This week marks the first anniversary of my photo blog. I never imagined that I would post well over 250 photos on the thing. I would have been surprised with, oh I don’t know, thirty or forty photos over the run of the year. I imagined that I would run out of photos and then I would be taking the same old boring photo over and over again or rehashing old photos. Now granted, some of you may believe that actually is the case, however, I’d like to think that maybe one or two has sparked someone’s imagination.

However, it’s more than the anniversary of a photo blog. Today happens to also be the second birthday of my friends’ Craig and Nadine’s daughter, Miss Hannah Rose. In commemoration of this wonderful event (and so that she can be appropriately embarrassed by her parents’ friends when she grows older) it is her photo (taken before she was even a year old) that adorns today’s photo blog.

Happy Birthday Miss Hannah Rose, and Happy Birthday to my photo blog.

I’d sing Happy Birthday but I think I’d have to pay some money to the current copyright holder and really, who wants to get sued?

On the way west across Newfoundland on the Trans Canada Highway, you will happen on a town called Come By Chance. If you take a right there and go north (supposedly passing the aptly-named Spread Eagle Peak) you will hit the wonderfully-named town of Dildo. There used to be a whaling plant in Dildo but I suspect a major financial woe for the town’s citizens these days might be replacing the oft nicked town signs. I can’t imagine why.

A few months ago, I was spending an afternoon at Corey and Donna’s apartment flipping through a copy of Macleans magazine and as usual criticizing every part of it when I happened upon a couple column inches of true hilarity. I vowed that I would have to blog it.

The question you might ask is why it took so long?

The answer is bloody simple. I’ve been wondering if I have the balls to write about dildos.

You see, Macleans had written about last year’s Football World Cup in Berlin and the sudden appearance of a “David Beckham” Dildo. Oh yes, some enterprising person had decided that what women really wanted was a sex toy sold with Beckham’s name. I couldn’t help but actually do some research (hey, I spent a lot of time in university doing research, it’s an addiction). Admittedly a sex toy with Posh Spice would probably have had more appeal to my male psyche, but the whole thing got me thinking. Now, please humour me here. It’s time for full disclosure, I am not a woman and I have never used a dildo.

Well, I began to wonder what celebrity dildos might actually be about. Was it just a regular old-fashioned dildo with Beckham’s name printed on it, or was it something much more enterprising? Had they perhaps created a sex toy in the image of Beckham itself? Naturally, one should never head down this line of thinking lest one be judged insane.

I began thinking up even crazier sex toys with celebrities. How about dildos that spoke to the user. Perhaps Beckham, Pitt and other stars could lend their voices? Heck Cruise could speak about Scientology while taking the women towards L. Ron Hubbard’s spaceship in the sky. Could there be one of Samuel L. Jackson spouting up the famous line from Pulp Fiction about walking into the valley of death as his head vibrates in a circle enacting the Exorcist? How about singing Dildos? Maybe the latest American Idol winner (that white-haired dude, haven’t a clue what his name is) crooning to you in a vibrating lullaby? Heck it might make that show actually worth something!

You could even start a line of Todd McFarlane-like collectible dildos. You could get the entire set of the Rolling Stones, or the Beatles, or the Jackson Five, heck maybe even the Bush Administration. Oh wait. I just went too far didn’t I? The thought of a vibrating Dick, and I mean Cheney here… sorry ladies, wasn’t thinking clearly.

Okay so sue me, I have a twisted imagination and likely need help. Then again… anyone want to start a business venture?

Imagine if you will a cliff somewhere in the desert. A roadrunner is zipping by without a care in the world; the legs whirling in a wind of fury. As the roadrunner approaches the cliff, it stops and peeks over. Magically an anvil appears out of thin air and the roadrunner drops the metal object over the cliff and whizzes away. Below, basking in serenity one Wile E. Coyote sleeps dreaming of the roadrunner on a spit turning slowly over a fire when out of nowhere and with little provocation an anvil drops into the middle of his body and makes him fold like a piece of paper.

Damn roadrunner.

Now, you could perhaps understand the roadrunner’s predicament. However, I have come to appreciate Mr. Coyote. A few days ago, Pixel, my darling cat, was bansheeing around the halls of my apartment in the middle of the night, when without provocation he lept, floated in the air as graceful as a gymnast. I can just imagine his ears pulled back in a sign of fury and then he dropped. And dropped… And dropped…

He dropped onto my chest. Yes the very same chest that was packing sore ribs.

I folded like a piece of paper and the entire building probably heard me sobbing like a child in anguish.

