Nice profile pic.

If I could only see her eyes, I might be able to remember where I know her from……dammit.

This happens all the time – not the forgetting part – the part where unknown women with scantily clad profile photos send me friend requests.

Happens. All. The. Time.

I’m sure it’s not a scam or bullshit, right? Cause we’re ALL ‘friends’ on facebook, really, aren’t we? Just one big, happy, suggestively-posed-in-our-profile-pics family.

Bethany, how have you been? I remember when you used to wear those socks on our wine-and-cheese philosophy picnics together. Oh, the salad days….

Hey man. Thanks for all the work you do.

But you know when you build jumps by digging a huge hole and piling the dirt on 2 sides for the transitions? Well that really fucking sucks.

Why?

Well first, ’cause little kids can’t bust 8′ gaps right out of the gate. They have to learn on smaller stuff, first. Little kids are the future of the sport, right? If you build a legitimate tabletop, with a flat top, instead of a gap, the groms then can practice without fear of coming up short and stacking into the backslide of the landing transition, dig?

Same goes for old guys like me.

Sure I used to bust 8′ gaps. TWENTY years ago. Now, I don’t do it quite so much. Partially because I stopped for a while and now can’t find anything small to get back up to 8′ on. Right?

Are you picking up what I’m dropping?

So in closing, do us little and big (read: old) guys a favor. Take a little bit o’ extra time and huck your dirt from another nearby location. It will only result in good things.

Kthanks.

I won’t bother with all the incidentals. Facebook isn’t necessarily an evil thing. Security issues, business ethics, time wastage. These were all issues affecting my decision to leave.

Also though, consider this: I sit in front of a computer 8 hours a day for a living. Then, on most nights, I go home, eat dinner, put the kids to bed, then put in another 3-5 hours in front of the computer doing freelance.

I’m tired of sitting in front of the computer. Really. Tired.

I wasn’t enjoying Facebook anymore. It was a chore.

It had started as a break from work.

“Well, if I’ve gotta be in front of this thing, let’s at least see what’s going on.”

At some point it ceased to deliver any enjoyment for me. And being that I sit in front of the computer as much as I do, if you want me to spend more time in front of it, sacrificing precious real world time, you’d better really be bringing something to the table, and Facebook wasn’t cutting it.

I’d check in and my people who I hadn’t talked to in years were telling me that their goldfish died or what I should think about politics.

You know what? Perhaps there’s a reason we haven’t talked in years. No offense, but really if we were such good buds, we’d have maintained contact the old fashioned way. Good luck, Aquaman.

I came to understand that, really, I was Facebook ‘friends’ with some people that I probably couldn’t stand for 5 minutes in person. Um. No. Thanks.

Increasingly, the people I was most curious about are the ones who’d never post anything.

People I once respected surprised me by inundating me with Farmville or Mafia shit.

Really? For real? You? Fucking c’mon.

Save me the ‘but you can hide them’ and ‘you don’t have to be friends with them’ speeches. I’ve heard ‘em. Deaf. Ears.

I used to write a lot more before I had a Facebook account. Hopefully that will return. Facebook became a cop-out. A crutch. My real-world relationships have suffered. I don’t call people. I don’t write letters. Lame.

So that’s it. Adieu Facebook.

The cute girl in the cubicle next to him was chatting away on the phone when she poked her head over the partition. She started talking to him before she appeared over the top.

“Dude, did you hear that? It sounded like a – OH JESUS! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

“I’m fine.” He said, somewhat baffled. “Why? What’s wrong.”

“Holy shit, you’re a mess.” She replied. “Do you need a doctor?”

He was a bit concerned now. He felt fine. She was freaking him right out.

“No. Uh….I’m ok. Thanks.” He decided go to the restroom as a matter of exit. “I’ll be right back.” He assured her.

As he walked by her she shrunk back in a fashion that said she ‘didn’t want to get any on her’.

On the way to the bathroom, he left a trail of shocked looks and concerned whispers. He could feel the weight of their eyes and comments. He pushed open the door into the cool, empty restroom. Walked right to the mirror.

Fine.

He looked fine. He felt fine. He splashed some cold water on his face and dried off.

He walked back out of the restroom to be greeted by several co-workers, all concerned and offering assistance, but at the same time, hesitant to actually step to near to him.

