writing

2012-02-18T00:16:00.000-08:00

wall-doe

this site still exists, as it always has.
some days are brighter than others.
i am always kinda broken.

i wanna share stuff, and be stupid, and loud.
big-col on bad-friday.
slapper sloppy slippy slam.

ive been listening to old shit.
cade, fmg, gofers, YBI, screamons.
makes me feel ways about stuff.

when you swear,
it makes me glad,
will you please,
be my dad.

where's my delorian?

wheels died and nobody cried.
it breaks my huge fuckin heart apart.
Meg and i watched the Drummer-Dad episode tonight, out of respect.

tomorrow im golfing with a shitneck named G-Lo.
then playing cards with a shitfox named Docc.
together they will launch a shitnami of disobedience.

life continues as a folly of experience and bliss.
sometimes we hit the target, sometimes we miss.
always do we celebrate the late-night-half-drunk-lovers-kiss.

in the rare case that the site worked today, i hope you enjoyed it.

2012-02-07T00:13:00.000-08:00

mowing the air

i learned something tonight, from an old friend.
we are all creative, in our own special and sloppy ways.
adventure can be accomplishing, if toasted on the proper bread.

that is all.

2012-02-02T23:44:00.000-08:00

fragmento

i started a facebook group to show off how punk-rock i used to be.
makes so much sense now when i think about it.
after writing that opening line.

playing a show tomorrow night with 3 great musicians and minimal practice.
just the way i like it.
the way it's always been, and always ever will be.

ask er'body, im huge on skills and rehearsal.

"surrounding yourself with people who are better than you makes you way better." -B. Classy

im not sturdy, just stacked with ladders.
born and bred, feeding bladders.
be not a railing, unless a train can cross it.

half-a-glass across the hazard.
big-big bites on thursday nights.
sleepy time for tired rhymer.

2012-01-10T22:50:00.000-08:00

basset hound

i am 3 days sick, or maybe 5, if you count upwards.
bent over like a begger in the battlefield.
wish i had music on in the background instead of seinfeld.

fixed, juno soundtrack, wobbly eyes, un-steady keys.
the medication is working.
i am fine.

i feel like a jerkass whenever i call-in sick, colin sick.
not like a liar, but certainly like a jerkass.
er'body at work today said: OAHL! I HOALP HE GHETS WAY BETTHER SOAHL FASHT!!

Dang-Q.

my voice is still at the party on saturday night.
called, left msgs, texts, bbms, bobs, wallaces.
nothing, nowhere, nevermore.

replaced with a barking cough, and a crying nose.
painful and plentiful.
my head is way heavier when it's full of sloppy-snot and pre-coughs.

eating so many oranges.
drinking coffee and OJ and watka.
peeling skins, getting wins.

gotta heal fast for the big show:

FRIDAY FEBRUARY 3RD - JOE'S APARTMENT - GRANVILLE STREET

full band, with fully-bonded musicians.
playing new and old songs only.
none of that yesterday or tomorrow shit.

*if you are reading this, you should absolutely attend, unless you live in europe or winnipeg.

write next line here, non italic, safe.
thanks helper col-brain.
cold medication is much stronger than my normal rotation.

i collect the dumbest shit.
but some of it is good memories and stuff.
the kind of stuff that keeps the ole dome steady on cold nights like tonight.

2012-01-02T22:06:00.000-08:00

December 31st, 2011, 2:31pm

(transcribed from greasy notes, by greasy hands)

I am poolside at The Signature and just realized that I could use my iphone as a cool-write-stuff-downer.
Got one of those fancy round foamy chairs, given to me, by total fluke, like a big greasy smile from above.
I counted the 20 floors up to our suite, but I cant see me up there anywhere.
Even though im out there alot.
Some people just showed up at the pool with drinks that are 5 feet long.
2 of them need harnessess. I am basking.
Mixed my spiced rum with just the right amounts of water and ice and rum to make it look exactly like the plastic Miller beer in the bottle in which I poured it.
I chose this artistic combo, even though liquor consumption of all kinds is readily and rapidly encouraged on all plots of the Vegas map.

Well, the rich part.

As happy as I am, I picked the wrong side of the pool.
They still got sun over there.
But I'm extremely content here on my big syrupy pancake chair.
Both the jealous and the educated think that I'm some dick playing games on his phone, instead of watching the helicopters, hot-tubbers, hooters, and hick-nocks.

