tickets. Dummy.

I emailed back asking if I could get a refund. Then my mind started spinning. What was my best course of action? These weren’t cheap tickets. I think the fully priced one came to over $130. I could offer it to my girlfriend, but I couldn’t really expect her to pay for it. Also she’s kinda flu-y at the moment. What if she was too sick to go? I started thinking of other friends, but more importantly I thought of the group I’m going with. It’s a tight knit group. Wonderful, witty people. It’s also a very particular vibe. If my girlfriend couldn’t make it, I’d need to find someone else. It’d have to be someone who’d a) fit with the group, b) have fancy things to wear, c) like eating/drinking a lot (on account of the open bar and unlimited delicious foods) and d) be available last minute. I made a shortlist and it had possibly five people who’d fit a-c. Turns out that I can get a refund, however, so I don’t have to worry about last minute rearrangements. I just need to make sure I have a non-creased shirt.

I better get a few ice cubed and toss my shirt in the dryer.

Hark, the Bone King cometh

What’s in a name? I’m Leon. I’ve always been Leon. Nicknames slough off me like water from a duck. They don’t hold or stick fast. Not sure why.

I’ve always been one to strip bones bare. Sounds like a red flag tinder profile, but really it means that I love BBQ ribs a whole bunch. Last night we had a big communal cook-up. Ribs on the BBQ, grilled mushrooms, corn, hot dogs, peaches, and a simple side salad. We sat around and had our bellies filled by the work we’d all pitched in. Everyone at the table had helped out somehow, and the rewards were bounteous. It turned out I had different standards than everyone for when a rib was considered “finished”. My friends’ bones piled up, and I flayed them one by one. I finished with a stack high to the heavens. Like a throne. A throne of bones. I was the Bone King.

Of course, this happened in my head. Nobody else had picked up on my clever moniker. So it was my duty to bring them onboard. This was a nickname that could stick. I tried incidentally sprinkling it a few times into conversation. Y’know, “hey, mind passing the chips over here to the Bone King?” They were all “wait, who’s the Bone King?” I was like “that’s me, I’m the Bone King. Y’know, all those dinner bones?” My friends exchanged uneasy looks. I tried it once or twice more. It didn’t land. After a particularly egregious one my girlfriend gave me a sidebar. “I’m not sure this Bone King thing is landing. Maybe it’s not happening.” I looked in my heart of hearts and stood firm. “I know this can work, I just haven’t found my moment. By the end of the night, I’ll have it.”

It was evening. There’d been a bunch of pot going around. We were all quite high. We’d all slid into colourful, comfy clothing. I wore my lion onesie, with these dainty rose tinted glasses; gold chain draping from either arm across the back of my neck. People commented on the aesthetics of my attire. I shrugged and said something to the effect of “that’s how the Bone King rolls”. Gentle chuckling ensued. I stepped outside to a spritely bonfire. We played around, making smores. Some tended the fire. I grabbed a bold stick and struck a pose. I referred to myself once or twice as the Bone King. Still not a whole lot of reception.

Hours passed. I’d put down my rose tinted glasses, and they’d become absorbed into a silly joke about a toy car wearing them. People were still laughing about Lightning McQueen in his rose tinted glasses. I grabbed the glasses, unaware I was cutting off their joke. Someone started to protest my theft of Lightning McQueen’s apparel, and I realised the only choice was to commit to the bit. I methodically applied the glasses, draping the chain over the back of my neck to the sound of the room’s protests. A friend called out “are you challenging Lightning McQueen?” I pushed the glasses to the bridge of my nose, squared off against Mr. McQueen and exclaimed “Hey Lightning McQueen, you come at the Bone King, you best not miss.” Rapturous applause exploded as I walked out the door for a smoke. Thus began the legend of the Bone King.

And I finally made that goofy nickname stick.

You ain’t seen nothin’ jetty

Greetings from cottage country. I’m splayed out on my belly, lying atop a dock. Or is it a jetty? What’s the difference? Is it a matter of protrusion? It’s certainly a matter of confusion. Who cares? I’m on holiday.

I’ve got a writing partner here with me today. She’s working on some comedy bits while I type. We’re chatting, discussing, thinking about wording and intonation. Well, she’s bouncing ideas off me anyway. It’s beyond idyllic here. This dock/jetty (I looked it up, I think it’s a dock rather than a jetty. I also learned that jetties are used to disperse currents and create a safe harbour for seafaring vessels (or since they need to disperse currents, maybe they’re sea fearing)) is idly rocking, and it’s absurdly pleasant. Our neighbours are whipping out on their stand up paddleboards, having a great time. We can see right across, it’s a gorgeous view.

Okay, cut to an hour and a half later. I didn’t get my writing done, ’cause we chatted a bunch instead. Now we’re back in the house, it’s a hive of activity. People are walking around clothed, in their undies or nothing at all. One of our pals walked in from the bunkie. There’s a great flow. People are chopping potatoes for some kind of hash. Someone else is frying stuff up in a pan. There’s some Big Chill style motown bursting out from a portable speaker. I’m getting repeatedly distracted, but I think that’s part of the process. Who knows? We’re on cottage time now, baby. Today’s writing has been a slog, not because I’m not enjoying it, but I’m having a hard time with stimulation overload.

