Posts tagged some shit that phil wrote

“You’re not doing business. You’re building relationships. As soon as you put yourself into that mentality, you’re automatically thinking long-term.” - Eebs Berenstein

In March, I was invited to peopl, an underlit gem in Old Montreal, for a talk on branding and entrepreneurial identity. The evening began discreetly; some friendly banter with an ex-coworker followed by a bit of mingling with the person she had just met. Then, a second catch-up session with a friend I hadn’t talked to in ages, then a third with one I hadn’t seen in even longer. Throw in a half-dozen conversations exchanged with the strangers they had each come with and – all of a sudden – I had connected with a handful of creatives, two talkative photographers, a highbrow wrestler, someone who had hand-crafted their own business cards, and a hug-crazed sex educator (spoiler: two of these are the same person)

All this to say that as much as I learned from the event’s speaker, what I really remember taking away on that evening was the energy; it lit up the room. I can’t recall the last time people had been surrounded by that much perpetual positivity; it made you want to walk up to a every single person and listen to what they had to say, but not before you introduced them to the unusually stimulating stranger you had just met a minute ago. And I think that’s very much the point behind Game Changers. Sure, it’s for networking and getting to know your city’s influencers but it’s also about learning to bank on yourself, trusting that others are right there to do the same.

The initial stages of any real commitment can often turn out to be their most compelling. Whether it’s landing that career-making opportunity or breathing in a budding relationship, embracing the full experience is really about jumping in with both feet. The introduction to that metronome of a journey may certainly be its most unnerving as well; plagued by uncertainty, swallowed by a suddenly narrowing scope, we’re susceptible to the very comfort zone our latest devotion was supposed to derail. It turns out that the getting-to-know-you phase can be filled with as many false promises as propitious ones, that the difficulties that had driven us away from our previous obligation are the very same to greet us again today. So why do we pick the ones we pick? How do we determine whether or not this is what we want? We trust ourselves. And as easy as it sounds, it’s more like pulling teeth for many. The notion that our idiosyncrasies and those of our peers, including the infinite difference between them, will actually propel us into a future we could hardly even plan for on little more than instinct and good fortune is the very kind of assertion that only “happy” people would dare make let alone believe in. But yes, accepting that others are not constantly out to get you, that maybe we do have a common common is truly the only way to marry the multidisciplinary realities that brought us here in the first place. And, if we’re so lucky to succeed together… then what? Relationships may end abruptly for a number of reasons just as thousands of variables can potentially damage careers without regard for good intentions or half-decent track records. But there’s no shame in looking out for what you’ve accomplished, in feeling that you did everything you could in the time you were given. You can set milestones, you can self assess, and you can make adjustments to better align yourself with what you had wanted to achieve or what you now want to attain so as to approach the everyday with that nascent avidity. The point is for us to stop aiming for preservation so we can focus on growth and the shit-ton of preparation that comes with it. They say nothing lasts forever but commitment has no relation to time; it is based on dedication, a belief in a cause, an engagement to learn and to better ourselves and even to mentor those we’re responsible for along the way. It is a case of practicing what we preach in a constant climb over convention. Our commitments form our legacy; they are a reflection of our values as well as our tolerance towards new beginnings and unpredictable ends.

— Video by: Pech Sambour

The Poor Man’s Bucket List

With the New Year afoot, we often feel compelled to make significant changes to our lives, to capitalize on an opportunity that presents itself now that the Christmas cookies have gone and the snow is solid. Few things impress me more than the people who can make such drastic rearrangements and actually see them through. Perhaps I’m not comfortable with that sort of commitment, or maybe I’ve found a kind satisfaction in the futile attempts to calculate my life but this year (last year?) I found that setting the bar low on resolutions would be the best way to approach them without breaking any promises; few things disappoint me more.

New Year’s resolutions are an appealing way for us to find improvement, to give ourselves that annual assessment, to correct certain tendencies without any real accountability. They are the medium in which we casually yet eagerly identify our twelve-month expectations. The problem with this is that in our pressing efforts to deviate from our course, we wind up making the same feckless decisions that led us towards these intentions in the first place. Resolutions require reflection, self-awareness, a desire to change, and a will to go through with it. They can also be about the things we’ve done right and the ways we can go about keeping it up. In other words, there’s no need for us to be so hard on ourselves all the time. Think of the tradeoffs before becoming somebody else.

This year, I want to take a step back. Acknowledge my efforts and consider what I may have missed out on along the way. I created a list. It turned into an exercise of whether or not I wanted the change to occur before having to commit and, inevitably, abandon it. At first I thought it was fun. Then it made me sad. But then I found it fun again. Call it the ultimate “Never Have I Ever” cheat-sheet, call it childhood deprivation, but do not call it my New Year’s Resolutions.

1. I HAVE NEVER SMOKED A CIGARETTE.

As a child, I bit into a cigarette butt that had fallen into my soup; it turned me off for a while. In high school, no one ever really offered me a smoke so peer pressure was hardly a concern. By the time I turned twenty, I had developed an addiction to coffee and was too broke to pick up another. I would later regain my love for soup.

2. I HAVE NEVER TAKEN A VACATION.

At my old job, we were encouraged to book long weekends to water the lawn, visit extended family, or make that road trip out to TOYS-R-US. Taking a couple weeks off to see the world was out of the question unless you were on serious sick leave or meant Toronto.

3. I HAVE NEVER TOLD MY PARENTS I LOVE THEM. 

People do it all the time! But between all the birthday celebrations and telephone calls, all I can remember is 21 telling me he that wouldn’t say it till they were on their deathbeds. At this point, I reckon they must already know.

4. I HAVE NEVER PLAYED ZELDA.

In 2011, I discovered that there was a character named Link.

5. I HAVE NEVER WATCHED A MOVIE MUSICAL. 

The Wizard of Oz, The Sound of Music, Grease… you name it, I haven’t seen it.