Big big things are happening right now on the strip.
A nice Mexican cabbie told me that tonight was going to be total insanity.
He owns a ranch in real life, and I believed every word he said.
I told him we were going to see my favorite band on New Years Eve, and that they had a nice Mexican man in the band who played horns and hard guitars.

Bless Hamed and his cocunut water.

Meg just texted me, offering a McDonalds pickup on the way back from the strip.
Bless her more than Hamed.
I'm gonna get her to take my picture from the balcony.

Success.

2011-12-27T03:09:00.000-08:00

salter bucks

i miss everything.

i miss covering my eyes to avoid seeing the stockings while my brother and i hustled down the hall to our parents room, at 6:50am, cause 7am was the absolute maximum of earliest wakeup. nobody argues 10 minutes on christmas morning, not even my dad himself.

i miss steve being smaller than me.
i miss grandpa's knee.
i miss the old swing in the old apple tree.

in our darkest holiday pauses, we all sometimes search for that deeper shade, that soul in the sandbox, that savior in the soup. but its never an easy catch, even with sharp hooks over salty waters. easy at the end of the glass, as long as the brass fills the present with the past. soapy skills on empty hills. this paragrapher is clearly ill and seldom still.

i miss getting music for christmas.

that's a big one. i miss new CD's.
having them, showing them off, and mostly, listening alone.
it used to be so fuckin hard to open those fuckers.
against sloppy rhymers trying for a peek.
sleek and simple and pimple free.
boulder tasty, and burping breeze.
damn, sam, it's still hard to open CD's.

i miss lindy.
and brent, and wader, and jon's basement.
and matt hudson's lies.
i miss meg already and she only went to bed about 5 times ago.
tomorrow we fly to vegas.

there's a bottom-out that im soon to feel.
a basement full of tilt-a-wheel.
all spinny and shit.
sold-out and dry.
an ass without a proper wipe.
sleeping in alleys and stealing tweets from me.
stubborn grass stains on solid soccer knees.
was it something i said?

til next time, be safe, and hug mom.

i miss red things and blue,
ghost stories turned true,
and when i cant sleep,
i mostly miss you.

2011-12-11T02:37:00.000-08:00

big goals, sold souls

i miss buying music at apollo.
walked by both old locations this morning.
on a loopy coffee walk after a strange couch awakening.

i miss PM, and PG, but i love NW.
the slowburners game was at 10-fuckin-45 tonight.
so im using red wine and 3-line-stanzas to calm the frig down.

scored the 2nd best goal of my life in the 2nd period.
while our 1 fan, meg, was on her 1 hot chocolate break.
bless her for big steaks, strong scrabble wisdom, and late-night lottery tickets.

old dan mangan in the headphones, loose jealous thoughts.
i wanna copy it, but with like 5 or 10 more beers.
headphone music is important for the future of escapism.

i put vanilla sky on in the b-g cause i only like movies ive already seen.
where do new movies come from?
the blockbuster on 6th recently became the clockbuster, or something like that.

"hey stever, whadja do last nighter?"
"oh this and that, had 5 or 10 beers."
"thanks."

just like that.
im ferrying him over here next weekend.
to lay fat bass in my sunday slough.

so far, every session for the sunday album has been on a sunday.
its 2:29am and i am recording vocals tomorrow.
but i just did some ukelele scales so its all good, i am a great big singer.

people are screaming in the alley.
people are always screaming in the alley.
me and theo lean on the railing.

when i die, turn my condo into a museum, and leave CWP on the buzzer.

i forgot to welcome Nathan Perrett to the world.
positive futures lie ahead for those with positive parents.
Wade is a dad, a very fun dad.

congrats.

2011-12-04T22:55:00.001-08:00

soup spoon's on your right

on weekends, im like a psychotic off his medication.
except im on the medication, and im on it hard.
long greedy sweaters and wine-stained light parades.

i spill big cups of stuff.
and make wrestlemania match messes.
gasping at girl guides, yelling at mayors.

i really like tweeting live from various events.
real-really, many more to come.
oh ya? come at me bro.

new west has fun.
the parade and tree-lighting was a big big blast.
simple and soaked, for those who chose to soak.

some day ill have kids, and they are gonna love this time of year as much as me.
it'll be forced, like god, and good grades.
except without the god part of course.
i'd rather pollute my off-spring with daddy's-demons than godyboy's feelings.
bless christianity for this great holiday that we have morphed into our own.

family, friends, hugs, home.
hearty meals, happy moms.
giving rad shit to each other.
good memory talks, over late-night glenayre walks.
it eats me every year, and i eat it right back.

today meg washed my santa hat, but the horrifying scent of last night will last well into the christmas festivities.

