I’m no monster so I wanted to make sure my fur coat was totally organic. The weather was a bit nasty yesterday so I put on my old boring didn’t-used-to-be-alive coat and made my way down to the neighbourhood with the most hippies. I saw a lively little store that didn’t have plumes of pot smoke rolling out the open door and decided to inquire within. The gentleman looked a bit confused at my request for my new fur coat to be organic, so I said in a stern voice that I would only be comfortable in a coat that had been grain fed and allowed to live in a free range environment. Again, he hesitated. Apparently most people aren’t as environmentally responsible as I am because he didn’t seem to have a quick answer for me. Finally he looked up and said, “So you mean like a pet? The pet of some child on a farm somewhere? Um yeah, this one just came in from a big farm where the animal spent its life frolicking in the fields and having a young boy nuzzle it’s wet little nose when there was thunder.” That’s perfect I said, just perfect.

Organic always costs more, but I didn’t mind paying extra for peace of mind. It’s the only way I would feel comfortable. And I mean really comfortable, the fur is so supple when it has been hugged a lot.

audience of one
Clark

With all the highs, there was one big low. I was at one of the live music sites waiting for my friends, when I made a drastic and very poor decision. I decided to check out the Coca-Cola pavilion while I was waiting.

Now, there are two trains of thought on this one. If you are of the first mind, you will be saying, “Oh Hornbell, of course that was a bad decision. Corporate America will always let you down, and the pure spirit of the Olympics has been muddied by crass commercialism.” If you are of the second mind, like me, you figured “Sure, corporate advertising is out of hand, but they have the big bucks to put on a really good show.” I wasn’t doing anything else, so I hopped into line.

Half an hour later I was only half way to the door. Annnnnnnnnnd there were kids walking out the exit looking pretty disappointed. Let me say that again. There were kids, who go wild with ecstasy whenever they are even in the same province as sugar-water and flashing lights, leaving the Coke pavilion, that should have been a pants wetting explosion of both, looking downright bored.

This did not bode well. But now I was line committed so I wasn’t going anywhere. I mean, I could see the door! Little did I know that getting through the door only led you to the line to get into the movie. You guessed it, you had to go to the movie. Awesome.

So I settled in for a few minutes of a cheesy “inspirational” video of people who Coke sponsored to carry the torch. It was pretty average and I figured that this is what killed the spirit of all those kids I saw leaving.

Oh, if only this were true. When the show was over they unleashed the lamest piece of marketing embarrasment that I have ever had the misfortune to be a part of. The person who had introduced the video came back out and yelled “WHO WANTS TO DRINK SOME HAPPINESS!.” To which some people cheered. I don’t blame them. That was kind of the vibe on the street at the time, but I just stood there stunned. Drink some happiness? Did they put the cocaine back in?

Then the Coke person pulled back this big door to reveal about 8 Coke workers cheering like crazy amidst billows of smoke and lasers. “Who wants to drink some coke!” They yelled at me. “C’mon over and drink some happiness!”All between crazed fist pumping and phony smiles.

I tried to bolt through without anyone touching me. I thought I had made it when one Coke cheerleader darted out of nowhere and forced a high five out of me. She squeezed my hand as we slapped. In that moment I looked into this person’s dead eyes and they screamed, “Help me.” I knew right then that she was trapped in here, an endless cycle of drunken faux happiness, being paid with only corn syrup and lies. I could do nothing more than mouth, I’m sorry. With some difficulty I slid my hand away and made my way to the exit without ever looking back.

I learned my lesson after that little excursion. No more corporate tents for me. From then on, I stuck to the more cultural pavilions to find out about other countries, to immerse myself in their way of life, and to drink myself into a blissful stupor on their traditional fermented joy.

censor the ship out of it
Clark

This weekend I had a big Saturday planned. Hit the hill to do some snowboarding, then drink s and dinner, then a bad sweater party at a friend’s house. You throw a random B.Spears back massage in there and that is pretty much my perfect day. Instead what happens? I have half a beer at dinner and I start to fade. We’re talking head nods in the pub, my face balanced ever so delicately over my plate of nachos. When I got home I threw on the hockey game and promptly fell asleep at 9:30pm…and slept through the entire night! Apparently, old man Hornbell really needs to recharge those batteries. To make matters worse, I managed to pull a muscle in my neck and back while I was sleeping. Not snowboarding through trees and over rocks, I injured myself while tucked into my cozy bed.