6. I HAVE NEVER LEARNED HOW TO PLAY MAJOR BOARD GAMES. 

Up to now, I’ve gotten the hang of Chess, Monopoly, Connect 4, and Blokus. Last week, I picked up Sorry! for the first time. I also purchased Trouble but have never opened the box. I am a firm believer in beginner’s luck. 

7. I HAVE NEVER WORN CONTACT LENSES.

I’ve worn glasses ever since my ninth grade Biology teacher sent me home for not being able to read the chalkboard from the back of the classroom. Since then, I have continued to play sports on the assumption that it’s all the same so long as I have the right feel and touch. I can’t tell if I’m too pigheaded to admit that I need them or too terrified of sticking plastic in my eye.

8. I HAVE NEVER HAD A GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICH. 

Seriously. 

How Basketball Has Changed My LifePart I of V — Hip-HopWho Am I? (What’s my Name) — it’s the first song I can really remember listening to and I can say it’s played a significant role in the person I’ve turned out to be. When I was seven or eight, it would come off an old boom-box that played while I watched my big brother work out in our basement, religiously tracking reps and sets on a spreadsheet that couldn’t have been so simple to build at the time. I think of it less nowadays but I had often felt like a product of my two older brothers rather than of my mother and father; a hopeful blend of someone who gave you an unequivocal answer that always turned out to be right somehow, who opted for patience over compulsion, and, of another whose altruism kept everyone warm, who intuitively embraced difference and chose not to ignore it. Listening to Snoop Dogg made me pretty oblivious to the coastal feud of the mid 90’s and I’ll admit it didn’t help Biggie much that I had spent most of those years rewinding California Love over and over and over again until double-sided tape decks finally came along. Together, the two tracks gave everyone countless hours of joy and inspiration that I would spend in the backyard playing basketball with my brothers. And though I’d go on to hear Gin and Juice and Ambitionz Az a Ridah just as often, they never resounded over a game of “American” as well as the two I had come to know and love. The relationship between basketball and hip-hop went far beyond soundtracks however; sure Snoop and Tupac drove me to practice but basketball paved the way for acts, lyrics, and even subcultures I wouldn’t have otherwise considered. Professional athletes like Kenny Anderson and Larry Johnson, basketball players I looked up to, were forewords to emcees such as Erick Sermon and LL Cool J through the wonders of “NBA Superstars”, a FOX Home Entertainment VHS tape that would so shamelessly combine music videos with basketball highlights (think of Whitney Houston’s Greatest Love of All mashed together with an afro-rocking Julius Erving dunking all over the place) which really isn’t all that bad when you think about it. From there, replayed highlights and sing-alongs led to imitations and personal favorites; they opened the door to new VHS tapes which evolved towards compilations to play ball to and, inevitably, resulted in pre-game rituals and post-game cramming. I had gone from timidly discovering Warren G’s Regulate before house-league play to suddenly blasting Ghostface Killah’s Winter Warz out from a yellow school bus before road games. Interweaving basketball with rap was not just a recurring trend but an intensifying appetence. Before heading out, I would listen to music and focus on practice; I’d go play and think about the albums I had heard that day then finish playing and carry on with different parts of the albums, adjusting the music, tweaking my game, on and on until what emerged was, above all, a ridiculously untouchable eighteen-track mix CD (nineteen if you’re lucky) and a completely changed attitude problem. What was it about hip-hop and basketball that worked so well? I think their roots are painfully humble but their skills are often so clouded by the market and its misguided values. They are both so largely admired for their commercial success and simultaneously appreciated on different scales for their levels of dedication and trust. They may be saturated with wannabes and charlatans but at their core, they are dominated by a mastery of all the right fundamentals conflated with a ton of substance and an ounce of flare. Maybe these are the traits that drew me in or maybe it was all just good timing. All I know is that by fourteen, I had basically run 19’s Panasonic Discman into the ground (being too cheap to buy my own for the aforementioned road games) but if those buds weren’t in my ears it’s because there was a always basketball in my hands. Interesting Facts: Even though I grew up playing basketball to Who Am I? and California Love, it turns out these are pretty much the most awesomest jams for anything. Whenever Ready or Not by The Fugees is played, I envision a slow-motion alley-oop being thrown. Every. Single. Time. Shawn Kemp has the best highlight pack in “NBA Superstars 3” Of course, they made more than one “NBA Superstars”, come on. Photo by: Matthias Heiderich

How Basketball Has Changed My Life
Part I of V — Hip-Hop

Who Am I? (What’s my Name) — it’s the first song I can really remember listening to and I can say it’s played a significant role in the person I’ve turned out to be. When I was seven or eight, it would come off an old boom-box that played while I watched my big brother work out in our basement, religiously tracking reps and sets on a spreadsheet that couldn’t have been so simple to build at the time. I think of it less nowadays but I had often felt like a product of my two older brothers rather than of my mother and father; a hopeful blend of someone who gave you an unequivocal answer that always turned out to be right somehow, who opted for patience over compulsion, and, of another whose altruism kept everyone warm, who intuitively embraced difference and chose not to ignore it.

Listening to Snoop Dogg made me pretty oblivious to the coastal feud of the mid 90’s and I’ll admit it didn’t help Biggie much that I had spent most of those years rewinding California Love over and over and over again until double-sided tape decks finally came along. Together, the two tracks gave everyone countless hours of joy and inspiration that I would spend in the backyard playing basketball with my brothers. And though I’d go on to hear Gin and Juice and Ambitionz Az a Ridah just as often, they never resounded over a game of “American” as well as the two I had come to know and love.

The relationship between basketball and hip-hop went far beyond soundtracks however; sure Snoop and Tupac drove me to practice but basketball paved the way for acts, lyrics, and even subcultures I wouldn’t have otherwise considered. Professional athletes like Kenny Anderson and Larry Johnson, basketball players I looked up to, were forewords to emcees such as Erick Sermon and LL Cool J through the wonders of “NBA Superstars”, a FOX Home Entertainment VHS tape that would so shamelessly combine music videos with basketball highlights (think of Whitney Houston’s Greatest Love of All mashed together with an afro-rocking Julius Erving dunking all over the place) which really isn’t all that bad when you think about it.