2011-11-10T00:13:00.000-08:00

this is good, as far as i can tell

live music still gets the best of me.
i get all hopped up and loud.
even at sombre shows in quality halls.

lately ive been feeling the blushing guilt of intoxicated creation.
crashing in like an un-welcomed-half-friend at the back door, on my day off.
i didn't order this plate of shame, and im too embarrassed to send it back.

someone is screaming in the alley.
or maybe on the skytrain platform, i can't tell over the post-mangan.
both provide an echo un-achievable by people with homes.

the paint made him mad, because the colors were sad.

i asked my friend Andy to make me an album cover.
which is a big big ask, like "help me move?" or "MC my wedding?"
luckily his skills stand on end, and rarely pretend, next to his stubborn spine.

if he asked me to describe it i would say:

"The battle between soiled Saturday nights and shameful Sunday mornings."

well, we've cut the ribbon.
producer john laughs when i swear at my sloppy mistakes.
acoustic guitars are done, they sound crispy and clean.

next comes drums, then duke, then demons.

bring money.

2011-10-21T19:37:00.000-07:00

fiddler on the mountain

they are snorting us up to whistler tomorrow, for a 'team-building' work vacation.
and by they, i really mean me, as im on the committee that plans such rural exercises.
co-worker team building in free-whistler achieves major moral growth.

we are not 'buying' the staff liquor this time.
instead, 'bringing up' about 40 flats.
and by 40, i really mean 8 or so, not sure, i don't lift.

whistler is a good place for a day-drink.
im getting there early, to 'set-up' and such.
already in trouble on monday.

It was an easy purchase, made hastily on a watery Sunday morning. Tickets to see 2 of my favorite bands, play a show together, in Las Vegas, on New Year's Eve. No questioning the cost of flights, hotels, or non-punk-loving girlfriends. Hesitation never ends in glory. 'Next time' is only 7 or 8 letters different than 'Never again.' My previous 3 Vegas crusades were all relatively affordable, as Vegas is relatively affordable, if you keep an eye on the Exit and a bottle in your brain. Turns out that 'New Years in Vegas' is bloody expensive, and unfortunately most of my convincing was based on big words like 'fun' and 'clean sheets.' Fuck it, let's party. Gonna get a rad place, with a balcony. I want a balcony. High up, with a kitchen. I want a kitchen. And gonna have a little party in Vegas on New Years, and the 3 nights leading up to it. If you're in, let me know. Why the balls not? Did I mention that NOFX and LAGWAGON are playing in LAS VEGAS on NEW YEARS. As I said, it was an easy purchase.

Onward up upward, to the misty cliffs and dusty drifts.

Meg bought me a ukulele for my birthday.

I am a ukulele player.

2011-09-25T21:41:00.000-07:00

sboiled

last night was hella fun.
haven't played a show in a long time.
got me off real good.

i sweated lots and dranked lots.
bike is still my favorite van-band.
cam came, with PSI.

new inspirations spring like flowers from the luscious liquor bed.
we almost called Carlito's at 2am for a $60 bottle of cheap albertan vodka.
this morning, i was sure glad we didn't.

was still totally broken for hockey tonight.
on my best days, im still the worst player.
but set up Lil-P nicely for a 3rd period goal, thus allowing my post-game-pre-bed rye.

i have an aggressive sexual urge to fuck my guitar right now.
usually after shows i don't play for a few days.
different this time, for some sly reason.

first studio session booked, Nov 5-6.
anticipations and antipastos.
the yellow brick road, rolls on.

2011-09-11T22:55:00.000-07:00

burnabee

charcoal is better than propane and hank hill is a liar.
don't call the cops, collect the cans for cigarette money.
i thought my mini-soccer net would fix brentillion, but it's lies lied with chair sizes.

ate various limbs from 5 or so chickens today, while wondering if they were related?
hope not, inbreeding seems very low-brow, low and slow in the long grass next door.
several sauces, to separate the sorry's.

i don't throw, i borrow.
stiff songs on sunken ships.
live for tomorrow so it doesn't suck when you get there.

love bendo

2011-09-04T14:47:00.001-07:00

2011-08-28T16:35:00.000-07:00

swims, spins, and wins

"I don't take photos, I am them." -CWP

I'll begin at the end. Instead of unpacking my camping gear, I drank leftover wine and recorded 2 more demos for the new alb. The first was an instrumental track called 'The Palm Leaves,' inspired by feelings of both triumph and slaughter on a Sunday morning balcony in Mexico. Needless to say, I was in the right frame of mind today, after a 3-day-weekend on the beach, Harrison Lake beach, my beach, bitch. And now I'm the living proof that some sort of success can still be achieved after 4 camping trips in 5 weeks. Hard to tell which one was best, many unique moments of grins, guns, and glory. I came home today in the perfect mood to record a wordless song about relaxation and sunshine.