Unfortunately this isn’t an isolated incident. Last year I destroyed my lower back while I was helping move tables at a friend’s wedding. The worst part was that only seconds before someone had asked me if I needed help. I looked at them like they were crazy and I heaped scorn at them. “A man, like the Horn here, need help? Surely you jest.” I even went so far as to pop a bicep at them. Then BOOM, next table I lifted sent lightning to my lower back and had me on the floor near tears. They acted sympathetic, but I could see joy in their eyes.

I’ve tried stemming the tide of my deteriorating body by not exercising to avoid strain, eating foods with lots of preservatives in them, and slathering my body of Oil Of Olay. I’ll have a younger body in no time.

pulled a muscle while stretching
Clark

Of course my first reaction was, “Who are you calling old you little bastard?” Once I calmed down, I took some time to analyze the situation. Was that really an insult or not?

One side of me thinks that Harry Potter is a whiny, little nerd who can’t even ask Cho Chow out on a date. He often sits back and takes abuse from a fat kid in the muggle world, and a skinny albino rich kid in the wizard world. His potion work is tragic. Worst of all he is English.

I was really starting to hate on this kid. Then I looked at the positives.

Harry Potter is the chosen one, and there is simply no more awe inspiring nickname than “the chosen one.” It makes you sound dangerous and heroic which is a killer combination with the fairer sex. Just think, “Hornbell the chosen one. No no, no reason to bow down to me ladies. Yet.” Speaking of ladies, things didn’t work out with Cho Chow, but the Weasley girl is coming into her own and I’m definitely a fan of the redheads. Plus we’re talking about an epic Quiddich player and youngest ever winner of the tri-wizards cup.

In the end I’m going to have to take this whole Harry Potter doppelganger business as a compliment. Sure there is the whole power-hungry dark wizard constantly trying to kill me thing, but live-fast-die-young-continue-living-win-the-day is very appealing.

someone’s coming to save my life
Clark

1.       They pretend to be Swedish. The standard image of a Swede in North America is of the tall, sleek blonde bombshells who are super healthy and ski everyday. Tall, sleek and bombshell like is exactly how I want my furniture.

2.       They even give them Swedish sounding gibberish names like Malm and Frogurt. It’s the cheapest stuff you can buy, but when you throw out a foreign sounding name, that is almost impossible to pronounce, it takes on an aura of expense and sophistication.

3.       Cheap delicious food. Who hasn’t gone to IKEA just to eat? Then after a heaping helping of Lingin berries you buy an end table…which leads me to my next point.

4.       IKEA makes it possible to impulse buy a couch. You’ve gone there looking for a lamp and as you pass through the maze of furniture a couch has caught your eye. It was comfy, had a cool foreign name, doubled as a bed-kitchen table-ironing board, and you said to yourself “Wow, that’s pretty cheap for a couch/bed/kitchen table/ironing board. Pretty sure that will fit in the car.” That has never happened before IKEA.

5.       The true genius lies in you having to set it up yourself. They give you the vaguest line drawing instruction and a few extra pieces and you end up battling your significant other for hours. “Extra” pieces is key because then you’re pissed at your girl/boyfriend for being too stupid to figure out where they go instead of the company who shorted you. After a few hours of trying to assemble a desk that only had five pieces to begin with you’re ready for some type of murder-suicide breakup. Cooler head prevail and you just break up normally (ie. Drunk phone calls at 3am and name calling). Then you have to buy more stuff from IKEA to furnish your new bachelor pad. Making you assemble it yourself basically guarantees you’ll be buying double the amount of furniture within the week.

it costs you more than what you get paid
Clark

So far it’s been a blast. There is truly nothing like being out on the open road on a pair of wheels. And this is just the beginning. Soon I’ll get a one-size-fits-all-hot-girls second helmet and the sky will be the limit. “Hold tight, I’m pretty dangerous,” I’ll say. Yep, sexy.

There is a down side to being this awesome though. I’m sorry but it’s true. Brace yourself. The bike gets a lot of attention and that is great. That’s a big part of owning the thing. But a lot of the attention it gets is from hard core bike guys who think you are one of them and they ask you questions like, “Nice bike, is it a shaft drive?” I hesitate having no idea. Then I start to feel like a fraud. Then I blurt out, “Oh yeah, for sure, there are like 4 of them.”