From there, replayed highlights and sing-alongs led to imitations and personal favorites; they opened the door to new VHS tapes which evolved towards compilations to play ball to and, inevitably, resulted in pre-game rituals and post-game cramming. I had gone from timidly discovering Warren G’s Regulate before house-league play to suddenly blasting Ghostface Killah’s Winter Warz out from a yellow school bus before road games. Interweaving basketball with rap was not just a recurring trend but an intensifying appetence. Before heading out, I would listen to music and focus on practice; I’d go play and think about the albums I had heard that day then finish playing and carry on with different parts of the albums, adjusting the music, tweaking my game, on and on until what emerged was, above all, a ridiculously untouchable eighteen-track mix CD (nineteen if you’re lucky) and a completely changed attitude problem.

What was it about hip-hop and basketball that worked so well? I think their roots are painfully humble but their skills are often so clouded by the market and its misguided values. They are both so largely admired for their commercial success and simultaneously appreciated on different scales for their levels of dedication and trust. They may be saturated with wannabes and charlatans but at their core, they are dominated by a mastery of all the right fundamentals conflated with a ton of substance and an ounce of flare. Maybe these are the traits that drew me in or maybe it was all just good timing. All I know is that by fourteen, I had basically run 19’s Panasonic Discman into the ground (being too cheap to buy my own for the aforementioned road games) but if those buds weren’t in my ears it’s because there was a always basketball in my hands.


Interesting Facts:

  • Even though I grew up playing basketball to Who Am I? and California Love, it turns out these are pretty much the most awesomest jams for anything.
  • Whenever Ready or Not by The Fugees is played, I envision a slow-motion alley-oop being thrown. Every. Single. Time.
  • Shawn Kemp has the best highlight pack in “NBA Superstars 3”
  • Of course, they made more than one “NBA Superstars”, come on.


Photo by: Matthias Heiderich

Printing hundreds of indistinguishable QR codes before I could even scan them taught me two valuable lessons about cards and their functions. First, people are much more concerned with the service you provide than they are with your business card. Second, people are way more likely to show concern if you actually take the time to try and capture it. For months, I would find myself tucking these little things in wherever I could; the palms of freshly shaken hands, amidst the bills and coins of the waitress’ tip jar, beneath various shots of whiskey, and even between the shelves of one or two Harvard bookstores. Did they generate the traffic I had guiltily dreamed for? [Insert euphemism for “hell no” here.] They did, however, put me in contact with all sorts of hard working, passionate people who had made a living off of their appetency for enterprising ideas. So what do I hope to accomplish with these handy dandy conversation-enders? I’m not sure, really. With the last set playing part of such a significant change in my life, I wouldn’t know what to expect next though I do know that many of the people I’ll meet will be unknowingly relieved to see that my name and contact information are actually on the card this time around. Heck, they even allude to the industry I now eat, sleep, and breathe. Anyhow, thanks moo.com, your product has not only given people a beautiful, high-quality, non-creeper way to keep tabs on me, they’ve also provided this blog with one more besotted post about cards. Another and I’ll be Pat Bateman.

Printing hundreds of indistinguishable QR codes before I could even scan them taught me two valuable lessons about cards and their functions. First, people are much more concerned with the service you provide than they are with your business card. Second, people are way more likely to show concern if you actually take the time to try and capture it.

For months, I would find myself tucking these little things in wherever I could; the palms of freshly shaken hands, amidst the bills and coins of the waitress’ tip jar, beneath various shots of whiskey, and even between the shelves of one or two Harvard bookstores. Did they generate the traffic I had guiltily dreamed for? [Insert euphemism for “hell no” here.] They did, however, put me in contact with all sorts of hard working, passionate people who had made a living off of their appetency for enterprising ideas.

So what do I hope to accomplish with these handy dandy conversation-enders? I’m not sure, really. With the last set playing part of such a significant change in my life, I wouldn’t know what to expect next though I do know that many of the people I’ll meet will be unknowingly relieved to see that my name and contact information are actually on the card this time around. Heck, they even allude to the industry I now eat, sleep, and breathe.

Anyhow, thanks moo.com, your product has not only given people a beautiful, high-quality, non-creeper way to keep tabs on me, they’ve also provided this blog with one more besotted post about cards. Another and I’ll be Pat Bateman.

The Short and Long Term Effects of Doublebooking

Saying yes to everything has been my conscious effort to open up to new opportunities and actualize intentions I would have ordinarily put off or have been too lazy to get to. It exposed me to new concepts of art, media, and consumption and even inspired better working and eating habits along the way (the trick is to do more of one than the other). Through all the introductions, I felt it feed and intensify an appetence for human relations. Of course, picking up on new bars, blogs, and beats were all fine too but being able to share them with just the right company is where it’s at for me.

All of these people, with their varying fixations, come tied to so many different passions and commitments that, often, we can’t help but want to be a part of them. Not so much to play a particular role within their projects but to understand how they came into existence. Do I care about what you do? Sure. Do I really? Of course not. I do, however, care for you and why it is that you do it.

Once I was open to this notion, inspirations snowballed and all sorts of unexpected characters found their way into my life. I think of the night I ran into the inscrutable 17 at some Rosemont dive I had never been to. He’d been there recording sights and sounds of a staged yet unscripted interview but after we arrived, he made sure to take long intermittent breaks to talk tunes and philosophy. A few weeks later, we shared half a case of warm beer and shot a commercial together. Go figure.

The incredible thing about this behavioural change is that it resulted in a type of prioritization, an unconscious reordering of what matters and what matters more. But while your brain rewires itself to convert a never-ending to-do list into a lifestyle, your pride takes the opportunity to use these newfound engagements for traction. You work, and you play, and you give yourself pats on the back for being able to accommodate them all while making sure you’re really seizing that day. In the early going, it’s just a matter of scheduling and active recommendation; shifting locations closer to one another; weaving between new friends; going to bed a little bit later and penciling brunch in a little bit earlier. That’s all.