And yet, I have forgiven the evil feline. The human body is a wonderful thing. Four weeks ago I could barely breathe. The sheer force needed to expel air simply exhausted my heightened pain receptors. But magically the blood has swirled and my ribs are healing. Tonight I actually went for a run. In a couple days, maybe some light yoga. Soon, I’ll be ready for another bout of snowboarding.

Exactly: the same thing that got me in this mess in the first place.

Meanwhile, it turns out that I am not the only one going for a few unexpected flying lessons. You would have thought that Craig, a smart curler who had read my blog and seen the pain my flying attempts had caused me should have had the sense not to follow suit. But nevertheless, he too tried to fly. However, don’t worry; he did win the curling championship!

Did I ever tell you that I have some of the coolest friends in the world? Well, just to make a point of it, some of you might know a very good friend of mine from way back when, Chris Smith. When I was at The Muse, Chris had a stint as the Entertainment Editor for the newspaper. Chris even made it to my citizenship ceremony in Ottawa and I have fond memories of us (drunkenly) singing Ebony and Ivory in one of the MuchMusic booths. Little did any of us know that a decade later Chris would be crowned Graphic Designer of the Year at the East Coast Music Awards! Woot! These days Chris (or as he is better known, Chr!s Sm!th) heads his own design and photography studio FunkFactor and his work is impressive. So, Chris, I raise a toast to you and congratulate you, I’m very proud of you man!

So here we get to Valentine’s Day. Only one person has so far risen to my challenge of writing a profile! Some people (you know who you are) promised me such juicy possibilities as a profile on spanking. I’m still waiting. Nevertheless, the first will be the one posted by Rob Drinkwater (thanks Rob!). Let’s see how it goes!

For those curious, here it is:

I don’t know D. really well — I just bump into him every couple of years. So why am I writing a Valentine’s Day profile for him? The answer is that he’s too much competition for the rest of us 30-something bachelors, and we need some way to get him off the market!

As an executive member of the Peter Pan Club, I’ll let you in on a little secret. Life for us is pretty easy. All we really have to do to stay ahead of other men our age is go to the gym, floss, and update our wardrobes once in a while. I’m not saying we don‘t have to work to get women. We just don’t have to work that hard.

D., however, is throwing off the curve. I ran into him at the supermarket last month, and he told me he’s doing yoga and climbing. He’s planning on running the Vancouver Marathon. He climbed Kilimanjaro. He can SPELL Kilimanjaro.

I knew this was serious, so after leaving the supermarket, I called an emergency Peter Pan executive meeting. Brother C. moved a motion that we “off” D. at once. Most of us, though, argued we ought to mull it over before taking such serious action. D. is really a good guy, we said. He invites you to come drinking with him, and even though he’s the one looking fit and trim, he remarks on how fit you look. In short, he has the rare ability to make others feel good.

Well, even C. had to agree with that one. The motion was defeated, with a committee struck to research other solutions.

A few weeks passed, and then D. proposed his profile contest. I suggested to the committee that I submit one for consideration. If it worked, I said, a woman would take care of our problem.

So ladies, we bachelors need you to make sure D. is never seen unaccompanied in public again. Respond to his profile. Otherwise, we may have to kill him.

Some of you may have met my cat Pixel. He’s been with me for a long time. I picked him up from the St. John’s SPCA over eight years ago and within minutes of coming to my apartment was contentedly purring and asleep on his back. He is without doubt a beautiful cat. But like so many succubae before him, let not his good looks seduce you. I tell you his father is Satan.

There is an entire group of people who agree with this assessment of my cat. Most of these people have witnessed his attempts at trying to kill any number of my friends. I am sure that Pixel has tasted the blood of at least a dozen people. For example, bald and bold Darcy Pajak once visited my place. Pixel carefully observed his shiny head from the top of my bookcase, his eyes ranging back and forth, carefully monitoring the movements of this polished surface. Then his claws came out surreptitiously and with a snarl he sprang to grasp poor Darcy.

I knew there was something wrong with him when I brought back a beautiful plaster statue of the Buddha from Sri Lanka after one of my visits to see my parents. One day I came home and saw Pixel running around the house chasing after a white ball.

“Oh how sweet,” I said, “Pixel has found himself a new toy.”

I paid no heed and ignored the cat for the rest of the week until one day I happened to glance at the top shelf of my bookcase and noticed that the Buddha statue had gone missing. A mystery, I thought, and off I went to hunt. There lying in a state of supreme peace were the tattered pieces of the plaster cast: a headless wonder of Buddhism’s holiness.

The small white ball had been Buddha’s head.

How much karmic debt could possibly account from that I wondered?

Due to my recent inability to laugh or move because of my rib injury, I have been wondering about karmic debt. I have thought that perhaps I am paying for some evil I had done. Then, it struck me! I wasn’t being paid back for my transgressions; I was being punished for my cat’s transgressions!

