Freestyle Haiku

So I figured it was time to healthy up for a few days here... we've got a few days off before the oilers start up their drive for the cup again, and ive got to do something to make my organs happy... (yes liver, i did recieve your memo)

i like to think that i'm the sort of fellow who'll throw back a few beers when he feels like throwing a back a few beers. And... I like to think its all on the up and up. I'm a pretty peaceful and fun-lovin drinker, so at the end of the day, everbody wins if you ask me. But, I guess every once in a while, you have to step back and examine your life in a more sober, contemplative state. And quite frankly, things could be a lot better. I feel like hell these days, and the combination of the beard, unkempt hair, and monstrous beer gut arent exactly teaming up for an impressive aesthetic presentation... seperately, each of them is a thing of beauty... that goes without saying... but together, i guess its just too much to take in all at once.

waking up to a daily anxiety attack is getting old fast too. the only think i want creeping into my brain at 5am is how glorious my 7am bowel movement is going to be.

but i digress...

against my own wishes, ive decided to set some goals for myself. i'm not going to write these goals down this evening, cause its boring me just thinking about all this, for some reason, i just thought i should document this crossroads. Then, when im laying on my back on the floor two sundays from now, fatter, shaggier and ridiculously hungover, i can read this, and say "shit, i remember that night... i sure had some good intentions."

and, 10 years from now, when im still single and alone... right before i start an evening of applying the dewey decimal system to my vast collection of internet porn, i can read this and think, "dammit, if i only would have followed through...".

who am i kidding... a collection of internet porn big enough to require library like shelving and the dewey decimal system would be fucken awesome. it looks like my list of goals for the summer just got one item longer.

Posted by Nickel at 10:15 PM | Permalink | Comments

You hear a lot about how hard the playoff drive is for a professional athlete, particularly with sports like hockey and basketball where the teams play every other night. Nagging injuries never really get a chance to heal, and essentially, i suppose, the body starts to wear down. I dont follow basketball very closely, but i know every year at the end of the NHL playoffs you hear about some guy who played with a broken foot, or a dislocated shoulder, or a severed liver, or a really really bad papercut. You read or hear those stories, and quite frankly, its tough not want to buy-in to the old cliché that its no longer about the money come playoff time. As a sportsfan, I choose to put my cynicism aside and believe that the love of the game and a general desire to win take over come playoff time, and thats why our favorite players are able to play through such grievous injuries and ailments.

Thats all well and nice, but I'm hear to tell you that its not just the players who are sacrificing themselves on a nightly basis. In fact, I'm here to tell you that its not the players who face the toughest grind at all...

Earlier on in this the 2006 NHL playoff run, Ryan Smyth of the Edmonton Oilers took a puck in the face and lost 3 teeth. He only missed 3 shifts. When me and my friends witnessed that spectacle, we had no choice but to crack a beer and toast the motherfucker. And when he stepped back on the ice and the crowd started to chant his name, we cracked another round in his honor. "Smytty" would later assist on the overtime winner, and not just any overtime winner, but a triple overtime game winning goal. At that point it was pretty much our duty to celebrate, and celebrate we did. Responsibility and career be damned... youre gonna wake up for work every day for the rest of your life, but Smytty and the 'Oil' are only gonna take down the mighty Red Wings in triple overtime during the Stanley Cup Playoffs, once, maybe twice in a lifetime. That was a great night... but a shitty morning.

As the playoff run continues, it has become my duty to drink a certain number of beers every game... to celebrate every goal with a beer, and even to increase my drinking when the need arises to change the momentum of the game if my team starts to look unmotivated. A lot of people dont know this, but the inspiration and motivation level of a sports team is directly tied-in to the cosmic aura and energy of every one of its fans. We are all one... and therefore, my enthusiasm and superstitions will effect this universal oneness. When I cheer at home in my basement, it adds to the amount of positive energy, and somewhere, deep within the subconscious of each one of the Edmonton Oilers, they are affected by this increase in positive energy, and will actually play better as a result. You dont necessarily have to believe this, but its why we scream at the TV screen during sporting events, its why we curse at referees, and its why we yell out coaching strategy with no chance of ever being heard by anyone who could implement our sage-like advice. And contrary to popular belief, none of these things are done in vain.

And that is why when Steve Staios blocked a puck with his balls the other night, I shotgunned a beer for him and bellowed my approval and sympathy in the general direction of the tv screen. If you were watching closely, he looked right at the tv camera on his way off the ice and thanked me for my approval sympathy with an all-knowing glare. It was as plain as day if you knew what to look for.