But despite our ability to sometimes pick conversation out from thin air, many of us will ultimately succumb to the complexities of human contact. It can happen when we condition ourselves to facebook while microwaving lunch, or brushing our teeth, or loading that HD YouTube video. Multitasking ain’t what it used to be. Saturated pools of strangers move towards mobocracies and last-minute tweaks turn into ungraceful cancelations. Before long, you’re surfeited with overlapping commitments and forget why you had said yes to them all in the first place.

For 26, there were simply no more dates for all the open-ended rain checks, no more hurry-up beers to drink and make amends, and certainly no more room to develop a deteriorating connection. One beautiful part of saying yes is that you’re free to ask the questions you like in order to gain and regain assurance. Once stripped of this privilege, the unresolved diffidence can consume you. Our once indelible parallels were now so faint and unconvincing that we couldn’t even dream of, let alone suggest recovering from such a distance. And, as quickly and as intensely as our friendship began, it ended — all the yesses neatly funnelled into an uncontested no.

In the last year, I’ve watched a fair share of double-booked events cancel each other out, many of them because of misinterpreted words or innocent actions that furthered the invidious situations. What worries me most is that not only do we recognize and accept our egocentric tunnel vision, we are actually willing to defend it. Friends become chores, and chores become excuses but being technically right about something will never do you much good just as postponing rendezvous after rendezvous will never fully clear your schedule. Somehow we continue down the same path, refusing to reveal or even admit to the discomfort it causes. We rationalize it as the basic result of being too busy, one that we are unashamed of. Our plates full, our inboxes swamped. Are we really too tired, or are we just tired of them?

ABOUT

This couch is a mix of beige and grey and is not of any particular brand. It sits at least three people, but two of the three would have recliners and thus make them superior to the unsuspecting middle-sitter. The condition of the couch is decent; as good as you would expect from two male roommates, really. Aside from standard wear and tear, there are no obscene stains or misleading defects. The dimensions are 7 ft. long, 3 ft. tall, and 3 ft. deep but if you’re the visual type, it’s about the length of a pair of French doors (as displayed).

OFFER

At first, we were set on selling the couch but realized that putting a price on her would be demeaning and just plain wrong for the years of humble and unabashed service she’s provided. Instead, we would like to exchange our cherished sofa for some delicious chicken. That’s right, chicken. We felt that the future owners needed to be just as easygoing as their predecessors if they were to inherit Montreal’s greatest couch. So why not trade it for Montreal’s greatest chicken? Romados.

DETAILS

This couch is one of the most versatile pieces of furniture you’ll ever come across. She can host out-of-town crashers, double as a snack-hold (as displayed), and if you’re anything like us, be the safe haven for hours upon hours of Netflix watching and NHL gaming. The chicken trade is as follows: one beige/grey couch for two half chickens (yes, that totals one full chicken) – heavy on that spicy sauce, please.

MOVING

The couch is on the second floor of a Plateau apartment building. It will require two adults or two really strong children to carry it out.

THANK YOU

If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to inquire. We look forward to arranging a date optimal for couch pick-up and chicken eating. Have yourself a great day!

Monday Morning Rant: Social Media

Remember when Facebook was about posting on someone’s wall? When we would take time to write him or her because we missed them or because we wanted to tell them how much fun we had at that party?

It seems that all it’s good for now is self-promotion; “sharing” photos of where we’ve been and what we’ve seen, not whom we were with or what we were doing there. Tagging our friends in YouTube videos we want them to see is the closest we come to interacting with them, really. We take the time to check ourselves in to some defined location only to check ourselves out from a conversation with the very people we were scrolling for on our phones. Can’t we even wait for them to go take a piss before whipping out our four-inch piece of glass anymore?

Phones were intended to connect people and bring them together despite unimaginable distances but, as it stands, they serve as the ultimate alternative to actually acting human. For whatever reason, they provide us with what we believe to be tangible confirmation that we live and not only like things, we Like things.

Does it ever happen that you find yourself in the middle of some bizarre discussion only to decamp in favor of Facebook? Do you tweet about how awkward the whole scene was? Now take another step back and realize how you were the one who couldn’t hold that conversation; the one unfit to relate ad rem; the one who is reticent about the “awkwardness” of it all. Maybe you just wanted some attention. Perhaps one of your seven followers could sympathize if they weren’t some spammy bot-account following you to promote their SEO secrets or solutions to impotence — so much for your virtual refuge.

The bottom line is that social media favours quality over quantity, where posing as some social butterfly just because you can tweet and facebook is about the same as calling yourself a photographer because you use Instagram every now and then. Believe or not, amidst your salvo of media, people will still recognize social inadequacies. Why is it important for us to have so many friends, followers, and fans if we’re incapable of engaging with them and them with us? Connections must be established, trust earned. Ultimately, there are no formulas, metrics, or algorithms to speed up the process of saving you from yourself because, really, you can’t hide behind filters and hashtags forever.

Social media is about building relationships but the unfortunate reality is that through it, people risk not only alienating everyone they come into contact with, they also deliberately forgo the soft skills that are to get them by on a daily basis. They go on to use iniquitous buzzwords like “viral” and “trending” in the hopes of maturing into some internet guru when they’ve actually grown into little more than cell phone junkies, unable to decipher quality from cat videos.