I can't not camp, it's my favorite summer weekend activity. I didn't exist in between those 4 trips. Just ask facebook. Sweating-out the days in an aggressive haze of preparation. Meg did most of the work, so I did most of the on-location cooking. I believe that a Good Camping Breakfast is crucial to the success of a Good Camping Day, and I have the 1-Pan-Party down to an art form. Clay-Pan style. Real real panny panda-monium.

We did the Harrison beach trip at each end of our camping marathon, and my golf tee's were right where I left them. 1 on Dan's Rock, the other stuck in a large piece of long-swim-attained drift wood. Although by the 2nd trip I had already stolen a rubber tee to share with the entire gallery. Felt slightly stunned that, after 5 weeks, it appeared that nobody else had camped in our spot, adding much needed nostalgia to our vodka waters. My Canada flag was gone, so I raised a new one twice as high. I'll bet it's still there right now, lonely but proud in the evening breeze.

Harrison, Sweltzer Creek, Squamish, and Harrison #2...so long and thanks for all the photos.

2011-08-07T23:42:00.000-07:00

sunday and me

woke up naked, broke, and breaking bones in my hand
pounding on the pillow like a Portuguese man
had the red gloves on, all ready to fight
the tools were in the tunnel but the train did not arrive.

im bad at twitter and was sorta-bad at golf today.
but i still love the game like butter on cheese, and spent the day in a sunny park with 3 great men.
aly had a chip-in bird, my dad hit the long ball, and clay found god.

bbq'd wings when i got home.
with a caesar on the side, instead of more wings.
some days i feel like 28 years of marinating, down the drain.

but not today.

listening to Nebraska and thinking about grade 10.
with hallway glory pouring all over everything.
like cats meeting other cats for the first time, big big purr-fest.

theo resents that, and me, and everything else on holiday long weekends.
credit dropped, he is an asset of the shedding movement.
white hair, everywhere.

Granville Island is a very special place.
especially for day-drinkers with artistic attitudes.
stories get sung, grass hills get invaded, and the sky gets louder at night.

'chaos august' is clearly doing it's dirty thing to me.
with alota live music and waterslides in the near future.
stop this, why didn't you record more demos tonight?

"I’ve done it before, and I’d do it again,
cause it’s the only time that makes me feel,
like I’m my own best friend." -JP

mouthwash in the morning.

2011-07-18T22:29:00.000-07:00

i used to like you too

this guy came up to me at the 2nd NOFX show and said "Draycott Street!!!"
it soaked my sails in whiskey and wonder.
if i picked up my guitar right now and tried to play it, failure would most certainly ensue.

i used to have 250+ daily unique visitors to this site.
the metering site i had is gone, but today i assume it's around 17 or 3.
i don't mind, as long as you've been doing something creative with your time.

i forget the guys name (back-to-back NOFX shows makes the mind a little melty,) but the scenario really sent me spinning all kinds of ways about stuff. about thrice a year, random people come up to me and say "i used to read your website everyday." used to. that's the dirty back-end of the compliment. you used to be cool, i used to like you, that beer i owed you expired in 2006. it is, of course, entirely my own fault. when i don't post, there is no fence. i used to post almost every day, random whatevers, back when bush was in power, back when i was a creative director in PG, the boss, the cheese, if shit was running smooth, i was free to flush. it's a little different now, less time, more golf. i think the archives from the old site are gone, and that gives me sad-face, but that was then and this is gonna happen anyway.

i had quite a rebellion going in those days, before facebook and twatter turned everyone into artists. unfortunately, not everyone went to art school, myself included. now, my favorite people on facebook are the broken ones, who somehow still operate in real life, or pretend to, on facebook, broad-casting their windy dreams and daily nothings without any meaning or proper spelling. it's these folks who suck up most of my time on facebook, the boldly depressed, and bafflingly un-educated. my actual friends are way better in real life.

stopping this tangent now. the point of this post was supposed to be that i've written a new acoustic album and it's the bee's breeze. demo recording is half done, final recording should start after my tri-fuck-ta of august camping trips. focus on the fire first, everything else is cold and lonely without it. im excited about this album. it has a hit song and an instrumental song. it even has a couple songs i wrote during my final months up in PG. wrote the rest in the last year or so since YOU BIG IDIOT fell down the stairs and remains in a lonely un-sanitized hospital bed. but the album is fun, and stupid, and i think it will make you smile.

follow me on twitter, you twat, and let's like each other again.

