the hardwood club.

we turned into an underground parking lot beneath the arena, lined with newly-waxed black cars. handing off the keys to the valet, she turned to us and said, they wash your car during the game. we continued through the arch of a metal detector, entering the building where the charlotte bobcats were about to play their last home game of the season against the philadelphia seventy-sixers. everyone came up to greet us as we walked along the concrete floors in the bowels of the coliseum, then passed through a curtain, finding our seats between the visitor’s bench and scorekeeper’s table.

they had purchased the tickets one night out of boredom, looking for something to do at night. they bought two extra so they could entertain friends. everyone was so polite to them that we felt it worth mentioning, as if they hadn’t noticed. they told us that that year before they had been invited on a road trip to minnesota, aboard the team jet, because they had always stopped to talk to everyone associated with the organization, and that was their reward, they supposed, for being generous with their time.

they lead us toward a restaurant full of season ticket holders, and we inquired if that was where we were headed. no, that club has three hundred members; ours has thirty. after talking with the ushers assembled in the doorway, we passed into a small room with three high tables in the middle and plush chairs along the outside. there was a chef slicing prime rib and a buffet counter with trays of asparagus, mashed potatoes, rolls, and corn-on-the-cob. we filled our plates turning to the bar where a man asked us if we wanted a single or double. what’s the price difference?, my friend asked, in similar amazement at being brought here as a guest. they’re both free, was the reply. we both ordered doubles and a shot of whiskey, also at no charge. while we ate, we took note of a man asking if the chef could put his prime rib on a roll, and she obliged.

we returned to our seats for the first quarter, players standing within feet of us as they waited to be substituted into the game. i glanced at the computer to my right, then announced to the group a team’s shooting percentage or how a certain player already had two fouls. when the buzzer sounded, we returned to the club, choosing a prime rib sandwich, another double, and an accompanying shot. it was getting warm, so our hosts suggested placing our jackets in their locker. we went down the row of lockers, reading the names — so-and-so motorsports, the blank corporation, this-and-that incorporated (not actual company names) — until we arrived at theirs, merely listed under their surname. also, they had two.

we continued in this pattern: watching some basketball and returning to the club for drink refills. during halftime we stepped outside. we helped ourselves to the pile of candy left for the players on the announce table. late in the game, after someone running the length of the court lofted his gum toward the desk, we even advised the other players to watch their step. during the fourth quarter, aided by the free drinks and, likely also, by the idea that we were in a dream, we stood up, alternating between shouting encouragement to the home team and lambasting the referees for their botched calls.

at the end of the game, we told our hosts that we would like to tell our friends about our night but no one would believe us. my knowledge of basketball hadn’t increased much. i knew a few more names and a few more statistics thanks to my seating position (by the way, raymond felton scored a career high thirty-two points). most importantly, the bobcats won by three, so now i’m seen as a lucky charm or talisman to be welcomed to games next season.

love in unexpected places.

i sent my dad a text telling him that, during a fashion show, i was responsible for making sure no nipples were exposed. i sped back and forth between the two dressing rooms, handing outfits to models and making sure the clothes they were removing were being stored properly. i manipulated the necklines of dresses and blouses so that the proper amounts of collarbone and breast were revealed, using double-sided tape to adhere garments to the girls’ skin.

my dad called to tell me about a trip to paris my parents had taken a few years ago, specifically how he envied the people whose job was to apply ice to the nipples of the female performers in moulin rouge. it was his dream job. his declaration reminded me of his first visit to new york city. upon returning, he repeated enthusiastically that he wanted to become a taxi driver, transporting people across the boroughs, stopping at delicatessens along the way. you wouldn’t believe these sandwiches, he said, mom and i shared one for dinner and we still had enough for lunch the next day.

in the end we both agreed that eating a sandwich is more intimate than getting paid to make someone’s nipples properly erect or to ensure they are hidden from view. it’s like josh hartnett’s dream in the incomprehensible forty days and forty nights where he floats over and under detached breasts. it becomes non human, one blending into the next like a wall. in the same manner, one continues icing and taping in a daze, each movement automatic, operations become robotic, later unable to tell one breast from another.

