WE ARE JUST HERE FOR A WHILE...

Having just recently celebrated his second year as a visitor to planet Earth, E enters a vaguely familiar, well lit food place. Above him is a small plasma screen (sadly, he will grow up not knowing that televisions were ever large and clunky), flashing pictures of overly delectable desserts that can be had at East Side Mario's. Of course, E's attention is drawn to this and he

a. quickly forgets that he is in a foreign place with foreign people, thus no longer requiring his wall of shyness
b. is now determined that he is hungry for nothing else except for ice cream!

There is a stranger sitting in the seat in front of him, someone he has not seen before, someone with a monosyllabic name. The bigger people speak throughout the meal and E gets frustrated that

a. they're not paying attention to him
b. the bigger people keep speaking gibberish that he doesn't understand.

E makes a mental note that he must stop thinking in bolded, bulleted lists as he devours the ice cream.










It's easy to take friends for granted. It's easy to think that they will always be around, a phone call or MSN message away. For me, my circle of friends first gathered together in the common rooms of various dormitories at Queen's University. Then it was in the dining room/living room/Saturday night singing room/make shift blue angel competition area of our respective houses off campus. Then, we all grew up, acquired adopted housemates, found a mortgage, and were soon gathering in our own houses. Not much has changed: it still involves a lot of eating (albeit not 4 BK Whoppers at a time), laughing our butts off (albeit Stephen Chow and Homer Simpson seem to be missing from the mix) and still, someone is gaming. Yup, imagine a room full of 30+ year olds playing tennis on the Wii! It doesn't really matter where the venue is anymore; it's more about the gathering. And nothing is as special as having this same group crowd into a small hotel room, order some pizza and pop, tune in to the Raptor game and play some poker!

Tim is down to his final chips. He's gotta make his move soon. He is dealt an Ace and a seven. It's risky but this might be the last Ace he'll see.

"All in." J, sees Tim's bet as mere chump change, decides to humor him and calls. He's got a Queen and a nine. Tim has the lead in probability right now.

Tim says a half hearted prayer once the cards are revealed: "Please, please, no Queens, no nines."

Flop: six, nine, nine

Tim: "crap". He has a better chance now of having a bird fly in through the window and smack him upside the head than winning this hand.

Turn: nine

To add insult to injury, J just landed a 4 of a kind.








Really, even if THAT didn't happen, that night will be forever etched in my mind. If you asked those same guys when they were snot-nosed froshies, they would've never said that one day, they would find themselves in that hotel room. Yet, even as they were leaving, there was this sense of connection. Never minding the fact that this night just ended, we WOULD pick up where we left off the next time we met. We've accepted the fact that we've changed, or more like, life has changed and we've become willing participants. But our friendships, thankfully, were never frozen in time. We all decided to go along for the ride.

Speaking of travel, where to go next?

OH BABY BABY!

I sit myself down in one of the back rows after our final set, in a seat beside a rather burly gentleman, his bodily form occupying a bit of my seat. No worries; I would just hold my breathe for the remainder of the service! Besides, I think there is a lack of physical contact in this society where everyone has their own established "no-fly" zones.

It is hard to see the communicator clearly on the stage from my position. So, I find myself looking up at one of the 4 screens where the live feed is projected. At one point, I am stopped in my tracks. The communicator was speaking in his usual, animated fashion. But something on the lower left hand corner of the screen caught my eye. It was my guitar! The way that they had framed the speaker was such that my guitar was sitting there, on its stand, in plain view the entire time.

At that moment, I must have felt what many proud parents feel when their child is given some honour. Perhaps they receive an award for a piano competition, or has scored the winning goal. THE PARENTS BEAM. And there I was, beaming at the fact that my guitar was part of this backdrop, not really due to anything else aside from its random placement. I had to fight the temptation to turn to the guy beside me and exclaim "That's my guitar there!"

That sent me drowning in a flood of nostalgia. Probably the same routine a beaming, proud parent experiences at these type of moments, unbeknownst to their child. I started reflecting on the times of my life that was shared with this, more than just a musical instrument. My "baby"!