THE GOODS: For some, Tuesday is movie night and, for others, it equates to KFC but this day will always resound through my ears for its new releases. And though this gem is already two weeks old, trust that the sound is as fresh as your mind can find. If you follow derogatory regularly, there’s little need to read on, just check out Voltronn by fivepee.  If you don’t already know him, the Montreal producer was on his Madlib this time last year when he put together his fifty-five track Copyleft Shuffle premix before releasing artafterwork. This time, on Voltronn, Potvin truly takes the time to get to that vernal appetence, that ambient itch he’s been dying to scratch, keeping it fun, keeping it different. THE HIGHLIGHTS: “Go Lion” just download the track and you can thank him later. The hip-hop memes, including artists such as Big Daddy Kane, RZA, Biz Markie, Kool Moe Dee, and ODB, which were used to raise awareness for the defender of universe’s arrival. Voltronn is neither an LP nor an EP but a freeP, making it the third consecutive collection the artist has put together without asking for a cent. Do pick it up.

THE GOODS:

For some, Tuesday is movie night and, for others, it equates to KFC but this day will always resound through my ears for its new releases. And though this gem is already two weeks old, trust that the sound is as fresh as your mind can find. If you follow derogatory regularly, there’s little need to read on, just check out Voltronn by fivepee. 

If you don’t already know him, the Montreal producer was on his Madlib this time last year when he put together his fifty-five track Copyleft Shuffle premix before releasing artafterwork. This time, on Voltronn, Potvin truly takes the time to get to that vernal appetence, that ambient itch he’s been dying to scratch, keeping it fun, keeping it different.

THE HIGHLIGHTS:

  • “Go Lion” just download the track and you can thank him later.
  • The hip-hop memes, including artists such as Big Daddy Kane, RZA, Biz Markie, Kool Moe Dee, and ODB, which were used to raise awareness for the defender of universe’s arrival.
  • Voltronn is neither an LP nor an EP but a freeP, making it the third consecutive collection the artist has put together without asking for a cent. Do pick it up.

Monday Morning Rant: Bixi

These past three years, I’ve gotten around Montreal with little more than a bus pass and a Bixi key but, last summer, when 15 noticed the black and red-trimmed plastic dangling from my keychain, he couldn’t help but shake his head, almost in disgust, at the fact that I supported the bicycle sharing system. Why not? I responded. And what followed was a brief but insightful debate about the whole program and those who make use of it.

It turns out people don’t hate Bixi; they hate the dickheads who ride them. And If you’re unsure about whether or not you’re part of this dickheadedness, then perhaps you should ask yourself some of these questions the next time you wrench a Bixi from its Telus branded bike rack.

Must you use the sidewalk as your personal bike path? It’s one thing to hop the curb when you sense danger, or when it’s time to take a breather; it’s another when you insist on tailgating pedestrians, impatiently ringing your bell, demanding that they move aside. You won’t get too far on those three gears so instead of traipsing around, do us all a favor and walk the damn thing when you’re not on the road.

Why aren’t you wearing a helmet? Maybe you’re a tourist or riding around town for the first time but if you’re anything like me, going to and from work every other day, you should just buy one already. The one distinction motorists make between bixiers and cyclists is that, amidst the ruck, cyclists have the awareness and coordination to get the hell out of the way so making the argument that you bike only occasionally is little more than a reason to shell out the few extra bucks. You don’t see Communauto drivers going around without seatbelts, do you?

Should you really be tweeting from your bike? @BIXImontreal couldn’t care less that you’re on one. @RiMartineau won’t call you out on la belle vie. Only Segways are less cool than these things so, please, enough with touting your phone while you ride. Focus on the road and your surroundings because your friends don’t care what you’re doing right this instant but they’ll be pissed if you die and fail to check them in on facebook.

Enough bitching about the ads, kay? How can they possibly bother you this much? There are always going to be ads, always. They even double as decent and tasteful mudguards. But if you’d rather pay more for your membership, fine. If you ride the metro or bus without ads, fine. If you Google without ads, YouTube without ads, and buy apps without ads, fine. Otherwise, get over it. They’re just ads, dude.

10 Digital Signs That Your Relationship Is Over

With a constant flux of media running our lives, it’s important that we be able to pick up on the digital hints our friends will leave us every now and then. Obviously, by friends, I mean friends of friends, or coworkers, or hot people you meet at barbecues, not actual friends of course. The point is that you should actively draw a line that divides the unavailable from the unwilling. This line would then allow you to keep your behaviour in check so as to avoid those undesired scenarios where you may (a) constantly tell your friends that the other person’s a bitch, (b) maintain some paltry online conversation without ever coming into actual contact with the person, and (c) consistently pretend like you have something else going on when, really, you just end up scarfing down a tub of expired sour cream. With these things in mind, I’ve put together a short list of deal breakers to weed out those unsocial socialites and, hopefully, save us all a little bit of time and dignity.

Disclaimer: the pronoun she is used strictly for convenience sake and does not target any woman in particular but rather women in general. Men do some of these too but are usually far less subtle – usually because they are much, much simpler.

1. SHE ANSWERS TIME-SENSITIVE TEXT MESSAGES NO LESS THAN 48 HOURS LATER.

It’s Wednesday afternoon, you’re bored and tired of work so you begin to text. Your exchange is playful but prompt and hovers mostly around what you’ve got planned for the weekend: Oh, not too much, probably just take it easy, you each say. You add, well, if you’re free, we should go out Friday night, and she enthusiastically accepts! Great, you think. Friday comes around and you check back to confirm the details about the where and when but receive no reply. Maybe she’s in a meeting or has no reception? Give it an hour or so before you nudge. You send off another text after an acceptably unclingy amount of time but – still – nothing. Monday comes around and things go back to the way they were last Wednesday.

2. SHE APPARENTLY DIDN’T RECEIVE YOUR E-MAIL.

It’s true that there was a time when e-mails went undelivered. It happened the same year you bought your pager, the same year you lost the floppy disk that had all your homework on it, and the same year you purchased that first Ja Rule album and thought that yellow Hummers were cool. If you send someone an e-mail that requires an RSVP and they claim to have never received it, then you should probably pull a Gil Pender, check what decade you’re in, and just go with it.

