Day 1

10:15 am: A co-worker is washing the blue chest plates used to teach CPR. He keeps repeating under his breath, “Die. Die. Die.” I am unsure if he is speaking to the chest plates or me.

He suggests we take a coffee break. I agree. The coffee tastes bad.

10:25 am: Reading the paper. All the CD Reviews have got three stars. I think somebody is not being critical enough.

12:08 pm: Hair cut. Hairdresser tells a story about his friend’s new cabin. It used to belong to the town dentist. In the basement, they found dozens of jars of teeth the dentist got from his patients. As a bonus, the haircut turned out pretty well.

3:50 pm: I realize the future predicted in the Robert Zemeckis film Back to the Future II is five years away. Hear that Science? Where’s my hoverboard?

3:07 pm: “Unfriend” Barack Obama on Facebook.

3:15 pm: Watch a young viking in a bandana enter the vestibule of my office building, presumably to discuss car insurance. Muse for a moment how out of step I am with other members of my generation. Suspect it is mostly because I use words like vestibule.

5:58 pm: Arrive at where I am house sitting. Find a pile of cash on top of a sheet of instructions. A bottle of Wild Turkey has been left for me.

8:14 pm: After many glasses of Wild Turkey, I consider my options. Couch or the public. I grab another glass of bourbon and my rain-jacket.

9:15 pm: I wait for the bus and look at the house where my great grandparents lived. The house has long since been sold.

9:35 pm: Reminded that I am in dangerous territory. Fell or something. Obviously not important.

9:40 pm: There is a girl, no older than 16 riding the train with a mess of groceries in her arms. I feel for her. I glance for her on the platform. She is gone. Like she never existed.

9:45 pm: I see a train. I wonder if the time it takes to reach the platform is enough time for a couple truly in love, to finish a orgasm. Counting the seconds, I decided “maybe.”

9:55 pm: The bus driver and passengers are plotting. There are dozens of balloons. The driver runs out and places the balloons on the hood of a near-by car. It takes ages.

1:55 am: Back at home after the club. Hazy memories. Saw some bands. Talked to some people perhaps. Don’t remember. Ate lots of midnight pizza.

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Dear Red Arrow

It is with much pleasure I travel from Edmonton to Calgary on your motorcoach. It even has wireless internet capabilities, which makes it simple to maintain correspondence. However, I cannot condone the choice of film on this particular journey.

Across the Universe? Really? What would make you think anybody with ears or eyes could enjoy that film? The brutal sodomy performed on the Beatles’ beautiful music? The clichéd plot and characters? Bono?

It’s not that I don’t enjoy the songs enough. It’s that I love the songs so much I can’t bear to witness them used to prop up such an overwrought script.

I just wanted to see a bad sports movie during my three hour bus ride. Is Mighty Ducks too much to ask?

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

To Club-Goers With Their Unhappy Faces On

Occasionally, I’ll put down my pen and glass of bourbon and head for the Avenue for some Whyte night life. There’s nothing quite like waiting outside a club in the Canadian winter for 30 minutes out to consume $6 draft beer and dance a little.

What could be better? Well, there seems to be a growing number of people on the weekends wearing their unhappy faces. These people in the latest styles dancing and drinking while looking as if they just came from a funeral. Don’t worry beautiful sad people, your cat didn’t die in a microwave, your mom still hasn’t found those spring break videos you made after drinking tequila for the first time,  and your boss hasn’t discovered you haven’t finished any work since you’ve started your job. There is no reason to look so upset.

Perhaps some people realize the promise of drunken casual sex and bathroom coke won’t rescue them from themselves, yet continue to engage in the nightlife out of habit. Who knows? Just try to look amused when I throw up on your shoes…

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

To Guy Terrifico

I just got your album Retribution Honky Tonkus’ and it has blown my mind. You are the most underrated Canadian artist of the last century. I know you’re alive somewhere out there, making great music, snorting lines off the back of your guitar underneath some great Cuban sun.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy

Dear Noel Gallagher from Oasis

Last night there was a fondue party. If you don’t know, fondue is when you dip food into some sauce or oil and eat it. It tastes good. However, you’re a rock star and I bet you know that.

People were having fun when somebody broke out the guitars and began singing. It started innocently enough. The guitarist played some Nirvana and sang “Come As You Are”. However, things began to unravel when the host requested “Wonderwall”, a hit from your best-selling record “What’s the Story, Morning Glory?”

To be honest I don’t like your music. It was always too cocky and British-sounding to me. But that doesn’t give me an excuse for what happened next. You know that part when the drums come in after the first chorus? Well, we didn’t have typical percussion. Everybody was singing and I think somebody had a maraca. It sounded pretty good, but then I started in with a cow-bell that I found behind a couch. Everybody started laughing because of that SNL skit with Will Ferrell. I played it just like that.

It ruined the campfire vibe that the room had going. I apologize. I wish I could say that I wouldn’t do it again, but I would because it was the best part of the night.

Sincerely,

Fergis T. McGillicuddy