sandwiches are different. there’s one i initially tasted on the third floor of the time warner center in new york city that i’ve been trying to recreate: cashew butter and apricot jam on a soft and crunchy brioche with a side of banana chips. for a short time trader joe’s carried pureed cashews but have since discontinued the item. i am at a loss for purveyors of such a product, but i shuffle on, scanning grocery shelves lovelorn in a quest for the unrequited.

notes on a ledger.

cynicism dictates that when heath ledger died the probable, that is, winning an oscar for best supporting actor, became a lock. for a long time i held that it was only due to his death that he would be given the award, but after contemplating further i decided that it was fruitless to worry about the reasoning behind a meaningless award. this is not to say, however, that his performance in the dark knight wasn’t deserving of a prize, especially in comparison to the other nominees who were adequate but not instantly memorable. while jack nicholson’s portrayal of the joker bordered on cartoonish, ledger’s was invested in the darker elements of the character, the maniacal tempered with sensitivity, the brutality and cunning counterbalanced by comedy and wittiness.

his victory was due as much to this role as it was a recognition of his previous. it goes without saying that he was great in brokeback mountain, but his performances were also noteworthy in the patriot, monster’s ball, ned kelly, and even, somehow, in ten things i hate about you. also he played the grimm, jacob, who shares a birthday with me, january four, instantly making him the cooler of the brothers.

i’d really like to find more similarities between heath ledger and myself, but i’m left with the tangential. sure, my family came close to moving to austrailia before we decided on north carolina. we were both born in the same year, on the fourth day of a month. we each have reported difficulty sleeping. members of the paparrazi also once squirted me with water pistols while i was on the red carpet.

there’s a detail that keeps coming back to me — something that fortunately we do not have in common — his access to health insurance. i will never accidentally overdose on prescription medications because i cannot afford to go to a doctor. i remain intentionally oblivious to my health, relying on my immune system to defeat all illnesses. it’s not completely alone in the struggle — i eat nutritiously on most occasions, i come very close to exercising at times, but for the most part i count on merely wishing my body could quit the pathogens that invade it.

my girlfriend is a watermelon.

a girl once told me that she likes the way i tell stories, not eliminating or glossing over the parts that make me look bad. let me point out then, before i begin, that the following incident has nothing to do with me. i repeat: i only transcribed the text you are about to read. it happened to a friend (also, those italics mean nothing — my finger slipped and inserted some html code that i was unable to erase).

perhaps you’ve been looking for love but the conversations you’ve started with potential suitors in the produce section of grocery stores or between games of billiards at a bar or outside the church where your alcohol anonymous meetings are held have yet to bear fruit. some people, i’m told, turn to nonhuman companions, items that remind them of their desired suitor. they may only be able to fall asleep when they cuddle up next to a pillow or a stuffed animal. the more perverse-minded may seek out items with which to pleasure themselves. the friend to whom i alluded in the first paragraph falls into this last group, and the events i’m about to chronicle follow a similar vein, so if you’re a family member or you’re under some delusion that i am anything but a base creature then you may want to skip to another entry.

throughout history men and women have contemplated using food, primarily fruits and vegetables, in a sexual context. women probably have an easier time of it with all the phallic cucumbers and bananas at their disposal. men, on the other hand, have to do a little more work: research is involved, not to mention some tools. my friend relayed this information to me before saying that he settled on a watermelon and then cut it into eight equal wedges — he used one of them.

he detailed making a circular incision through the rind and into the pink flesh, adjusting it to make the hole larger, carving the bits like a master craftsman. he reported being in a sort of trance as he continued, as if a higher being was guiding him to put the fruit in the microwave for thirty-second intervals until it was warm, then placing it on the kitchen counter, his hands steadying it.

the whole thing was kind of surreal to me, envisioning the process and the dedication required to achieve the goal. when he finished, after i had returned to equilibrium, my mind was filled with jokes, so i tried one out on him. i guess you’ll think twice now before spitting out a watermelon seed since it didn’t seem to have a problem with yours.

why does the wii hate my stomach so much?

