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We went to this event being held conjointly with the WestEnd Community Centre and the Coal Harbour Community Centre. While you immediately think of the former as having workshops like "Drag and You. Why it's not just for the Parade Route", and the and the latter having quick seminars like "Corporate Raiding : The Whys, Wherefores, and Whats In It For You", I can assure you, it was most decidely not like that. Mostly. This being the West Coast, the largest consumer of crystal for non-china dinette purposes (only the great corporate multinational usurp this most aura cleansing heaven material as such), as well as the largest producer of a weed that justifies a multi-billion dollar prevention and incarceration complex south of the border, the Coal Harbour Community Centre didn't have so much a Christmas Installation, as a Winter Solstice Event. It was, in fact, a Labyrinth made entirely of candles. It was something. One one hand, it made me th

to wait for my literary composition correcting simians. Here is the first draft of my article for my work newsletter: Failure. What a word. A loaded word, fraught with fear and embarassment. Whether you are an over-achieving toddler, spawn of a wall-street shark and a botoxed new york fashion maven, trying to get into the very best kindergarten; or you are a mechanic working on say, a nuclear submarine; or even if you are a delightfully whimsical brain surgeon, plying your trade, the failure is a loaded word. We even avoid saying it. "Success challenged", "Otherly talented", "Adjusting modalities". Anything to avoid pronouncing it, like a last name that resembles an unmentionable body part. And yet, if history has taught us anything (even though CNN argues persuasively that it has not) it's that great sucesses are usually spawned from the most appalling failures. Take Winston Churchill. He had a little mishap called the Battle of Gallipoli, wh

In a miniscule work newsletter, but still!! Here, for posterity, is one of the many emails, 'sealing the deal' if you will. Hi , I'm afraid I'm not one for meetings. It's not that I hate them -- well, ok, it's because I hate them. Well, not hate them, I'm simply deficient in committee skills and/or experience which is seriously hobbled by a lack of desire to increase said skills and/or experience. But thanks so much for the invite, as much as it struck fear into my very soul. Looking forward to writing an article for the Enrolling Stone (it won't be about commmittees, I promise (mostly)). Cheers! J

I'm working on a new novel. Because editing my first one can get me down. A lot. But so far, this new book is just a shit ton of dialogue. Just endless reams of it. I hope it's entertaining, I'm never really sure if it is. But dialogue seems to be the easiest, and sometimes, when I'm really really tired, the dialogue just seems to write itself. Metric tons of TV memories of stereotypical characaters chatting away. So it's more like transcribing, actually. The genre is still Fantasy, but a different sub genre. Because I felt humour fanatasy wasn't obscure enough and embarassing enough to talk about at cocktail parties (what is this? 1961? who goes to cocktail parties?). And I like a challenge. Writing in what are effectively dead genres is a bit of a downer. Very hard, as in impossible to find anyone who is writing in the same genre. Most folks who do fantasy that I've chatted with, are doing epic/high fantasy (think Lord of the Rings) or adolescent fantasy (

What follows is an entirely fictional email. As the season approaches, we are all very excited about our upcoming Seasonal/Winter/Solstice/Kwanzaa/Hannukah Event! And by committee meeting and quorum vote, everyone is officially not-liable for calling it a Christmas Party! Please note a few things to keep in mind for this year's Winter Celebration: the new extended waivers are should be in your inboxes by now, please sign then and return them to the HR rep. Because of the high spirited nature of last year's party, GlobalNetWorkInterCorp will not be hosting the event. Instead, it will only be a highly coincidental grouping of all the staff from Shipping, Accounts Receivable, and Sales showing up at the same place, with drinks paid for by (again, coincidentally) your managers (managers, please fill out corresponding petty-cash requests (again, unrelated)). this is not a costume party, so can those of you who wore delightful Star Treks uniforms please keep those at home. the wait