We had a great night yesterday. We arrived, and the group who got there earlier were already a bunch of drinks in. I played catchup rather adroitly, and played darts at the same time. I won, somehow. The game itself wasn’t the hard part. See, I’m not a competitive person. I love cheerleading my opponent when they make good plays, but my opponent asked me specifically to trash talk her. I was puzzled, because I’m ever aware of the difficult line to walk when it becomes mean. I don’t like being mean. I tried, and I think managed to not destroy her very being. I did destroy her in the game though. This place is super stocked with board games, etc. Someone found a card game that was basically a forum to encourage intimate conversations, so we talked deep into the morning. I was somehow drunk enough for a nice deep sleep, and woke up grinning.

But now? Now it’s time for lunch. Catch y’all on the flipside!

I can’t afford to be here for a long time, I’ve got packing to do. Good times await

I’m a free agent now, baby.

I’ve got six days off and they’re all mine. I logged into my work email (bad call) and removed myself from a bunch of distribution groups (good call). I brought home my work coffee machine and plugged it in. So now we have an actual decent machine instead of just relying on the french press. I’ve been scatterbrained, moving between playing Magic, coordinating plans for the cottage weekend my girlfriend and I are going on with friends, and pulling out stuff to pack. Packing has yet to occur. I’ve had coffee and maybe insufficient food, so my mind is moving at 1609344 kilometres an hour. Need to pack clothes, food, booze, weed. It’s a cottage, so it’s not like we’ll die of exposure if we miss something. It’s gonna be rockin’, rollin’, reeling and Barbara Ann.

I got to clean out my desk yesterday and hoo boy, I’d hoarded a bunch of shit for a rainy day. I had a ton of disposable cutlery, etc. Straws, coffee stir sticks, knives, forks, spoons, chopsticks. I had varietals of sugar, white, brown, coconut, splenda. I had coconut oil and oatmeal packets. There were random bits of makeup I’d lifted from the old building after everyone else had left. Dental supplies from hygienist freebie bags. A Tommy Wiseau bobble head (that I gifted to a greatful co-worker). Paper towels, ziplock and plastic bags, gift wrapping. There was some prime stationary, a solid swingline stapler, tape dispenser, calculator, a bunch of promo pens and white out. Paperclips, bulldog clips, pushpins. Notepads and post-its. Manilla folders and notebooks. Also cardboard cutouts of Emily Deschanel/David Boreanaz & Tea Leoni. In short, lots of useful junk that has no place in my new job. Dumping it on the table for people to take was all kinds of cathartic.

Maybe in six days I’ll have enough time to digest the new Tool album. Is there ever truly enough time?

In terms of “enough time”, I’m hoping to finish this, get packing, maybe go to the gym, pick up vitamins and whatnot from the health store, and get a new bag of coffee for the trip. All in the next three hours. It’s not gonna happen, is it?

I’m gonna have limited internet connection over the next few days, but hopefully should be able to at least post updates. We’re going to a cottage, not an empty field.

You know what? I’m finished with this. I need the time. Catch y’all tomorrow.

I guess Talk Like A Pirate Day is only three weeks away

It’d been a long time since I last helped host a party.

My girlfriend’s birthday is tomorrow, and she wanted to have a weekend get together in lieu of a big shindig. An “open house” was her idea. Welcoming a big group of people to stop by any time between 11am and 11pm for as long as they liked. A quick drop in hi? Perfect. A lengthy, leisurely hello? Also perfect. Time spent with friends, food and drink. Firing up the barbecue whenever people wanted to eat. Grilled meats and veggies, tons of chips. Mixers and spirits to share. Non-compulsory potluck style, people could bring whatever they wanted to share if they so wished. A neat idea.

It was fantastic in execution too. Nobody showed up until the afternoon, and numbers never got overwhelming. There was a natural flow, with people coming and going as they desired. When it started getting a bit loud inside, we shuffled everyone out to the backyard. We got the grill going and tossed on some sausages. Music played from her computer to a portable speaker. We plugged in a lamp once things got dark. We improvised as we went, and it all worked out. There was tons of food for everyone, and an abundance of leftover chips. A few friends brought booze and happily offered it to others. When things got cold we grabbed them our clothes/blankets/onesies to borrow.

I was in my element. My fervent hope was that my girlfriend could stand back from hosting duties and spend time with her friends while I took the reins. I wanted to take care of our guests and make sure they had everything they needed. I got to have a bunch of drinks and cater it up. If people needed drinks, I made sure they knew all their options. I tried to keep food flowing, putting new sausages on the grill once others came out. We had a butterflied jerk chicken that cooked up beautifully. I somehow walked the fine line of considerate intoxication. It was fun having a ton of tasks. Moving between the grill and the kitchen, checking our glassware supply, keeping a steady stream of clean dishes. Dropping in for a drive by pun or joke, keeping conversation flowing. I got to do all the hosting I wanted, while still enjoying the hell out the get together.

I wonder what excuses I can come up with to have another party…