So, I think we can all agree... As a diligent fan, i dont have any choice but to stick with what works... if the Oilers win when I drink, Ive got no choice but to drink... and if the Oilers need me to head down Whyte Avenue after every win, drunk as a fish, screaming and chanting, I'll do it, but I'll be damned if it isnt starting to get to me. In an attempt to get up for, and drink the appropriate volume of booze every game, i am starting to break down... I cant remember the last time I felt this completely worn out and unhealthy. Between the booze, the lack of sleep, and ofcourse the buffets and fast food required to fuel the booze-filled sleepless nights, my liver and heart have both officially filed for workers compensation.

The professional athlete pushes his body to limits he or she didnt know they had in times like these. I know my body's limits, and we're way fucken past them. Will I continue on this path of destruction? Ofcourse. I'm sue as hell not going to be the one that cost the Oilers the Stanley Cup. We all have to do our part. Thats what the playoffs are about. Sacrifice.

So when I look over in the gridlocked traffic during the 8:30am-late-for-work weekday rush, and see a pale and sickly hungover guy in the car next to me, drinking water and slugging back tylenol with a beer stained oiler jersey draped over the passenger seat... i'm salutin' that motherfucker.

Drunk and loyal fan... it is you that is the true unsung hero of this years playoff run. Godspeed brother. See ya at the unemployment office.

Posted by Nickel at 7:32 PM | Permalink | Comments

as·sas·sin

n.

One who murders by surprise attack, especially one who carries out a plot to kill a prominent person.

Assassin - A member of a secret order of Muslims who terrorized and killed Christian Crusaders and others.

So, I went to see Lucky Number Slevin tonight, which I liked... and afterwards, I thought perhaps I would write a review of the movie, so that one day, many days from now, i could look back (read my old blog) and say, "hmmn, looks like i enjoyed Lucky Number Slevin, lets see what i liked about it...".

As absolutely fantastic as i predict that moment could have been, I was looking over my previous two blog entries, and i realized that i couldnt follow up somthing as personal as a social commentary on my own matters of the heart with just a simple movie review. i couldnt follow up a post about my troubles with love and life with a couple of thumbs up and a plot summary. Nope, I was gonna have to give a lot more of myself to keep the theme of this blog consistent... Keep peeling back the emotional layers of the onion that is nickel if you will. And therefore, this evening, as a special treat, I have decided to write a few paragraphs regarding my thougths, personal recollections and experiences regarding assassins, assassinatin' and the art of assassination.

I should start by saying that eveything youve probably heard by now is true. I used to be an assassin. Only my almost overwhelming talent and ability allows me to announce that here in this public forum, without fear of revealing my identity to those that might do me harm. i am retired now however, so you can all sleep a little easier (ya, i mean you matiushyk). I know you all have questions at this point, ive heard them all before a million times... Have I ever stared into another man's eyes while i pumped 5 bullets through his skull? You betcha. Have I ever had a mans head in a vice while his 4 children stood by and watched me pop his bloody eyeballs clear out of his head? Ofcourse. And have i ever used a long range sniper rifle to make a eneuch of a high ranking official who may or may not have cheated on his vengeful scorned wife? I think that goes without saying.

I was probably one of the top three assassins in the world for quite some time, even though I was only awarded the title once (the IAORA shoud be fucken ashamed of themselves). But after a while, you just start to ask yourself "am i still the assassin i was a few years ago?"; "Can I still maintain the level of assassinatin' that i used to?"; And, "Do i want to besmirch my name and legacy amongst the assasin community by holding on too long?" Ofcourse I didnt want to.

Well, there was all that and the tendentitis in my ankle.

Anyway, I'm not really sure where i was going with this...

I'm not going to lie to you, I was never really a full-fledged assassin in the more rigid, more tradional sense of the term, that is (this will probably come as a surprise to those girls i was talking to at the bar last night. The business cards were a bit of an embellishment. The "deadlier than a cobra" part is the gods honest truth though). When i say I wasnt a full-fledged assassin, i mean i was an assassin, just not the stereotypical hollywood type of assassin'... I'm only telling you all this because I dont want anyone to think i was trying to pass myself off as something i'm not. Quite frankly, thats just not what i'm about.

The truth is, back when i was 8, Leanne Schmidt gave me half her peanut butter and jam sandwich to kick Michael Irving in the shins... Ya, it still haunts me... and ya, i do have problems sleeping at night. I probably always will. It goes with the territory. You live with it and move on. Thats all anyone can do.

I gave it all up a few years ago though, cause the truth is, that lifestyle is pretty hard on a guy. That, and there just comes a time when you ask yourself "dont i have more to offer than this?" and maybe you want to tell people "god-dammit, theres more to me than just this cold-blooded killer you see standing before you, i'm a human being too." and every once in a while you just want to scream out "fuck, i can be a fucken positive role model for the fucken kids, just give me a fucken chance."