Here is my reply to dawn's invite : WTH? Dave a vegan? He better be of the joking and such. Also, super funny evite! Almost as funny as the WoW Cosplay thing you tried ot invite us all to last christmas. Except that wasn't trying to be funny. However, it did manage to be so sad it was funny. I"m also shocked. SHOCKED that MC Hammer isn't pictured in a Hammer Card. I'm also pretty sure the phrase 'hammer' is featured in Top Gun. So you really have no excuse to have just a lame actual hammer covered in what looks to be fresh columbian white. I mean really. Heavy metal tools and blow, when has that even been a good idea (except in Scarface, that Tony, *guffaw*). In that vein, will devans be bringing us all crisp $1000 bills as is the custom for bank employees at Xmas?

I'm not sure why a title in ebonics is that much funnier in ,what I call perhaps unpolitically correctly, REAL english, but there it is (why is ebonics funny to me, who lives in a part of the world where only the truly insecure highschooler, or delightfully ironic hiptser, uses it?). Waking up at Fo Fitty in the mornning is a delight. Mainly because it feels like I'm using 'free time'. Get to work at six, leave at 2:30, 3ish. Feels like getting off work early it does. (Waking up this early also brings back those halycon days of yore when I'd wake up real super duper early to go skiing. Not a lot mind you. Never the sportsman. But enough so that everytime I wake at a demon infested, ungodly hour, like 4:50am, I remember skiing. ) Never mind that I have ot take naps as soon as I come home. I got off work at 2:30! I'm beating the system, or, more appropriately, The Man. It's nice having the flexibility to come in early, or a bit later. There is a downside to ch

== Origins == Of Gaelic and Micronesian origin, the term for a flightless albino bird standing 3 meters tall which killed its prey with a prehensile tail. Specifically, it was in reference to both the bird, as well as the bird's method of killing (to pete, or peteing). Over time, it has also taken on the following definitions, depending on the context, tone, and the speaker's preference to the colour blue: flailing during a Siberian Autumnal Feast thinking that one was under the power of the hallucinogenic and sacred mushroom Halafrestum. When in fact the one has only eaten a dried up and slightly trodden upon oyster. singing out of tune in jest. walking. a mulit-tiered, fully automated gun turret defense system that was officially designed and implemented by the Nazis late in WWII. It fell out of favour when "fully automated", meant it shot and killed everything in sight until it ran out of bullets. the definitive clicking sound made by Master Lock combination locks

"A word warning, some of the images you are about to see. Are, awesome."

if your group shares anything in common with a particular Group that has aliens, volcanoes, dc-70s without propellers, and spirits that must be cleared from the soul. you have a section in your seminar that specifies "This is why we are not a cult" if the volunteer to paid employee ratio is greater than 2:1 if recruiting people is the most important goal at the end of your seminar(s) if on googling the group, in addition to your corporation's site, you get hits on cult debunkers, Skeptic's Dictionary and Apologetics Index. if your wikipedia page has a "The neutrality of this article is disputed." warning. if your founder is a disgruntled higher up from aforementioned Group that features aliens, volcanoes, etc. if your group has the nasty habit of drawing many national investigative reporting specials on your cult-like behaviour, and/or governments denounce you as a cult. if you actually pay cult experts to say you are not a cult if while your informing peo

Mmmmmm , rackets , delicious , formulaic , stand taking , distinguishing itself thorugh language , vicious circle avoiding , rackets .

It has been my ambition to never go to an office soiree, dinner, coffee house, charade tournament or anything that falls into the purvey of the Workplace Forced Socialization Event. Mostly because I have hermetic tendencies. And also because my work never involves me saying anything to anyone. In my early years, I could go days without ever saying an actual word to anyone. It was bliss. It just seemed to me that with work that is primarily analysis and thinking and stuff, to go to some function every seasonal period to chat it up, as it were, with coworkers I don't even know, is just farcical. But, over my many years at employment, and perhaps, in some way, due to my affinity for the sitcom "The Office", I've started attending. My work pals tell me it's all about the free meal. I don't call sitting through what seems like literally geologic eons of speeches from the higher ups we never ever interact with 'free'. The funny thing about these meals is th

