5:30 AM

The news plays on a continuous loop in our office as we prepare to set up eager workers, shuffling them on their way. We do this for a couple of reasons: 1) The eyes of the workers focus on the tube instead of me and my coworkers, this doesn’t always work, at least 100-times per day we’re asked, “anything yet” and, 2) reread 1.

I hate the news. I’m pretty certain I’m the only one.

Hate is not entirely accurate: I do enjoy when the news focuses, for one week I might add, on a bump on the Lions Gate Bridge — complete with on-the-scene reports of what it is like to drive over the bump.

I also find joy in the story of the last two downtown gas stations closing — complete with interviews with people gassing up, “This will be such an inconvenience, the closest station is…”

You’re driving a fucking car. You’ll be okay. The closest… you’re driving a fucking car. (I can’t help but channel John Oliver when I read the last sentence).

That brings me back to the hating the news + Mike.

The lead story on this Monday wasn’t about gas. It was about five experienced Korean (Canadian) snowshoers, who had a tragic accident when the mountain they were on, collapsed — and sadly, they all perished.

Heartbreaking, humans that are not moved by this are…

“They were probably all drunk.”

You had to interject. You couldn’t even wait for the second sentence of the story.

“No Mike, they were not. The edge of the mountain was hard to see. They got too close.” Tony, a worker, added, thankfully.

“Well, who cares, they can’t drive.”

I mouthed you’re a fucking idiot as my stomach turned.

Ignorant, stupid, racist, a combination all mixed together with the roids he cycles in an attempt to be… an ignorant, stupid, racist… 50+-year-old, who doesn’t understand nobody cares what he benches.

My inclination usually is to defend, unfortunately; for some, there is no fucking point.


I approached Howe and Davie from the east, on feet, at first I typed foot, but I have two. Approaching from the south on Howe was a little-old-blind-lady. I sensed her frustration as she moved her cane from side-to-side.

“OMG, I’m so lost,” she said with frustration controlling her voice.

How do you know? crossed my mind.

Mike, is that you?

“Excuse me, may I help you… yes… wait here for 15-minutes.”


Time for lottery tickets — 1-block later at the counter of the 7/11, I noticed an inventory clerk standing by the counter.

Don’t talk to me. Don’t talk to me, crossed my mind.

“Are the tickets you’re buying for tonight?”


“What times the draw?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think it’s around 7.”

I shrugged my shoulders and exited the store. People, please save your words.

I told my friend Jay he may be the second best person on the planet.

He shot me an evil glance in return.

“Jay, there are 7.5 billion people on the planet, number 2 isn’t bad.”

“Who’s number one?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t met. I know it’s not you.”

Jay cares about me. He cares about a lot of people. He is number 2 after all.

“Hey Lindsay, do you want to try Chinese Traditional Medicine.”



You and Zach have appointments for Saturday.

Jay works fast. Instead of being thankful, I whined a little. Fuck, Saturday, the long weekend is screwed. It’s not like I was doing anything anyway. I was going to travel to Calgary for a friend’s 50th — I don’t know what was spinning in my mind for me not to go.

One day I will grow up.

Saturday, Korean, Chinese Traditional Medicine Doctors office: waiting for my turn.

“When he asks, why do I say I’m here?”

“You suffer from insomnia. You work weird hours which impact your eating habits. Tell him about your cough. You +++

“If I find out I’m dying I will be pissed.”

“At least you’ll know.”

“What if he doesn’t speak English?”

“He will.”

He didn’t.

His nurse sort of did. The two of them were delightfully pleasant.

“I get a cough a couple times per year. I’m susceptible to pneumonia… walking.”

“Doc… he has ammonia…” spoken in mandarin, I think… with more thought… probably Korean.

“Pneumonia not the window cleaning liquid, okay.”

They understood. I have ammonia.

Doc takes my pulse, on both wrists. He looks lovingly at my shorts-clad legs.

“Ammonia,” he said, followed by pointing to my legs and saying, “pants.”


Jay and Zach ask the good doctor what I can or can’t do on the medicine. He suggested not drinking. He also suggested I eat less chicken. How does he know how much chicken I eat?

After the appointment Jay asked if we could swing by Ikea.


With no dropping easily from my mouth I realised he did something good for me and I was being…

“Ikea, Costco, the Ferry to the Island, they’re all the same place. Everyone at these places is mentally disorganized… including me, when I go, which you know my childishness causes me to dread. Anyway, an hour or two that always includes eating… because… somehow, I think people panic and think they’ll never eat again. It’s worse at Costco where people will line up for fucking nut samples.”

That rant didn’t seem childish, did it?

We didn’t go to Ikea.

Instead, I decided to go on a Vodka swilling + Chicken devouring binge.

Do you think: Pig as a Pet — would be a great name for a restaurant?

Five chicken-free-beers later, it was time to head home, for, I’m hoping, chicken.


“Does the chicken broth come in any other flavours?”

As I passed the 7/11, I looked at the time on my phone.

“It’s now 6:50,” I told a panhandler sitting on the ground.

I could tell he was thinking: Don’t talk to me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t talk…

Next corner… crap… it’s been 26-hours… I said wait here… for 15-minutes… she’s still waiting.

I jaywalked.

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