3. SHE DOES NOTHING MORE THAN HIT LIKE AFTER YOU POST ON HER FACEBOOK, EVEN IF IT’S A QUESTION.

Hey it was really nice meeting you, maybe we can chat again sometime? Like. Hey, have you seen the new Paul Rudd romantic-comedy where he’s shy and awkward but turns out to be shy and awkward and a douche? I’ve wanted to see it with someone for a while now! Like. Hey! Long time no see. I’m dying in a month and the only thing that will slow the cancer is if you say something back to me. Like.

4. SHE INSTAGRAMS PICTURES THAT YOU TOOK.

Burn.

5. AFTER AN EXTENSIVE, WELL WRITTEN, OBVIOUSLY SINCERE, WITTY BUT NOT OVERLY DICKISH TEXT MESSAGE, SHE REPLIES WITH A SMILEY FACE.

You write your text out in full. You spell-check it. Replace a few words here and there to make sure it can’t be misinterpreted. You’re careful about the details and affirm that nothing was left out. You take a deep breath and you send it. You wait ten minutes and reopen your phone to see if it has finally disappeared from your outbox. You wonder if the message was too long and if it was broken up for having exceeded the number of allowed characters. You wonder what she’ll say; you secretly hope that she’ll be just as assiduous in her reply. You wonder what she’s thinking. Your anxiety is cut short by a sudden vibrating beep.

Incoming message, :)

6. SHE REPOSTS EVERY YOUTUBE VIDEO WITHOUT EVER ACKNOWLEDGING THAT YOU POSTED THAT SAME VIDEO TEN MINUTES EARLIER.

It’s one thing to attach the KONY 2012 video after you’ve said something about it. It’s another to re-post an obscure music video, the exact obscure music video you spotted through a friend an hour ago, and add omg I just discovered this artist and loving ittttttttt!

7. SHE IS THE FIRST TO DECLINE YOUR FACEBOOK EVENT – EVERY SINGLE TIME.

When I was putting this list together, I considered outing the folks who never responded to any of my events. But some people just don’t use Facebook as exhaustively as others. These people aren’t trying to push you away; they’re just not paying attention. It’s undivided so there’s really no blame to assign. Do note, however, that when someone consistently turns you down without even so much as a sorry, it’s not her fault – it’s yours.

8. SHE DIRECTLY REFERS TO YOU IN HER STATUS UPDATES WITHOUT EVER MENTIONING YOUR NAME.

e.g. OMG I hate it when Asian guys with big glasses write on their blogs about music I never heard of but omg I just discovered this artist and loving ittttttttt! That’s just annoying.

9. SHE UNFOLLOWS YOU ON PINTEREST.

Pinterest allows you to link your account to Facebook and Twitter. This way, it can suggest and display images that your friends have pinned or believe that you may like. By default, it follows everyone you know. So if you’ve been unfollowed, know that it was very, very voluntary.

10. SHE DOESN’T WISH YOU A HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

Possibly the granddaddy of them all. If she chooses not to wish you a happy birthday in spite of the weeklong Facebook notice, the eighty seven hundred people posting about it on your wall, and the fact that she doesn’t even need to go to your page to do it anymore, it’s because you need to figure it out. Although you’ve been content with these 23 hours of special treatment, you still weed through the red notifications hoping to find that one person who has clearly blocked it from their mind. It’s over, dude. Unless, of course, you forgot to wish her happy birthday first.

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It was 52 weeks ago when I unceremoniously smashed the blue coffee mug I had been drinking out of for far too long. It turns out that the transition from my favorite mug to the conformist adult-like blue one didn’t go as smoothly as my anxieties had hoped. In spite of the friends I had made while drinking that coffee, there remained so many unanswered questions regarding the blue mug and how exactly I had allowed myself to protect it so heedlessly. Was this the kind of coffee I wanted to drink for the rest of my life? Was this the mug I would be so proud to tell my friends, family and, one day, children about? Was I unequivocal about growing too old for the other mug that I had known and loved? Somehow, I elected to watch my coffee sour and to drink more and more of it became my only remedy. I was convinced that doing so would permit me to affect people’s lives and that, for whatever reason, it needed to be done within three altruistic minutes. The coffee was just that relentless in its procrustean values. I couldn’t ever be late in drinking it, couldn’t take time away from it unless I had seniority over my coffee-drinking counterparts, and could barely take a minute to piss it out unless that minute was formally accounted for. The worst of it was that despite the dedication I had shown to this blue mug, I had no control over the time I had so willingly committed to it. I was at the mercy of forty randomly arranged hours that made no distinction between Saturday nights and Sunday mornings. Its answer for our need to try other beverages from new and exciting places was simply to find time perhaps early Friday or anytime Tuesday afternoon because taking two consecutive days away from the eminent mug was usually out of the question and demanded prodigious justification. It wasn’t always bland though. Once a year, there would be an ostentatious banquet thrown for all of the blue muggers to share their coffee drinking experiences with their co-addicts, so long as they had the thirty-five dollars to attend the wildly unentertaining assembly. Of course, some would be left behind because they had been randomly selected to continue drinking their java alone, one cup after the next. They would be compensated for their efforts, in Tim Hortons gift certificates, no less. Why? asked 22, the only real friend I ever made chugging from that mug; the one other person who could absorb the blue coffee and spit it out when no one was looking. We asked ourselves the same question every single day, in different fonts and sizes between the billions of emails exchanged on computers that couldn’t explore further than coffee beans and Wikipedia. I am forever indebted to her because it wasn’t till her departure that I came to understand the stultifying effect of my mug’s contents. I had gone so far in the wrong direction that if I looked back, I’d find nothing more than the outdated scripts, policies, and exchange rates that my coffee had smeared. For ten grueling semesters, I gravitated towards the same comforting white mug. It was stained and cracked but its unusual handle made it perfect in every sense of the word. I had embraced everything about it because it fit who I was, who I am. It was my brother’s favorite mug. He’d say that it always allowed for the exact amount he wanted and I agreed. Although he would occasionally drink from it, I suspect that our father had wanted us to mature and grow into the blue one instead, being much more accessible and dependable than the one we wanted. It was the safer mug, essentially. They often disagreed so when my brother moved away, he left the mug behind and I was able to inherit it as my own. … Somewhere amidst the books being read and the money being made, the lines between desires and expectations were quietly blurred. I was so focused on the immediate that I couldn’t find time to glance over at the big picture. The truth is that I couldn’t bear retreating to it anymore. Moving up only meant burying what was left of who I wanted to be, so uncertain of who I was but so content with the poltroon I had become. Paralyzed every morning, unable to turn my neck, unable to put weight on my ankle, unable to shut my brain off. Unwilling to ask myself the open-ended questions I was conditioned to broadcast, unwilling to digest the lunch hours that had been designated to me four weeks ahead of time. I wanted all these feelings to just stop; the overcasting disappointment when there was bad news to be delivered; the falsified enthusiasm when there was irrelevance being shared; the apparent empathy that needed to be demonstrated when stupidity and neglect were the only causes. Walking into that fusty room on the second floor, flooded with the same fucking people drinking the same fucking coffee out of the same fucking blue mug. I felt like that kid who couldn’t swim when he was summoned to the indoor pool, struck by the overpowering whiff of chlorine swooshing up against the tiled walls. I couldn’t breathe through it all… So I took one last sip and I smashed that tawdry blue mug. Quarter-life crisis — over.