“Are you ok? Do you need help?” Offered some.

“Oooo. That looks bad.” One commented.

“Jesus man, you should sit down.” Incredulous.

“I’m ok.” He stated. “Really. I feel fine. What the hell is wrong with you guys?”

He started back to his desk, emitting a nervous laugh in an effort to break the tension. The herd followed behind at a safe distance. He could hear whispering.
As he got closer to his desk he could hear his phone ringing.

6 rings. 7 rings, 8 rings. His message light was blinking like a hammer. The phone kept ringing.

The group had gathered just outside his cubicle, huddled like they were watching some sort of drama unfold on a television. Silence except for the phone ringing.

“WHAT?!” He shouted. “What the fuck are you guys looking at?!!” Shocked faces at the utterance of profanity.

The phone still ringing.

The cute cubicle neighbor poked her head over again, phone held tight in the crook between her head and shoulder blade.

“Dude….maybe you should go home early or something.” She offered.

All eyes on him.

He thought for a minute, the phone keeping time like a piledriver.

“Yeah. You know what? That sounds like an excellent idea.” He turned, ripped the still ringing phone from the desk pulling the cord from the wall and threw it at the crowd of huddled onlookers who shuffled to get out of the way, creating a hole.

“I’m out!” He shouted. “You guys are fucked.”

He stepped over the remnants of his phone, through the gap in the peanut gallery and strode down the hall to the lobby door, kicked it open and walked into the warm sunlight.

I mentioned earlier that this installment would contain a discussion of curling. Well, it would except that I still haven’t figured it out. I can tell you a few things about it though, and they are as follows.

1. This sport makes little or no sense to the untrained observer.

2. In light of point #1, I will still try to make some sense.

3. The game is played by two teams on ice, who slide rocks and attempt to get them inside a designated area to score points. Imagine shuffleboard on ice. Sort of.

4. You must yell a lot to play this game. The four players on each team are always yelling at each other. Words such as ‘heavy’, ‘hard’, ‘hurry’, ‘good’, ‘whoa’, and ‘clean’ in addition to others are thrown about a lot. At first, I found myself aroused hearing these words shouted at me, as I was watching womens curling at the time. I thought I must have stumbled onto some combination wintersports/adult channel and was hoping that up next would be the lesbian naked pairs figure skating. Then I realized, quite to my dismay, that they were using these words with regards to the game. What each word means in relation to the game is still somewhat a mystery to me. I still enjoyed the yelling though, does that make me naughty?

5. A game consists of what I have determined to be 8 or 10 ‘ends’ or periods, which makes no sense either. If you play one ‘end’, how can you play 7 more? Isn’t the ‘end’ the END?

6. There is ALWAYS curling on tv in Canada.

7. Curling on TV is habit forming. It sucks you in. There is no action, no fast movement, no snappy music, but it’s like falling asleep to the air conditionerit sort of hypnotizes you. It sends messages to your brain that say “Come. Sit. Watch me for hours. Try to solve the riddle that is curling. Do or do not, there is no try. I am the walrus.”

8. I, and you, are not smart enough to play this game. The announcers discuss strategy and positioning in terms that would make MacArthur drool. I assumed they were just banging rocks around, but OH NO, every bump has a purpose, every play a whole hidden agenda. You cannot be privvy to this information unless you are a player, and to be a player, you have to be a master of motion, dynamics, physics and chemistry. At first glance it looks like a bunch of goofballs throwing rocks around on the ice and yelling like idiots, but don’t be fooled, it is the majesty and the mystery that is curling.

Now, if there is anyone out there that is a curler (is that even the right term?), don’t take offense to my little dissertation. I am only one of the lowly ones, the ‘unknowers’ that don’t partake in your sport. I play hockey. Which in your opinion may be just guys skating around beating each other with sticks, but to me it’s so much more. To me it’s guys beating each other with sticks, but also swearing a lot and drinking too much beer afterwards. That’s what takes it to the next level.

For all of you back in the States, my friends that are reading this and are unfamiliar with curling, let me just sum up by saying this:

You’ll know as soon as I do.
Until then, stay tuned as I will continue to report on the strange customs of your neighbour to the north. (Such as spelling neighboor with a ‘u’.)