Coffee and chairs and eyes, oh my!

(the hockey reminder...)

My fellow Dragons:

I'll be honest: what slays me is the fact that he's not even drinking his friggin' tea.

I've dropped Gee off to a soccer practice and I've got some time to kill. So I've headed to Starbucks to grab a coffee and use their Internet and then wander through Chapters to look at books and potentially bump into and then heroically resist the French-accented bespectacled librarian of my childhood dreams.

And as I walk into Starbucks I see one of the comfy chairs just sitting there, waiting for me -- or is it just waiting there for me to be sitting? Regardless / Irregardless, there's a comfy chair awaiting me to be a-sitting.

"Did you throw your jacket on the chair in order to mark your territory?" I hear you ask. No, I reply. Why would I do that when karma had so generously nodded in my direction?

Alas karma (like fate, luck, destiny and my brother's girl friends one, five and eight) is a fickle bitch. And perhaps I, in my Doctor Who t-shirt, hooded sweatshirt and jeans did not seem as attractive to karma and the comfy chair as this pocket notebook writing, tweed-pant wearing, heterosexual-ish Oscar Wilde-looking dandy. He got the chair but I, according to my doctor, have good cholesterol, strong kidneys, wonderful electrolytes and a fabulous prostate!

So screw you, you not-drinking-your-tea bastard. You may have the chair, but I've got a moderately wonderful bill of health that is sure to act as an enticing and irresistibly powerful aphrodisiac for Swedish stewardesses around the world.

Oh and one more thing: did any of you hear the story on CBC radio about the Canadian artist who went to Panama to get her eye colour changed? She got some kind of implants to permanently change her eye colour from brown to green, but it turns out the operation has had the nasty side effect of effectively leaving her blind.

A couple things spring to mind: who the fuck flies to Panama for an operation? Why the fuck would an *artist* pay a doctor in Panama to mess around with her vision and thereby mess around with her livelihood? Who the fuck has eight thousand dollars for elective surgery like this and still thinks that Panama is the best place to go for the surgery? And didn't this candidate for the Darwin Awards ever hear Crystal Gayle's song and take heed of the warning: don't it make my brown eyes blue?

(Oh and as a side note -- my teammate VR said that he heard the same story, but "I didn't actually feel that bad for her though. Is that wrong?" To which I replied "Yes, it's wrong that you don't feel bad for her. But you're right not to. And by agreeing to both of those seemingly contradictory statements, we prove ourselves to be geniuses!!!")

And with that, and finally!, the 21st Century middle-aged dandy has left the Starbucks and the comfy chair is mine!! Karma delayed is still Karma received as she has smiled upon me and my magnificent prostate once more!

(Hmmmm, is Karma a woman for women, too? -- I wonder.)

Hockey! Sunday night!!

We take to the ice down at the MCC at 7:45 against CIP.

No, I don't know what "CIP" stands for, but I'm glad you asked. It could be the "Canadian Institute of Planners". It might be the "Certified Insurance Professionals". But I suspect it stands for "Certifiably Ignorant about Passionately-pleasuring-partners". In my mind they are therefore known as CIP-PP. And that of course is ridiculously close to "See my pee-pee" which is a goofy name for a hockey team (if forced, I would have chosen, CWS, which would of course would stand for "See my Wonderful Schlong") but, hey!!!, it's their bloody team name, not ours.

Sunday night we shall defeat them and silently mock them because we know their Rumpelstiskin-like hidden name and their anti-Casanova hidden shame. They deserve to lose because of their lack of partner pleasuring prowess. And they deserve to lose because I've discovered that winning is tons of gawddamn fun and I'm not about to give up on it now.

Hope to see you Sunday night. Let us know if you cannot attend. I'm now going to leave the comfy chair and tempt fate as I resist the fantastical siren call of the illusionary French librarian of my dreams.

Oh how I love coffee shops that have bookstores next door.

All the best,
Kevin.