It was 52 weeks ago when I unceremoniously smashed the blue coffee mug I had been drinking out of for far too long. It turns out that the transition from my favorite mug to the conformist adult-like blue one didn’t go as smoothly as my anxieties had hoped.

In spite of the friends I had made while drinking that coffee, there remained so many unanswered questions regarding the blue mug and how exactly I had allowed myself to protect it so heedlessly. Was this the kind of coffee I wanted to drink for the rest of my life? Was this the mug I would be so proud to tell my friends, family and, one day, children about? Was I unequivocal about growing too old for the other mug that I had known and loved?

Somehow, I elected to watch my coffee sour and to drink more and more of it became my only remedy. I was convinced that doing so would permit me to affect people’s lives and that, for whatever reason, it needed to be done within three altruistic minutes. The coffee was just that relentless in its procrustean values. I couldn’t ever be late in drinking it, couldn’t take time away from it unless I had seniority over my coffee-drinking counterparts, and could barely take a minute to piss it out unless that minute was formally accounted for.

The worst of it was that despite the dedication I had shown to this blue mug, I had no control over the time I had so willingly committed to it. I was at the mercy of forty randomly arranged hours that made no distinction between Saturday nights and Sunday mornings. Its answer for our need to try other beverages from new and exciting places was simply to find time perhaps early Friday or anytime Tuesday afternoon because taking two consecutive days away from the eminent mug was usually out of the question and demanded prodigious justification.

It wasn’t always bland though. Once a year, there would be an ostentatious banquet thrown for all of the blue muggers to share their coffee drinking experiences with their co-addicts, so long as they had the thirty-five dollars to attend the wildly unentertaining assembly. Of course, some would be left behind because they had been randomly selected to continue drinking their java alone, one cup after the next. They would be compensated for their efforts, in Tim Hortons gift certificates, no less.

Why? asked 22, the only real friend I ever made chugging from that mug; the one other person who could absorb the blue coffee and spit it out when no one was looking. We asked ourselves the same question every single day, in different fonts and sizes between the billions of emails exchanged on computers that couldn’t explore further than coffee beans and Wikipedia. I am forever indebted to her because it wasn’t till her departure that I came to understand the stultifying effect of my mug’s contents. I had gone so far in the wrong direction that if I looked back, I’d find nothing more than the outdated scripts, policies, and exchange rates that my coffee had smeared.

For ten grueling semesters, I gravitated towards the same comforting white mug. It was stained and cracked but its unusual handle made it perfect in every sense of the word. I had embraced everything about it because it fit who I was, who I am. It was my brother’s favorite mug. He’d say that it always allowed for the exact amount he wanted and I agreed. Although he would occasionally drink from it, I suspect that our father had wanted us to mature and grow into the blue one instead, being much more accessible and dependable than the one we wanted. It was the safer mug, essentially.

They often disagreed so when my brother moved away, he left the mug behind and I was able to inherit it as my own.

…

Somewhere amidst the books being read and the money being made, the lines between desires and expectations were quietly blurred. I was so focused on the immediate that I couldn’t find time to glance over at the big picture. The truth is that I couldn’t bear retreating to it anymore. Moving up only meant burying what was left of who I wanted to be, so uncertain of who I was but so content with the poltroon I had become. Paralyzed every morning, unable to turn my neck, unable to put weight on my ankle, unable to shut my brain off. Unwilling to ask myself the open-ended questions I was conditioned to broadcast, unwilling to digest the lunch hours that had been designated to me four weeks ahead of time. I wanted all these feelings to just stop; the overcasting disappointment when there was bad news to be delivered; the falsified enthusiasm when there was irrelevance being shared; the apparent empathy that needed to be demonstrated when stupidity and neglect were the only causes. Walking into that fusty room on the second floor, flooded with the same fucking people drinking the same fucking coffee out of the same fucking blue mug. I felt like that kid who couldn’t swim when he was summoned to the indoor pool, struck by the overpowering whiff of chlorine swooshing up against the tiled walls. I couldn’t breathe through it all…

So I took one last sip and I smashed that tawdry blue mug.

Quarter-life crisis — over.

10 Realistic Resolutions for 2012

Because going to the gym every day and volunteering at the neighbourhood shelter are commitments I may just pass up if you offer me a pint of anything. Baby steps, kid. Baby steps.

1. WEAR A HAT WHEN IT’S COLD OUT.

My head’s pretty big so when I wear a hat, a tuque specifically, it accentuates the circumference of my skull. Also, I’ve usually got product in my hair so putting a beanie over it often messes things up past my intended messiness. Plus, who wants product in their hat? I do. When it’s -30 outside, substance prevails because style is frostbitten.