Nothing emasculates you as quickly as not knowing anything about the cutting edge piece of machinery you own. I want to just answer all their questions with how I really feel. Things like, “Look how pretty it is” “Man, that is a really huge back tire” and “I read it goes really fast.”

Somehow I don’t think that will fly.

constantly carrying around his helmet
Clark

For quite some time I’ve been enjoying the juicy, fire roasted flesh of succulent animals from the world over. As have we all (vegetarians don’t read this site). I love them all. Four legs or two, hooved or winged, young and old. The only think I love more than cooked meat is cooked meat wrapped in another cooked meat. If you slapped down a deep fried turducken, with bacon wrapped meat ball stuffing, all I would say is “No seafood?” I’m sweating just thinking about it.

It’s clear now that all those succulent animals have had enough. I assume they’ve been plotting for years, but the lack of opposable thumbs have hurt any plans for a rebellion with your standard pitchforks and torches. Now they’ve figured it out and their weapon of choice is disease. The sneaky bastards have been at it for sometime now. It all started with Mad Cow, making you skip your 5^th cheeseburger. Then there was Red Tide disease that made trips to the $3 Chinese seafood buffet almost totally out of the question. If that wasn’t bad enough, there was the Avian flu that ruled out all those tasty winged animals like turkeys, chickens, and eagles.

Now this stupid swine flu has taken my bacon. THEY HAVE GONE TOO FAR! FAR TOO FAR!

In the spirit of not bowing to Meaterrorism I vow to triple my animal intake. It’s not going to be easy, just fun, but standing up to tyrants never is easy, just fun.

I made a fist and not a plan

Clark

Karma wasn’t a big fan of my attitude and the very next time I played it busted my pinky finger all to hell. “Coulda gone pro if wasn’t fer my finger and such” you’ll be hearing me say from my rocking chair. I was battling in the corner for the ball, because I’m not all stick handling magic, I’ve got the heart of a lion as well, and I mashed my most fragile digit on the end of an opposing player’s stick. You’d be surprised how nauseous you get when you look down to find your finger at a real ugly angle.

You would also be surprised how little sympathy you get when you break your pinky. It’s a broken bone. It hurts. But all I get is (in a whiny baby voice) “did wittle Hornbwell hwert his wittle pinky dinky fingy.” FYI, that makes you sound like you’ve had head trauma, certainly a lot more than it makes me feel like a pussy.

Karma wasn’t done there. When I went to the hospital to get it x-rayed they were talking about a 5 hour wait with all the pork flu victims that were lying around. No pain is worth 5 hours waiting around in the hospital so I threw some tape on it and headed home.

Think Karma had its fill? No chance. Before I head to the clinic the next day I’m getting some work done at home and babying my pinky something fierce. Then when I’m putting on my shirt I slowly snake it through my sleeve and promptly slam it into a pillar. A lady-like scream and some profanity later, I realize Karma has decided I’m to pay. I’ve never hit any fingers on any pillars when they were all 100%. It waited till now to bring the smack down.

So hey, I’m like all sorry or whatever for the fact that I totally dominate a bunch of punkass losers at a game I’ve never played before. There Karma, you happy now?

wearing a helmet tomorrow

Clark

It’s an interesting group of people who show up each Wednesday. I live in an “interesting” part of town and in turn the people who show up are “interesting” as well. All walks of life really. But what is most important is that they all suck. I look like Wayne Messier out there.

Not only do they suck, they take it incredibly seriously. Is there anything sadder??? People who are terrible at something that doesn’t matter (you don’t even get a t-shirt if you win this thing) but rage when their suckage is inevitably unleashed, make me blush with shame as I speed by an entire line and rifle one through the goalie’s legs.

coulda gone pro
Clark

-“Nothing says mid-July like a thick beard, hey Hornbell?”

-“So do you have trouble getting a table for one at Chucky Cheese now?”

-“What can I get you Grizzly Adams?” (This from a total stranger. Awesome.)

-“Hey Hornbell, I think your face is trying to hide itself.”

-“You look like a helicopter pilot in Nam.”

-“Please tell me that is phase one of a moustache.”

phase one of me being awesome
Clark