@Colin_Pearson

update: after a couple months on twitter, im not that good, or funny, so don't waste your mouse clicks and at-work seconds, go outside and throw sandwiches at seagulls.

2011-05-08T23:48:00.000-07:00

I want, I want, I want

I want the Deja View channel, just for Saved by the Bell. I may actually, literally, physically order it for $2.95, just to have the background option of 6 episodes a day, for those 6 or so times every day when my life feels empty without it.

I want the boys to win tomorrow, and 8 more times after that, so I can finish writing the greatest song ever, about Ryan Kessler, called: My Favorite American.

I want a rancher-style home on a golf course in Eloy, Arizona.

I want to thank my wonderful employer for starting this year's Half-Day-Friday Summer Program on May 20th, the very day millions of loyal May-Long campers leave for Harrison. Everyone else booked the whole day off, because they hadn't already sacrificed their last 4 vacation days on the upcoming MB Vegas Stag. I cautiously stand by my decision, and have wagered much on the after effects of 4 more years at the MGM Grand. Days, years, it's all the same in the soaking desert of Adult Disneyland.

I want to commend my Dad for barbecuing a delicious salmon on this fine Mother's Eve. I want my cat to stop eating my salmon-flavoured fingers. I want all dump trucks to stay off Highway-99-South tomorrow morning.

I want to party, I want a cookie, I want to stay up.

Me me, mine mine, now now now.

2011-05-02T01:04:00.000-07:00

May 1, 2011

I shot a 58 at Kensington today, and when I got home, my celebration was highlighted by a half bottle of leftover Wild Turkey from Docc and I's Friday fun. Enjoyed by me right now, spillfully, on the day they finally killed osama bin laden. I call no victory from this, only a bandaged ankle, eventually healed, knowing the next side-swipe would happen again at nearest opportunity.

Here I am, trying to write a new acoustic album, of sloppy love songs, when my golf game suddenly improves, and priorities get quickly re-adjusted. Meanwhile, we loom over another oppressive federal election, and beg for something that will un-affect our paycheque dependance. No dice. Get used to the raw assumption of doomed forecasting. Dick off, I can't concentrate on golf with your real-life distractions.

I am more happy about my birdie putt on 18 than the last breath of a terrorist icon. But of course, I would trade the latter for a ladder, especially with the water on 16, and even though I flopped my tee shot on the fringe, and 2-putted a safe par, securing my 6-shot lead. Some days, that river sucks back, and swallows the hopes of lowly employed gamblers on their way to a higher nothing, but not today.

The last, and most important drink of my Sunday night, resides right now, in my favourite drinking glass. Water with ice cubes, stop signs and alarm clocks, slip-and-slides and soiled dreams. Today was a day of victories, large but mostly small. With stories told using commas, nervously, in uptight places. No royals were married, and everything changed.

With enough practice, I'll frame Clay's money, but not today. -CWP

"The towers are gone now, reduced to bloody rubble, along with all hopes for peace in our time, in the United States or any other country. Make no mistake about it: We are at war now — with somebody — and we will stay at war with that mysterious enemy for the rest of our lives." -HST

2011-04-27T02:04:00.000-07:00

Game 7

I didn't watch the game. Instead, I turned off my phone, set my PVR, and went golfing in the rain. Shot +6, chipped in for birdie on the 3rd. I was the only person on the golf course, and it actually only rained for about 20 minutes of the 2 hour round. It's the 4th time this season that I've been out there completely alone. Literally, not another person on the entire grounds, including pro shop, or in this case the nice old guy who collects the 6-buck twilight fee. He closes up around 7:30, but today he pulled out early for the game, so I was right on time. When he leaves, it's just a big beautiful park, with 18 empty par-3 holes, waiting, in mediocre yet masters condition. And tonight, aside from 1 short blast of distant honking, it was completely silent, and oblivious to any outside interference, especially that of a home team's Game 7, after losing 3 in a row to the hated Hawks of Black Chicago.