2. CLEAN MY ROOM.

I’m regularly reminded of my OCD behaviour but, for whatever reason, it’s never chipped in towards the upkeep of my closest quarters. My dad threatened me, for years, over the chaos. My girlfriend too. I’m on my own, for this one.

3. DRINK TEA.

Nowadays, I’m up to two cups of morning joe. One, the minute I step out from the shower; the other, with breakfast. Although I hardly ever finish the second serving (who would?) the sheer act of refilling my Gino Reda mug is enough to keep me at bay for the rest of the afternoon. It’s not something I’m very proud of.

4. READ MORE.

I double-majored in English Literature and Philosophy, this shouldn’t be a tough task. But ever since I finished school, I’ve come up with all sorts of reasons to keep my books up on the shelf: I’m too busy; there’s nothing good to read; but they’re so heavy! If I’m not going to find the time to travel, I’m going to make the time to that imagine I have.

5. WRITE MORE.

Undoubtedly, reading will multiply and alter your perspectives. I believe it’s important to highlight such varying outlooks rather than being so reticent about them. It’s also part of my job, so… 

6. DO GROCERIES.

I am not opposed to cooking but admit that I own this recipe-book that I seldom re-open after jotting down the formula for Pork Tenderloin or whatever the case may be. Why? Because my fridge is bare, always. But not this year. I’m tired of offering people beer and eggs.

7. SAVE MONEY.

This one comes close to your usual resolutions but if #6 works out, saving up for a rainy day should be a cinch. It may not be much but it’s enough to buy some lotto tickets.

8. SPEND LESS TIME PLAYING VIDEO GAMES.

More like video game — singular. EA’s NHL franchise is the only game I’ve owned since 2006. But I’m not complaining, the Xbox has paid for itself. This may be the toughest resolution I’ve set for myself and if it’s going to stand a chance, it’ll have to be because of numbers 4 and 5, not in spite of them. By the way, my gamertag is “Apartment 6” if you’re looking to get schooled.

9. SAY YES TO EVERYTHING.

This worked so well for me last year that I’ve renewed it for another. You can do that, right? I realize that this may be at odds with #7 but If I want to get more out of life, I’ll have to stop texting from the couch. The devil finds work for idle hands, you know.

10. BRUSH TEETH FOR LONGER PERIODS OF TIME.

My dentist asked if I had picked up smoking but later concluded that the stains behind my teeth were caused by red wine. And cutting that out would be absolutely fucking crazy.

According to Facebook’s Timeline, I made 99 new friends this year. That’s definitely something considering that I have none of their phone numbers. In fact, the amount of people on my Speed Dial has dropped considerably this year while the number of people I spend time with regularly, barring coworkers, has been whittled to about two. But is that really a surprise? Social networks have a stultifying effect on our capacity for actual social networking. Why express yourself conscientiously when you can do it in under 140 characters? Why share your announcement when you can tag yourself in someone else’s? Why create original content when you can stream some? This year wasn’t all bad though. I’d say it was a good one, actually. I built up the nerve to leave the job that had made me a sheep to my own indolence. The impulsive change provoked a salvo of opportunities: it provided me with time to build relationships that would never have otherwise been possible; those relationships pushed for the creation of this blog; the blog helped propel the Jammi project, which then fueled a desire to pursue what is now my career. The most surprising part of all? I use the word “career” without dissolving into silent discomfort. It’s startling. My frame of mind is nowhere near where it was twelve months ago; dignity seems to have found its way into the day-to-day and much of it is owed to 13 and 20 who drove me purely through their ambition. For the first time since graduation, I feel that I’ve accomplished something substantial. But milestones, as they often will, trigger reflection. Do the relationships I now share compensate for the ones I’ve lost? Has life appropriately trimmed the fat for development’s sake? How will I know when balance is measured? People say not to look back but isn’t that all that social networks have to offer? A recounting of the way things were; a blue and white scrapbook of some chimeric lifestyle; a contrived feeling of nostalgia. For me, the new year must be about looking forward, about contributing positively towards the lives of others. It doesn’t mean I’ll hand over one of my kidneys at the drop of your hat but it does mean that I will call you without the self-interested motives that we somehow deemed fully acceptable in 2011.

According to Facebook’s Timeline, I made 99 new friends this year. That’s definitely something considering that I have none of their phone numbers. In fact, the amount of people on my Speed Dial has dropped considerably this year while the number of people I spend time with regularly, barring coworkers, has been whittled to about two. But is that really a surprise? Social networks have a stultifying effect on our capacity for actual social networking. Why express yourself conscientiously when you can do it in under 140 characters? Why share your announcement when you can tag yourself in someone else’s? Why create original content when you can stream some?

This year wasn’t all bad though. I’d say it was a good one, actually. I built up the nerve to leave the job that had made me a sheep to my own indolence. The impulsive change provoked a salvo of opportunities: it provided me with time to build relationships that would never have otherwise been possible; those relationships pushed for the creation of this blog; the blog helped propel the Jammi project, which then fueled a desire to pursue what is now my career. The most surprising part of all? I use the word “career” without dissolving into silent discomfort.

It’s startling. My frame of mind is nowhere near where it was twelve months ago; dignity seems to have found its way into the day-to-day and much of it is owed to 13 and 20 who drove me purely through their ambition. For the first time since graduation, I feel that I’ve accomplished something substantial.

But milestones, as they often will, trigger reflection. Do the relationships I now share compensate for the ones I’ve lost? Has life appropriately trimmed the fat for development’s sake? How will I know when balance is measured?

People say not to look back but isn’t that all that social networks have to offer? A recounting of the way things were; a blue and white scrapbook of some chimeric lifestyle; a contrived feeling of nostalgia.

For me, the new year must be about looking forward, about contributing positively towards the lives of others. It doesn’t mean I’ll hand over one of my kidneys at the drop of your hat but it does mean that I will call you without the self-interested motives that we somehow deemed fully acceptable in 2011.