Sure, I still assassinate a few beers on occassion... but am I still the guy you need to worry about when your old man comes up a few hundred thousand bones short to the wrong people, after a bad day a the track (ya, i mean you matiushyk)? No. Thats not me anymore.

Can I help you when your girlfriend steals your savings and your '87 Reliant to run off with a lesbian crack whore, named Bethanie, to start a booster juice franchise in some small mexican border town (ya, i mean you matiushyk). Yes. I can. But only because its happend to me before. Twice. These days though, my help will come in the form of advice, not assassinatin'.

I think we can all agree that i have some pretty good insight into the world of the assassin, even if the morenarrow-minded people among us dont consider me a full-fledged assassin, per say. And so, as you all run off to watch Lucky Number Slevin over the following weeks,you'll have some questions... and i guess what i'm trying to say in this blog entry, is that i'm here as a resource for you. Unfortunately, I'm sure many of you will even consider a career in assassination, and i'll warn you right now, i'm not going to encourage you... but if youre that passionate about it, i might be able to steer you in the right direction and/or write you up a letter of reference.

I really hope i cleared some things up for those of you who have seen the movie already too. Hopefully I've managed to paint a more accurate picture of the lifestyle, cause lets face it, Hollywood is a little full of shit when it comes to this stuff.

You can contact me at superkickassworldclassassassin@darkandstormynight.org with any further inquiries or discussion you might have or want to pursue.

___________

"I'm a world-class assassin fuckhead"
- Mr. Goodcat

Posted by Nickel at 10:50 PM | Permalink | Comments

Life isnt really all that funny. I'm thinking that whoever originally coined that pearl of a cliche was being a little short-sighted. Life can be funny, but i dont think life is necessarily keeping the majority of us in stitches these days... The most that i'd be willing to concede, is that perhaps "Life is clever". I've had more than a few beers with Life, in fact, and she was always pretty droll and somber... sure, she did have a great ass... and we always respected each other... but in the end, we never really saw eye-to-eye on things.

Many, many days from now, when I look back and think about the time I spent with Life, I'll probably think that life was sort of amusing in a strange way, but i'm certainly not gonna forget what a pain in the ass Life was either.

And Life was in fine form last night...

Apparently, Life thought it would be funny if i went for a beer with an old friend, who i may or may not have dated, and who i was pretty convinced i'd still be with right now. Life, ofcourse, knows all about my plight, and the difficulty I've had putting that little flame behind me, so life waited until i had no plans one evening, waited for my phone to ring, then kicked back with a plate of nachos and a cocktail, and enjoyed the show.

The combination of consistently and simultaneously making me laugh and want to have sex has only been really abundant in one girl i've ever been with, and she had just invited me me for a drink. Despite her faults, and the fact that she tore out my heart and stepped on it... several times... she's possibly the most engaging person i've ever met, and one of the prettiest... And i've missed her. I've definitely tried not to, and i'll deny it, but i have missed her. I dont pine all that much anymore, and i like to believe that i dont necessarily want her back, but there are less than a handful of people who havent been in my life for a long time that i still miss on a daily basis, and I've reserved a spot for her on that list.

and so, i went for a drink with her.

The way things ended between us was ugly (and i was definitely on the recieving end of the ugly), but i've always tried to rationalize and sort of forget about about that, focussing more on the good times. Back in those days, i'd see Life, pat her on the back and tell her how funny she was. "Good ol' Life", i'd say, "you've definitely got some issues, but youre alright".

Last night, as i was sitting on that barstool, drinking my beer, listening to some pretty mediocre music and trying not to admire how pretty the girl i was sitting with was, or how much i liked her new haircut... when something in the back of my head subliminally threw out that all too familiar phrase...

Life's alot of things, I thought, but life isnt all that funny. Sure, Life has provided us with some hilarious moments, such as "man gets hit in the groin by football", but i dont feel that Life's ever truly sustained a steady, reliable level of comedy.

Perhaps "Life is a Pain in the Ass" just wasnt quite optomistic enough.

"Life is like a Box of Choclates" has gotten a lot of press in the past, but it has a few too many gaping holes in it to be all that credible. There's a pretty wide range of interpretation there, from the choclate addict, to the poor schmuck who's mortally allergic to choclate. And while a box of choclates may generally have positive connotations in our culture, i think we've all encountered that one really shitty box of choclates full of crap that noone likes. "Life is like a box of choclates" just doesnt quite pin it down accurately enough. And contrary to old Mrs. Gump's philosophy, occassionally you know exactly what youre going to get.