around the time wii fit was released i read an article about whether the game really helped people lose weight and become more toned. the author concluded that users only benefited when they were active participants in the program. now i realize it’s difficult to believe such groundbreaking scientific discoveries at first glance, so perhaps my anecdotal evidence in support of the research can persuade you to believe this claim which seems so preposterous.

from may until august of last year i worked out (i use that phrase loosely) on the wii three or four times a week. then i stopped for various reasons, as the system remained in my trunk unless someone challenged me to a game of bowling. in december i weighed myself, finding that i had gained slightly over thirty-one pounds in four months. just like that i had returned to my high school weight, but i was remiss to give the wii the credit it probably deserved.

after returning to the world of console exercising, i soon discovered, in my absence, the machine had formed a grudge. at every turn, my computer trainer berated my lack of fitness, my poor posture, and my slackening muscles. if i turned it on in the morning i was asked, somewhat mockingly, if i had eaten breakfast yet. did i know, it would ask, that that meal was incredibly important, that my body relied on the energy gained to fuel it throughout the day. if i returned at night it would chastise me for being up so late and lecture me about the consequences of not sleeping. i strained, balancing on one leg, only to have it tell me that i likely trip over my feet when i walk due to lack of coordination. i tried to weather its insults, consoling myself briefly with the adage no pain, no gain, until i could no longer pretend the statement pertained to verbal abuse. i returned to my high school-level of depression.

the wii once wondered about one of my friends who hadn’t signed in for a few months (she had moved to charleston). it presented choices for me: she was fatter, about the same, trimmer. of course i chose the first one, the on-screen balance board visibly enjoying her defeat. it advised me not to tell her, but if i absolutely had to i needed to break it to her gently. tell her she’s been living large, it suggested. what, then, was it telling my friends about me? i became increasingly worried that the world was looking at me differently. i used to be confident, i assured myself; now, when i’m walking passed a group of people, i know they are talking about me, i know they are high-fiving each other after a witty remark about my love handles. they are constantly making jokes about the guy that favors his right side and leans back too far on his heels.

i do not hold out much hope that our relationship, mine and the wii’s, will be amicable in the future. i will always be one step behind. i will always mistake the panda heads kicked toward me for soccer balls. i will never be able to catch enough fish while wearing a penguin costume. this is my fate, made harder by the fact that a machine relishes every second of my collapse.

have it your way.

with the opening of big daddy’s burger bar in december 2007, frank scibelli’s stable of restaurant franchises grew to three, preceded by mama ricotta’s and cantina 1511. after tackling italian and mexican cuisines, the newest concept showcases the most american of foods (if you don’t count hot dogs and, maybe, apple pies), the hamburger, and allows its patrons to create one specific to their individual palates. those previous restaurants make cameos here, as a hamburger with housemade mozzarella, pesto, vine-ripened tomatoes, and olive oil, and a black bean burger with green chiles, cheddar and monterey jack cheeses, avocado, and chipotle ranch appear on the menu.

while similar burger joints exist, i think this represents the best incarnation in charlotte. while they collectively allow one to choose toppings a la carte, big daddy’s competitors do so in such a confusing way that the meal invariably costs twenty dollars by the time one is finished ordering. in an effort to combat this sticker shock, big daddy’s menu contains more suggested combinations, thus one can select an entree and add or subtract a few ingredients without worrying about being surprised by the bill. the prices also include a side (french fries, sweet potato fries, house slaw, onion straws, tater tots, or housemade potato chips). on friday, saturday, and sunday, for an additional charge, they serve french fries cooked in duck fat, which doesn’t alter the flavor much; the change is more tactile, the fries are crispier.

i’m sorry that i’m one step away from sounding like a generic website — i just need to add something like, come join us on saturday nights when the patio gets jumping. before i change directions though, i should tell you that your options include beef, turkey, chicken, and buffalo, as well as portabella mushroom caps and black beans for those who prefer something other than meat.

there is another burger bar, located in las vegas’s mandalay bay and owned by hubert keller, where one can order a kobe beef burger named after a fourteenth century italian composer whose love for fine food was legendary. the rossini is topped with sauteed foie gras, shaved black truffles, and a madeira wine reduction on an onion bun. for your sixty dollars you also get skinny fries and, i think, a blowjob. luckily for those that cannot make it to vegas (or are sane enough not to drop that much money on a burger), i’ve found a recipe courtesy of saveur.

