YO JR

Watching Hawaii Five-O makes me want to go back to Oahu really really badly. I don’t care what anybody says about Hawaii being a good place for a two week vacation but not somewhere to live - I could easily get used to living, working, playing on a tropical island with the smell of the Pacific Ocean year-round. I could rock Sanuks like nobody’s business.

I’m going back to California next week. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve been there and I’m really stoked on going back. Staying in Anaheim, gonna meet up with old friends and hit up some of the old stomping grounds.

Plus, I’m gonna take one for the team and try to get my mom into Dancing With The Stars. What a great son I am! 

Later skaters.

It’s 12:19 am, Sunday night/Monday morning. Just got back to the hotel motel Holiday Inn by the airport. Don’t even get me started on those HACKS at Air Canada cancelling our flight back to Calgary. Just a reminder of why I fly WestJet. We’ve gotta be at the airport at 4 am local time. Not too happy about it either.

This was definitely a rad weekend. The people at Red Bull really know how to throw an event - they don’t fuck around. Our rep Josh was a rad host - they treated us really really well, and we met a lot of good people. For those of you that know me, you know that I have the alcohol tolerance of a pre-pubescent teenage girl. This was a rough one…

My favorite memories of this weekend, albeit foggy ones, were of myself throwing out roundhouse kicks in the middle of the Crashed Ice after party; singing Jackson 5 to Chris Bird, then getting upset when he wouldn’t be Tito; and butchering together what small pieces of French I still remember from my childhood as we made our way through Quebec City and Montreal. 

And the poutine! My god, the poutine.

Ugh. Stampede’s coming up fast. I wanna hang myself.

Capitalization is the difference between helping your Uncle Jack off a horse and helping your uncle jack off a horse.

I seriously need to take a vacation back to either Hawaii or southern California, my two favorite places on the whole god damn planet.

Maybe a little Waikiki beach or a little Newport. Just out of Calgary and away from work. Clear my head.

February sounds like a really good fucking plan.

There is something oddly therapeutic about blogging. New age journal/diary? Is this the modern equivalent of that little plastic book with a really shitty padlock and a heart-shaped key girls used to write in when we were in junior high? Whatever it may be, it’s definitely a much needed outlet. I’m still unclear about a few things, but I’ll figure it out. Or maybe I won’t. Whatever.

There’s something really satisfying about how well-received Timothy Richard Tebow has become over the last few months.

I caught my first UF game at The Swamp when I was 15 years old. Jesse Palmer was quarterback and Steve Spurrier was head coach. Fuck was that ever a long time ago. I’ve been fortunate enough to have been to a handful of games since then and have been a fan of #15 since he backed up football bust Chris Leak.

So naturally there is some satisfaction in the fact that he has been playing well. The people that chirped me for being a fan of the Gators, the people that chirped about how he wouldn’t be a pro quarterback (NFL of course, CFL isn’t pro), then the people that chirped about how he wouldn’t be a first rounder.

Suck it, Colt McCoy.

Um, are you fucking serious? Last night was the first time somebody looked me in the eye and took himself seriously when he said it. Mind you, he was just another guy that suddenly turned into a cowboy once he was outside of the bar and there was an audience.

I’m not sure if it was the copious amounts of Vidal Sassoon mousse soaking into his brain, or the constant glare coming off his bedazzled shirt having a direct effect on his mental functions.

This is proof positive that this 18-23 year old generation has been coddled since the day they were born. If my old man saw me act like that in public, the LAST thing I would have to worry about is getting my ass kicked by nightclub staff…he would save them the trouble.

If I acted like an idiot and got punched in the mouth my parents wouldn’t sue anybody, or send an email talking about how much of an angel I am. They would ask me if I learned my lesson.

Don’t get me wrong, I laughed just as much as the next guy when Ron Ron said it on Jersey Shore, and I busted his balls all night about it last night he was in town. But come on, dude. Look at what the fuck you started.

This was the first Christmas since 2007 without her. I’ve gotta admit it’s been a bummer, as much I’m trying to convince myself otherwise. This is what she wanted, though. So it’s something I’ve gotta come to terms with. 

What made it easier was spending the weekend with my family: my parents, Benjamin, and Cheyenne. As usual Ben was soooo stoked to open his presents. He sat beside the tree for hours until finally he was allowed to rip em open. His childlike happiness made my day.

At the end of the day, rain or shine, what will always be there for you is your family. Give your parents a hug and tell them you love em.

This was just the second year we (Roadhouse staff) volunteered at the Inter-Faith Food Bank, but it’s definitely something that everybody should try to get down to do. This year’s shift wasn’t nearly as busy as last year’s, but it was just as fun and I think of any of us would do it again. Proud of our staff for stepping and and being so pumped to volunteer. Thanks yo!!

Well, I couldn’t fucking do it. I couldn’t finish the job. It wasn’t her. In time, my friends. In time. Heartbroken, but I’ll get over it. Now where’s that bottle of Crown Royal?

I turned 28 a month ago (October 19 for anybody that wants to send gift cards). The next night I got so shitfaced at work that I really don’t remember much. A lot of it was relayed to me the next day, but one thing somebody said to me really stuck out to me: “Do you realize you started bouncing 10 years ago?”

Yup, it was October 20, 2001. I got my first nightclub job bouncing at The Palace on Stephen Ave. Beautiful club, nothing has been able to compare to it since (in my opinion). A lot of great memories in that building: the people, the parties, the friends I made. A lot of bad ones too: the nightly fighting, having to keep my head on a swivel when I walked to my car after work, placing bets on how many times somebody would try to smash a bottle on my head that night, just to name a few. 

That was my first taste, and while it was definitely a rough one, I realized it was something I was good at and something I enjoyed doing. I also picked up shifts working the door at the Speakeasy strip club over by Chinook Centre. 

At first the bars were just a way to make money on the weekends. I was going to SAIT during the week taking journalism. But it was obvious early on that maybe writing for the Calgary Sun wasn’t really for me (my opinion on those fuckers is something for a whole other post). That is where I ended up after SAIT, by the way. Writing sports for the Calgary Sun. I was making half of what I was making working the door at The Palace.

After The Palace and The French Maid there were other bars: Spin Nightclub and The Back Alley. Then I ended up at The Roadhouse. Sure, I’m a metal head and I love rock to death, but I was sick of dealing with the same trailer park bullshit every night at The Back Alley. Beyond that, working for somebody for close to three years and getting shown absolutely no loyalty in return for my own…that was reason enough to move on.

When I came to The Roadhouse they were looking for a head doorman. They asked me if I was interested and I took it. After five years of that they moved me up to management, and it’s been one hell of a fucking fun ride. 

While a lot of things have been hard to deal with, and while I don’t miss certain establishments, I’m stoked I got to meet as many cool people as I have. Met some life-long friends, girls (separate blog post entirely), and had a LOT of good laughs. Remind me to tell you about the time I got a little person drunk to the point he chased me around the bar trying to attack me.

But seriously, 10 fucking years in the clubs? Good times.

I will write in you again soon. I promise.