1993 - baby is born; actually, it was picked up at a guitar store in Brampton, after having returned an Ovation knock-off that was my original purchase; frustrated, I said to the salesman "I just want a guitar that will last me forever!" He brings me into the special guitar room which is behind glass and is properly humidified. He says "Do you know that song More Than Words ?" C'mon, what hormone-excited high school senior doesn't know the top love song of that time? "Well, they play that song on this guitar, a Washburn EA-20". He doesn't have to say anything else and baby is brought home.

1993 - Still amazed that they chose my song to be that year's theme song, I get to lead it in front of 800 people on my baby!

1993-1996 - Unable/unwilling to lug my piano to university, my much-more-portable baby comes along for some higher education. Many, many, many hours which should have been spent prepping for med school were spent with my baby instead. Hence, I am not a doctor today, but an okay guitarist.

1994 - Never trust your baby to unscreened "baby-sitters"! I left baby in the care of a fellow classmate over reading week, thinking it would be safer in an all girls dorm than in my ghetto house north of Princess. I come back to find a huge crack in the case because, while the guitar was kept underneath the bed, that person decided to do a rendition of "No more monkeys jumping on the bed". Luckily, the case did its job and baby was not hurt.

1994 - 2004 - A multitude of John 424 gigs, ranging from various churches to the Metro Convention Centre to various outdoor venues: Mel Lastman Square, Earl Bales Park and a float during a (now questionable) parade.

2001 - In my lap while on my knees in front of Lake Ontario in Kingston, while persuading someone to say yes.

I think that I can proudly say that I've taken care of my baby for all these years. Yes, it's not the gleaming white that it originally was, leaning more towards cream. Yes, she's been good to me and nice to my fingers. At first, I remember (shamefully) feeling uncomfortable when people's usual first comment was: "It's a white guitar?" But, now I'm proud of the fact that she's different, like me. She's been the source of inspiration and expression, when many times I feel misunderstood. And, although I continually dream about getting a Taylor, she will always be my baby!

HOW TO MELT A GROWN MAN'S HEART

When I'm asking the question "So, what do you feel like eating tonight?" and the response comes back "How about some Alberta beef?". I don't care how far Cattle Baron is, anytime I have an "excuse" to go, I am in heaven!

As if it couldn't get any better, a nice cab sauv and some D-lightful conversation to go along with it...

POCKET BELLS

Sometimes, you just have to laugh!

RECOVERY

Should not have stayed up to 4 a.m. to watch the Australian Open finals. Only got to catch the first set of a very predictable match anyways. The cost: one full week of being sick, having my entire sleep schedule thrown off and having to skip a whole week of working out. Grrrr.

To "celebrate" the departing last remnants of my cold, I found myself across the street at Shillelagh's, an authentic Irish pub, to catch yet another sporting event final. I believe so that my celebration was well paced, a pint per quarter, evening out the layer of absorbant material in my stomach that consisted of wings and Quesadilla. I had a friendly bet with C. on who would win. Her main selection criteria was uniform colour. So she picked the Colts. I knew that Peyton's crew looked better on paper, but I had to disprove her theory. And now she is one lunch up on me and another $50 richer off her misguided Bears friends.

I've recently discovered a "new" radio station in Calgary and have been listening to it all the time. It's a flavour of contemporary jazz/rock/electronica that I haven't heard in awhile. Some would probably argue that this type of music belongs in an elevator but I like listening to it because it's a more challenging type of music to play live. It's got a nice chillin' groove to it and I was first introduced to it while working in my former sales life. It's called West Coast Jazz and I first got hooked on it while in LA back in 2000. The station here that plays it is appropriately name California 103.

Work's been busy as we just wrapped up the interviewing and selection of a new accountant. I still can't get over the fact that someone put "Microsoft Spreadsheeting" as one of their skills! Less than 10 more sleeps and I'll be in T dot. I'm looking forward to that. To make it go by even faster, I'll be shredding my axe at Westside this weekend, gonna meet up with Z who's here on training from the Toronto office and D, who'll be here this weekend.