mothers die too young.

again i’m reminded of the vastly underappreciated thomas bernhard’s the voice imitator, a collection of one hundred four short stories, none longer than a page. one such story is reprinted below:

mail

for years after our mother’s death, the post office continued to deliver letters addressed to her. the post office had taken no notice of her death.

it’s left me wondering what happens to people when they die. i don’t mean to suggest that i’m suddenly questioning the existence of heaven or the role that souls play following our deaths. instead i’m thinking about how strange it is that someone’s passing can have such a profound effect on one person, while not even registering with another.

it speaks to our isolation in the world — why we form friendships, why we procreate, why we marry, in order to feel less lonely. we are forced to weather great losses, more or less alone, as others can continue through their daily lives completely unaware of the things that keep us awake.

there’s such a push to find peace, to move on after suffering a loss. there are countless books which purport to help us overcome grief and reconcile ourselves to casualty, but i’ve come to find this approach rather naive. why are we expected to ignore or dull our feeling of emptiness? why is it considered healthier to act as if we aren’t shaken?

it’s sobering enough that we die with so few people who care about us even before taking into account that the bereaved are being advised not to worry, are being told that we are now in a better place free of pain, are implored to choose the route that distances them from their sorrow and connection to the departed. i think to promote these as the only viable options is to reject humankind’s capacity for resiliency. certainly we can relive or immerse ourselves in difficult emotional situations in our past without causing massive disruption in our own life. we can be productive even if periodically held captive by depression.

in every culture and throughout history there exist rules governing mourning, determining such things as length of the mourning period, clothing, and behavior. these practices are seen as statements of respect, solidarity, and commemoration, but if that is indeed the case, then why do they require a finite duration? it seems arbitrary (and heartless) to conclude that we cannot, in our own way, lament eternally. otherwise we eventually become like the mail carrier in bernhard’s story, pretending that nothing has changed, imagining that, this afternoon, the phone will ring, our mothers waiting for us to answer and tell them what we ended up making for dinner last night.

my year as a bronze god.

the difference between the way the united states and canada each view nationalism has always puzzled me. growing up in canada i was accustomed to seeing the iconic maple leaf everywhere — incorporated into the logos of fast food chains like mcdonalds and pizza hut, tattooed on people’s arms, in the trees.

in the united states that connection to home is not as innate. patriotism often comes as a knee-jerk reaction to a world or local event, to be seen only on american independence day or following a terrorist attack. then signs will start appearing on lawns, proclaiming the great nation, susceptible to nothing. it’s so transitory (certainly there’s a difference between wearing a t-shirt that reads, these colors don’t run, a couple of times a year and inserting colored pigments into punctured skin to create permanent patterns) and somewhat fabricated.

perhaps it’s the northern country’s underdog spirit that gives its citizens an authentic sense of community. there’s something in our blood, especially after we move away maybe, that forms affinities to actors and bands simply because we possess a shared homeland. i cannot explain fully why i instantly fell in love (i mean, more or less; work with me) with avril lavigne’s music upon first viewing her video for complicated, weeks before i knew she was born in ontario. or why the presence of sarah polley increased my appreciation for the sweet hereafter (a legitimately great film) and go (likely underrated but in no way a legitimately great film). why is it that i feel the need to comment when one’s nationality matches my own, like continuously mentioning how ryan gosling and i are brethren?

the only thing i can come up with — and i understand that this is far-fetched, not to mention a bit scary that i actually believe this — is that there exists a current that keeps us in tune with each other’s movements and empathetic to each other’s struggles to succeed in a country smaller than our own, but more populous and — we may as well admit it — more important.

i’ve lived in the southeastern united states for over two decades. obviously the area has influenced me quite a bit, but it remains at arm’s length. at the same time, my birth country is distant to me, as if covered in gauze.

a little over a year ago i began a campaign to connect further with my adopted terrain by visiting a tanning bed two times a week on average. i’ve since ended that misguided attempt, my skin returning to its previous northern light. for a little while though my stomach was a few shades darker. i’m not entirely certain why this part of my body darkened more easily, but i’m sure there is evidence of fat tanning quicker but i’m unwilling to discover that truth.