Early today, as the crush of work fell upon me, I realized that my current at-work stress was nothing compared to the game-watching-stress that lay ahead. The pacing, the yelling, the avoidance cooking, etc. It doubled my at-work stress just thinking about it. What if they blow it? What if they blow it? WHAT IF THEY BLOW IT? I compare being a Canucks fan to riding the Coaster at the PNE. Some days it's golden, some days it's old and broken. Some days you get the front seat, some days you get the puke seat. No matter what, we all keep on riding, and screaming, and riding again. Remember way back then? When we were winning this series? Way way back like 1 or 5 weeks ago?…Well, I was still a huge mess back then too, from the un-nerving clickity-clackity, as we scraped our way towards a 3-0 lead. Even after game 3, I was still highly agitated. The Gold Medal was supposed to fix these symptoms, but alas, I remain un-cured.

"the decision to flee came suddenly." -HST

Game 7 day arrived, and I woke up with maximum sweaty-stress-rage. My feet were trembling at the thought of the laminate pacing that lie ahead. Circling my condo wearing a Bibby Grizzlies jersey, bouncing feverishly, upping, downing, drinking, and letting a game of hockey attack my emotional balance right off the kilt. At some point, a window opened, and a peaceful breeze blew a calming idea into my grilled current conscience, and instead of watching Game 7, I decided to play golf in the slight rain, for free. And did I mention, chipped in on hole 3?

"You are a failure of a fan, bud." -DA

"But that's impossible, they couldn't of heard me…" -Bastian

Got off the course at about 8:36pm. My phone was still off, and I had Dan Mangan in the car CD player, on purpose. My ride home was calm and concentrated. I thought about golf instead of hockey, yet my eyes still glanced towards the AM nod with the constant lure of a child near a Christmas tree. Although this time, the button could mean the dreaded coal, so I avoided it with fearful hesitation. When I got home, I pee'd and fed Theo before turning it on. It was 1-0 Nucks, late in the 3rd. I immediately turned the TV back off, and went outside on the patio. The stress came back like an ignored final bill, and I knew it was far from over. I wished I brought my 9-iron upstairs, and could flop a few shots to the buildings below, pin high. Instead, I went back inside, and started writing this here story.

10:03 pm

Just heard the scream. In this concrete building, I never hear my neighbors. Well, my whole building just exploded. I'm not gonna turn on the TV. I opened the sliding door and people are screaming outside. I can hear muffled announcer excitement coming from The Met, and more screaming. I'm shaking like Meg. But refusing to turn on the TV. Just listening. Just listening. Listening and smiling. Listening and smiling and spazzing. We fuckin won. More screaming. Horns on Columbia. I wonder who scored? Hope it's Kess. More honking, more screaming, more more more.

This is no victory march. I'm one of those dicks who fakes an injury until the battle's over. Tonight my Canucks won Game 7, and my friend of over 20 years: Brilliant Brent Elliott performed stand-up comedy for the first time in his life…and I missed both. What kind of fan/friend is that? An un-slim one for sure. I feel like a traitor, but even traitors hold day-passes to certain events. Today, I chickened out, from stress that I deserved, and hid on green pastures of soiled tomorrows. At least I shot a good round, and wrote a good story.

Now I hate Nashville, forever.

2011-03-31T22:12:00.000-07:00

post game

there's a homeless guy who begs outside of canucks games, right outside the skytrain, with a continuous ramble of positive canuck related material. people pass him by, with change gleaming from their pockets, but without eye contact, quickly towards seats worth more than cheap apartments in winter months.

Go Canucks Go.

after a positive fire inspection at 4pm, i bought hunter thompson's 'hell's angels' for 3 bucks and headed for the water. long chapters at that age, i only made it through the 1st before the sunshine got me walking again, asshole sunglasses and all. picked up some go-ceries on the way home. tomorrow, meg gets colin's scratchy-cat pasta sauce, made from scratch. the perfect pre-day meal for round 2 of the slowburners epic playoff run.

"this is the most fun i have ever had playing hockey." -Evan aka EVER(D)

as the veteran, i apply what i can. but i am certainly no Linden. way more of a Smyl, in his last year, before they waved him aside and said: Stan, sit down. we are deep in the playoffs, but im already golfing, playing easy courses like kensington and kensington. feeling easy ways about easy stuff. meanwhile, my friend steve is a dad.