Well, back in the nether reaches of time, back when yesteryear was naught but yesterday, back when men were men, women were women, and anyone else were locked good and tight in their respective closets, Canadaland had something called ThoenkaGavin. Of Dutch and Denmarkian origin it refers to the celebration following a heroic defeat of any number of small, marauding, and disturbingly fast rodents known as the Hanckel Smithin (Hanckelious Smithinourien). Now legend has it that the Federali Guv'mnt of yesteryear were facing a very stiff uprising of sorts from the western and praire Constitutionalities (now known as Provinces) with regards to payments owed for constructing the first Dirigible Waypointing Flare System. As back in those days, Canadaland was determined to become the foremost dirigible passage this side of India. Although the only spices we had at the time were Salt and Bacon, our nation was of the most optimistic variety, never guessing that a fashion craze for hats from

I'm getting ready to send out my submission packet. Send my baby out into the big wide world to be rejectamacated. A bit light at first, just two: one to a publisher and one to an agent. I'm planning on having this baby go through about 75 or so rejections before I shelve it. I've read the same 50 or so pages like five times already. After a while, all the jokes kinda fall flat. I don't even know what the hell I"m reading and why I'd be bothering anyone with it. Yeah, I know, angst angst, slit slit. It's kinda like video games. After a while, the neat little graphicy explosions and stuff just fade away, and all you really experience is the gameplay. I call it my Tetris theory. And if any of that made sense, congrats, you are a nerd. After reading the same stuff over and over again, you actually sort of memorize it, and your brain just glosses over it. I think that's natures way of telling me to just send it off already. Why nature would butt her nosy li

Telemarketer + Guy With Moxy = Hilarity

I realize that some of have no idea what my novel is about. That's probably because I haven't told you combined with the unfortunate fact that you most likely don't have ESP. My main reasons for not talking about it was because it was mind-bogglingly silly. It still is. The more tangential reason was because I wanted to finish it first. Well, it's done (sorta). So, without further adieu, here is my pitch: What is the only thing that a menacingly artistic panda, a suicidally brave boy hunter, and an unconventionally gadgeteering gnome have in common? The Faire, an annual festival in the Land of Ga for just about everything. "Dance Panda, Dance" is a mildy humourous novel written with obsequious adulation to Terry Pratchett, Michael Ende, and Douglas Adams. Set in the fantastic and wonderously absurd Land of Ga, where Cheese Pirates and Dagger Dwarves roam. It is the story of Steve, a panda, Patrick, a gnome, and Enkidu the hunter, who want, more than anything

Todd is this crazy guy in my office. His job is to spend a ton of time on the phone talking users through problems and apologizing for any troubles our systems are causing them. On the side, he assembles computers to sell to people. But for some reason, still considers them his. He's often saying things like "What have you done with my computer?". I think he has separation anxiety. He also tends to love this thing called s..poooortz? Something like that. Apparently, it's like the live action role play of such outstanding games like Madden and Virtua Tennis. That's all I'll say about him just at this moment, only because he insists I mention him. He's on the intarweb! he's FAMOUS!

Well, I'm not writing a novel. I've written. And now I"m painstakingly editing and submitting to publishers and agents. It's exactly as exciting as it sounds. So, what does this mean in the end? What happens when Jay get's all published and stuff? Astounding fame? Dizzying fortune? A calvacade of escalades, all pimping with sick kicks and overflowing with Kristal? Almost precisely that, actually. Let me drop some science for all you would-be novelists. Here's how it goes down. You write the novel. A whole different, cumberously titanic ball of wax altogether. It involves TONS of reading, just reading lots of different fiction, as well as books and articles on how to write. It also involves, be still my stars, gads of writing. Writing until the little letters on you keyboard are worn to nothing, and they start to look like the sinister and generic keyboards found aboard the Death Star. It involves stopping any other activity in your life (luckily for me, I'm