rather than bringing me closer to this place though, it robbed me of thirty dollars a month, and i still, from time to time, was met with the you’re-not-from-around-here vibe, which wasn’t leavened by my compulsion to repeatedly listen to one great city! (about winnipeg, manitoba) by the weakerthans or sing alanis morissette songs at karaoke night.

it’s my destiny, then, to remain a stranger in a strange land, wherever i happen to be, detached from everything and thus able to comment unbiasedly. it’s also my destiny — or perhaps my birthright — to blind everyone that looks directly at me, sort of like the sun or a greek god.

the music of my youth.

i’m sure you realize that i didn’t wake up some morning recently, newly quirky and idiosyncratic; i’ve been like this for quite a long time, likely since conception. the first compact disc i purchased was m c hammer’s please hammer, don’t hurt ‘em, but before that — that is, before cassettes disappeared — there were two songs that i wanted to hear repeatedly. i was reminded of them both today as they were played in succession on the satellite radio station we listened to at work, each offering evidence of the child i was and influencing the adult i would become. both incarnations of myself are, admittedly, a bit strange and show that, over the years, to my credit perhaps, i haven’t really changed much.

one area where i have changed, however, is my dismissal of certain advancements in technology. for instance, i’ve been posting writing on the internet for a long time but i’ve been reluctant, for no good reason, to embrace everything the medium allows. for today, at least, i’m going to change that, ignoring my inner pleas for continuing to do things the same way and attempting to shake off my fears.

with that makeshift disclaimer, i present you the videos for the songs to which i alluded in the first paragraph. feel free to judge me accordingly (but realize i’ve heard all your gay jokes previously).

a psychologist’s warning: whatever you do, don’t blame yourself

a historian’s perspective: mississippi, circa 1870

a short history of bull.

in high school, everyone had to choose a future job, research the position, and be interviewed. owing to the fact that question-and-answer sessions with writers who haven’t written anything is extremely boring, i decided to become a rodeo clown, if only for the duration of the project. on tape i talked about avoiding injuries: we were trained professionals, i proposed, respecting the animals and always remembering their penchant for the unpredictable. i must have been a decent liar, because, even weeks later, others were asking me if that was what i really wanted to be when i grew up.

standing outside of work, i thought about my former faux-occupation while watching the mechanical bull at a neighboring bar. it bucks and pivots with a girl astride its robotic back. there seem to be a few requirements for those who want to ride: a short dress must be worn and also thong underwear. the guy controlling the beast’s movements eventually stops it with its head down, leaving the girl’s ass visible to the raucous crowd. he then further cements his place in their hearts by causing the animal to shake, the girl jiggling along with it. i’ve seen this occur countless times with almost identical results. the rider soon lands onto the padding with her dress up over her head. due to his behind-the-curtain machinations and his adeptness at choreographing the eight-second show, like an expert puppeteer, i refer to him as the wizard of bull.

now my attentions have turned — and it shouldn’t be surprising considering my past and present affinities for bulls — to planning a trip to spain, particularly for the festival of san fermin in pamplona to participate in the running of the bulls. when i’ve floated this idea to friends though they’ve acted like i am crazy.

i was looking through pictures of gorings (to prepare) when i came upon this. seriously who wears jeans to an encierro? did he not realize that he would be trying to avoid three-thousand-pound animals with sharpened horns on their heads? bulls are very fashion-conscious creatures, and as such, impaling someone is their pointed way of saying, your style does not please me today. i will be fine as long as i can find a nice red scarf.

another thing working in my advantage is that i once was able to run a mile in about six-and-a-half minutes. the bull run is only half that length. plus i will be wearing shoes, while the bull must trod along the cobblestone roads on hooves. also, i can quote passages from the sun also rises to lull everyone else to sleep.

if time permits me to travel by foot, i’d like to make pamplona a stop along the el camino de santiago (way of st. james), a pilgrimage to the cathedral of santiago de compostela in the northwest of spain where it is said that the remains of the apostle st. james are buried.