Alexandra aka Ali.

likes: bob marley*

dislikes: bedtime*

*assumptions made by the an uncle she's not allowed to meet yet.

2011-03-13T22:00:00.000-07:00

my friend, the dad

i was busy writing a song and texting docc when steve called me.
made me feel like my brother had just had a kid.
same first name, cleaner blood.

i told him that she would be an artist, he agreed.
i asked for her name and he said "not sure yet."
i said "that's a shitty name" and he said "i will end you."

this is the first time i feel this way.
its new and happy and poppy.
my friend s-deezer, is an s-dadzer.

that's a big title for anyone.
bigger than bass player, party-maker, or photographer.
he will thrive in this role, and the product will paint the walls.

the new and exciting lies ahead.
classes un-offered until now, become full-time.
building life, giving love, passing food around the table.

my best friend is a dad, am i an uncle?

2011-03-06T19:21:00.000-08:00

stolp it

hook hook, dunk dunk.
i play golf in march and make pasta in march.
span had a birthday in march, and his 2-cushion-couch killed colin's golf back.

demons is gonna be a dad, a good dad.
patient and wandering, sturdy without cement.
quietly teaching, while loudly bleaching.

i fantasize about quiet beach communities.
polluted so slightly that it goes by without wonder.
a bunker, a bailout, a blunder.

boys, we godda get some food into steve french.

good morning, summer.

2011-02-26T23:26:00.000-08:00

the palm leaves (then comes back)

its snowing.
i slept in today, for the first time in over a week. drank my morning coffee at 11, instead of 7. my washing machine is full of loud, sweaty, bright-collared shirts. the hangers in the back of my closet wait with savage jealously, well-knowing of the stories that await them. the rants and raves of another daring and debaucherous trip to the sandy and soiled beaches of the mayan riviera. just meg and i this time, along with some flashy shirts, several pairs of cheap sunglasses, and a hat you'd hate.

the only time we ever used our alarm clock was to wake up, for dinner. stringent nap requirements for long days baked in hot sun, and soaked in cold cocktails. anyone who has traveled to mexico knows the word 'siesta.' maybe that's why i woke up at 6am every day, all on my own. no hazed-over mexican sleep-ins. up, jumpy, ripe, and poppy. a sun-slapped asshole wearing a hat you'd hate and skipping in sandals down to the beach to watch the sunrise. but more importantly, to stash our towels in the best beach spots. see, on these fancy beaches, there are several hundred beach chairs, all IN mexico, but some of them have more mexico. like wetter oceans and closer bars. meg and i found our favorite spot, and stuck with it most of the week. whether we returned at 10am, or 4pm, our spot went untouched, even among the greed and gamble of the tourist public. a towel on a beach chair is more powerful than an armed federale, and takes no piss breaks.

after claiming our prime preferred real estate, i'd head back to the room, for a pot of coffee, and the palm leaves on the porch. finger-picked guitar on a warm wicker chair. col time. leaning back on nothing. our view was simple, a quiet street bordering the resort. shared by the occasional jogger or golf cart. plenty of birds and extended sighs. the air, thick with heat, melting mexicans on rooftops in the distance. soon, the peaceful sound of meg singing in the shower would remind me that breakfast was near. the most important meal in mexico, my dad would agree. i enjoyed every meal all week long, but i enjoy every meal anyway, so maybe im disqualified as a legitimate, un-gouging judge. both buffets came well stacked with all the fruit and hash-browns a hash-brown like me could ever need.

wealthy and well-fed, we'd head to the water. usually around the the time the sun sobered up and staggered across the horizon to drink from the salty ocean below. our beach-chairs, safe with towel-power, under a sturdy umbrella tree, steps from the water. options: rest and burn, rest and read, or rest in peace. rest beside still skies over rowdy waves. rest and stare. i read 2 novels there, and drank rum, with ice. occasionally id walk out into the ocean and fall into the fight. there were at least 5 pools around the resort, including 2 swim up bars, but comparing a pool to an ocean is like comparing the front-shelf liquor to the 1-dollar-an-hour quality booze on the back shelf. we swam in the pool only once, for a quick game of colly-ball.