I knew long before i got to that old neighborhood pub that i was going to be happy to see her again, that she'd make me laugh, and that she was probably going to look really pretty, and that i'd inevitably sneak in at least one sarcastic and slightly bitter remark about her dumping me. I also knew that i'd probably be a little sad when the night was over, and i knew that i'd spend a good part of the next day thinking about her. i knew that i'd be really angry at some point today, and then sad, and that i would inevitably pack my gym bag at some point, then sit on the couch with a six pack of beer and tell myself i'd go the gym tomorrow (i definitely underestimated how tasty those beers would be).

I also had a hunch i wasnt going to have to pay for my beer.

When you dump someone, it is common courtesy to pay for as many as their first three beers if you choose to take them out for beer afterwards. There are certain schools of thought that would have you beleive you shouldnt pay for a single beer if you are the scorned party, but that really is relationship specific.

There was a point I remember being as lost in the moment as i could possibly be, simultanously remembering every fantastic conversation we had ever had, and every touching moment we ever shared. But, unfortunately i suppose, it was right about that time, that the combined voice of every logical, rational, and pessimistic thread of my being reminded me that she wasnt mine anymore, and forced me to reflect on that fateful day less than 24 hours after we broke up, when i saw her car in front of her new boyfriend's house... that imagery is generally how i snap myself out of any blissful longing period i might encounter. if i could have taken a picture, that single image would perfectly and intensely sum up pain, misery, deceit and a complete loss of hope and faith. i would frame that picture and keep it for the artistic geniuos and merit, but it would have to go in the back of the closet, cause it would kill me to have to see it again.

And so, in hindsight, I offer up "Life is a Jug of Beer with the Girl that Broke Your Heart" as the Life metaphor of the next generation; Its full of a lot of nice memories, and at least a few intensely shitty ones... its awkward at times, but not entirely unpleasant... you find yourself desiring that which is completely beyond your means... the constant glimmer of hope is always present, but overwhelmingly unrealistic... someone else will inevitably end up with the things you want... and you may not regret it at the end, but you'll probably be forced to wonder if there was something more enjoyable, or at least productive, that you could have done with your time...

I'm thinking that there are probably a lot of us who spend more time scowling at life than laughing at it. And as good of a time as you can have without going home with the girl that broke your heart, you will probably be more inclined to scowl at the memory of that evening than laugh at it. It might not be a bitter scowl, it might be a more of a "why did she have to look so good" scowl, but its a scowl none the less.

The greatest moments of my life havent necessarily been associated with any sort of achievment or accomplishment. And I cant exactly describe the moments i've been the happiest in my life, nor can i remember them all. Probably because theyre not quite as vivd as the more painful ones. They've represented contentment, hope, faith and some degree of heightened joy. Theyre those moments when life doesnt feel quite as heavy... the nights when you stay up all night because you dont want them to end. The days you forget to worry about that next mortgage payment, the bad relationship, shitty job, or sick relative... possibly because youre too busy drinking beer and arguing about hockey or music or the best way to catch a mouse that is too intelligent for any mouse trap ever devised by man. Theyre the times you cant stop laughing at things youre sure noone else would find funny. And... theyre those fleeting moments that youre too lost in the moment to think about all the unfunny shit that life is about to deal you.

So if we choose to share a jug of beer with the girl that broke our heart, who can blame us? Because no situation better represents life than the hour youre about to spend with that girl. Sure you might rehash some pretty shitty times in your mind, but its also a reminder of those times when everything seemed like it might just go as planned... those mornings when you woke up with a beutiful girl sleeping beside you, a dog asleep on the end of the bed, some grass to cut, and a dinner with the girlfriends parents that you got to skip because it was your best friends birthday. We spend a lot of time, money and energy to create those moments when we get to escape from everything shitty in life, and therefore we'll ineveitably spend a lot of time, money and energy to re-live them. A lot of the best times of our lives are the times we spend sitting around talking about the best times of our lives, and so, i guess, there are those of us willing to endure some pain if it means we get to relive those times.

We drag ourselves through a whole lot of shit to experience the all too infrequent good times life has to offer. So the next time I'm sitting in a bar and see some guy awkwardly hugging a girl he's obviously attracted to, but not "with", with a jug of beer on the table and a genuine but almost forced smile on his face, i'm going to raise my glass to that poor fucker, and silently remind myself that that's what its all about... its not funny, its not a beach, and it sure as shit isnt a box of choclates. Sitting at that table, confused, hopeful, sad, happy, a little optomistic, but mostly pessimistic, with both the greatest and worst moments of your life flashing through your brain... thats Life.

Posted by Nickel at 9:47 PM | Permalink | Comments