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So the incredibly cheery head coordinator lady has been asking for writer's to submit their top 10 reasons to go to the SiWC. I'm not sure what her sarcasm or bitterness level is. Judging by her verve and energy, I'm imaging it's quite low. So here, for all three of my readers, is my top 9 reasons to go: Because throwing a huge socializing event for introverts is an act of pure optimism Most expensive way to procrastinate More fun being nervous and insecure together Because lately, I've actually been feeling kinda optimistic about getting my book published. Because I can't persuade my wife to sen me to the "Venice International Writer's Festival" Because being around other people who cares about words is a treat. Because hope springs eternal. To prove to myself that editors are not, in fact, a Intimus 852 VS industrial cross cut paper shredde To dispel the myth that agents are not, in fact, a highly sophisticated spam filter. To experience the edgy

So I'm at my very first Writer's Conference. Think of it as the only time when you can get a bunch of introverts together to fumble through the process of social interaction. All in order to get their work out into the world. It's a harrowing creation. It's kind of like writing your novel all over again. In writing a novel, when you look at your peers, everyone is struggling, fighting their own personal demons, trying to get words to paper. You're in it for the long haul, it's daily battles to win the war. Everyone has a book idea to get on paper, that's the norm. At a conference, everyone has a novel written, that's the norm, and everyone is trying to get anyone to care. At a Writer's Conference, everyone is particularly interested in telling everyone else about what they are doing. It's not any different from real life, in that respect, at least among strangers: everyone waiting for the other person to stop talking so they can talk about themse

Trying to think of something witty to say about fatherhood that hasn't been said about a billion times in as many languages is next to impossible. It's also only really exciting to people who are close to me (who, coincidentally, are the only people who know about or read this site); and those people already know I'm a dad, like, 2 months ago. But yes, it's great! The baby is cute, doesn't talk back, and really only has a limited number of things it could possibly want. And for now, none of those are cash money or the keys to my car. So everything is good. For those of you not in the know, newborn babies really only have a small spectrum of expressions. It's basically discomfort; threatening to be a full out cry; full out cry; and a vague sense of contentment which is fleeting as it segues quickly into sleep. Emotionally, I find her incredibly cute, but scientifically, I realize there are MILLIONS OF YEARS OF EVOLUTION pressuring me to find the baby cute. I don

I'm not sure what kids these days watch. What with the electronically whiz-bang games of the video, pogs, phones with ether powered telephony, it's a topsy turvy mixed up world I say. But back when I was just knee high to a grasshopper, I'd regale/waste/vegetate/expose myself to the Hasbro-Mattel-PlayDoh marketing conglomerate during my Saturdays. What Gen-Xer doesn't have fond memories of indoctrinating themselves with the characters and mythos of feature length cell animated commercials for toy products made in the Taiwan? Our parents comforted themselves in knowing that at the end of almost every single show, there'd be some sort of Life Lesson. Perhaps a "Stop drop and roll", "Don't talk to strangers", "Crack cocaine and crank don't mix, usually", or the always ubiquitous "Don't give into peer pressure" (in a cartoon that features all the robots emblazoned with the same symbol). Ah, those were the heady days,

In the Deep Pits of Anguish, somewhere outside the 7th Circle of Hell, there is a tiny workshop that creates all the instruments and devices that have enough devious crippling cruelty and torture to bear the trademark 'Made In Hell'. Oh, you know these products, even shell out your hard earned cash to wallow in suffering: Military Grade High CD Polymer Wrap, things sold on TV by D-List actors for $19.95, cellphones, all magazine covers that require more computer manipulation than all of Pixar's lovable and quirky animated features, and anything with the tiny footnote of "Some Assembly Required". Back when Man strode the earth, toolbelt donned, perhaps a brewski in one ham fist, 'Assembly' meant going out into the forest, killing any large, well toothed and enclawed beast that might be in his way, then using his backhair to create a makeshift saw to hew down trees with trunks the size of.. tree.. trunks... Then he'd use his well callused hands to sand a