i find incredible relief in doing nothing, it always leads to something. paradise surroundings magnify themselves. the mind travels, like a detox dream on drugs, and everything slows down, and eventually passes out on the beach. it's that space in between awake and asleep, after the first snooze alarm goes off, and there's still time, and false promises fill the room, while the face lustfully reunites with the pillow in an orgasm of feathers and fools. but then that 2nd snooze goes off, and the dream is over. the reality of stupid dumb life drags you to the shower, to hose off any attempt at going back. in mexico, the 2nd snooze never goes off, and you get to spend all day in that warm pocket on the pillow. asleep enough to dream, awake enough to remember. plus there's free food and booze.

i counted 7 bars and 7 restaurants, consistently pumping the golden trough. we utilized most of them. the snack bar was a favorite on the 2's (AM & PM.) the sports bar had air hockey, ping pong, and pool. it was great spot to get ripped up before the discotheque. meg won our first game of air hockey, and i was forced to dance like an idiot for the rest of the night. some nights we played cards, some nights we watched loud mexican sitcoms. doing nothing usually leads to something.

the week flew by, as good weeks do. but the goal of melting the spine with relaxation has certainly been achieved. the last time i came back from mexico, i needed a vacation. this time, i come back to wind and snow and cold, but with enough satisfaction to stay warm til summer.

Hola Mafriends!

Recommended readings:

The Rum Diary by Hunter S. Thompson
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Life of Pi by Yann Martel

2011-02-16T23:11:00.000-08:00

coliday

i run off all the time.
to exotic places like mexico and mexico.
with new hats and old ideas.

sprawled on a white beach near blue water with red intentions.
a brethren amongst the learny, guiding the first-time relaxers.
this way, you tired souls, lets go do nothing for a while.

its a megaday as much as it is a coliday.
she is very navagationary, and will soon loose need of my rambling bar-to-bar guidance.
her language skills tested the other day, when i said: taekiteas mafrends!
and she responded in perfect spanish, little of which i could actually understand.

i usually promise myself a bunch of great accomplishment, pre-paradise.
a story, or a song, or an album.
but not this time.

this is a trip to disneyland for the weekend achievers.
back-pay for a hard year of stalled laughter under low wages.
peons pawning soft landings with easy adventures.

oh, how the sea, sweeps me so silently away.

THE ROCK is back in the WWF.

2011-02-04T18:05:00.000-08:00

day 6

so, this is rehab.
i started dreaming again on wednesday.
only needed 1 coffee this morning.

heck of a trip last weekend.
didnt know PG could still do that to me.
maybe it was revenge.

flew in on thursday night, started drinking at the airport.
"do they sell beer on flights this short?"
"yes andrew, they do."

erickson got a ticket while picking us up at the airport.
so i paid his way on the free shuttle that takes you to bars in PG.
a free shuttle that picks you up at home, and drops you off at the bar*.

*a fabulously ingenious feature, installed as soon as the laws got mad.

night 1 was a warm arrival, with drooling teriyaki smiles.
lots of me getting over-excited, and andy wondering where pool tables used to be.
we survived, relatively unscathed, and humped the couches by about 2am.

the next morning andy had 3 screwdrivers for breakfast at noon.
it was show-day for me, so i had to keep my head above water.
mostly submerged, yes, but treading liquor with dry hair and agitated legs.

we were bowling by 2pm.
5-pin on 5th.
the trip already smelled like a massive success.

next we got shirts made.
"who the fuck is colin pearson?" - "get that pear off the stage" - "i miss you"
its pretty obvious who wore what.

the show was fun.
i had more fun off stage than on.
if singing simple songs brings friends together, ill do it forever.

saturday was our last full day.
so we spent it in the snow, drinking white russians, and breaking lawn chairs.
ran out of booze by about 3pm, and had to order more, delivery.

sometime during the day the sun went down, and the party moved inside.
i remember playing golden eye, and eating shepherds pie.
the rest is mostly rumors and rhymes.

i woke up in erickson's bed, next to erickson.
andy woke up in erickson's bed, next to erickson.
erickson slept on the couch.

it was an awful morning, the worst we've had since vegas.
without colour, without laughter, bombed, blistered, and broken.
three suicides please.

we tried to hide it with white spot.
andy and erickson both ordered milkshakes.
i ordered soup and a side slaw.

nothing worked, so we went to the airport.
cold, and wet, and useless.
but at least mike didnt get a ticket.

its friday now, the last 5 days have been a slow incline towards the sunrise.
and here i am, breathing properly and shit.
the fog finally wiped off from inside my eyes.

its friday, and im not drinking.
yet another adventure into a mysterious unexplored space.
all i can be is myself.