You see, sometime before my snowboarding trip I had been sitting watching television when I heard a ripping sound followed by joyful mewling. In confusion I looked around to see Pixel gleefully and maniacally ripping pages out of the Bible; The very same copy of the Bible that I had used for our Bibliomancy trip. His face was all screwed up and his eyes focused, he looked at me and went at it harder.

Now, I know what you might be thinking: perhaps my cat is merely a literary critic. Admittedly there is much about the Bible that one, even a cat, could criticize. However, I am convinced that this is another show of his patronage of the devil.

My cat is obviously devil spawn.

Oh darn. I forgot to refill his water bowl. Must run.

I’m single. Valentine’s Day 2007 approaches and everywhere I look there are hearts springing up everywhere. There are even flyers being left on cars with hearts on them. The colour red seems to be quite in season. For those single in the city there is a conspiracy either to make you go ask the first person you meet, or to wallow in giant boxes of chocolate as you watch rerun after rerun of When Harry Met Sally.

If you spend any time online you will also note an increase in adverts from Internet dating sites. This is their time. It’s the New Year and people have set themselves insane resolutions to save themselves, find a mate and lower cholesterol. Meanwhile, who can bear to spend Valentine’s Day alone? A day aptly named for a man who became a martyr for not giving up his Christian beliefs (yes we tend to drop the “St.” from the name in these days of chocolate-frenzied commercialism). And so the dating sites are on full attack mode. “If you can’t find your love in the bars, let us help you online,” they proclaim.

For the most part I don’t disagree. I’ve met some wonderful people online (heck a couple of my best friends I met online). I’ve also met some really weird people. Let’s see, there was the girl who refused to say more than three words to me during an hour-long date. It’s a good thing I have the gift of the gab. Then there was the mother of four who was surprised to find that “Wow, you actually look like your photo and you’re so young”. Her photo, from my estimation, was taken ten years prior, and way before she had children and which, by the age she had placed on her profile, would have made her about 13 at the time of the photo.

Now, my parents, who I am told are informed of my posts, will be ecstatic to hear that I’ve actually tried Internet dating. It’s their “thing”. Replace “Internet” with “Newspaper Advertisement” and “Dating” with “Marriage” and you can probably get the idea of what they decided do to me once. However, late last year, I decided that I had had enough. No more Internet dating. I’m single but looking for love has never led me to love. Mostly it has led me to heartache, woe and a handy supply of vodka. I am okay waiting to run into a woman who will put up with me. I am (somewhat) patient.

So why am I writing all this?

I challenge you, my humble reader, to lead me to love. Here is my proposal. My dearest friends are supposed to know me the best. Who better than my friends to write an Internet dating profile? So, I prostrate myself before you and ask you to send me profiles written for me. I will gladly attach a photo to a profile and place myself on Lavalife. Each profile will be placed online with hardly any editing (I will take a screenshot to prove it) and will leave each profile up for three days. Yes you heard that right. I will not edit a word that you write for me (except for decency and what the site says is allowed). I will also spend money to contact one suitably sane person through the site with each profile.

What do you get out of this deal? Right, the person whose profile gets the best (read “best” not most, not even the “best” girl, I mean the most “interesting and fun”) response will get a bottle of vodka or rum. If none of your profiles get a response, now that will be most interesting

Here is your chance to live through me, humiliate me, praise me or whatever you want to do to me. I place the tatters of my love life in your hands.

You can email me your profiles or post them here. So send me a profile under 2000 words with a nickname that fits the profile you write. Every time I post a new profile I will let you, my humble readers, know.

How much are children worth to you? Would you spend one-thousandth of your salary on helping children and those in trouble around the world. Let’s do a bit of calculation, if you make $50,000 a year that would mean you would give $50. That doesn’t sound like much at all really. During the run of a year I probably give more than fifty dollars towards various charities.

Right now, UNICEF needs about $635 million to save people around the world. If they don’t get the money, chances are that they will not be able to reach areas and people where they are needed the most.

Now before you get all huffy, I’m not talking about you giving that $635 million. I don’t want to preach. Who wants to be told about starving children and those trying to escape a hail of bullets as they try to reach school? We have our own problems don’t we? Our governments should be shouldering some of that, after all aren’t we one planet? Hmmm, good point. Let’s have a look at our governments.

In 2005 the world spent over $1000 billion for military. Why can’t we spend 1/1000th of that amount on the children and the helpless of the world? I mean $1000 billion? If we suddenly turned around and spent all that on infrastructure and peaceful commerce what amazing things could we accomplish?

In our jaded world of seeing prancing trillionaires attempting to skive yet more money away by escaping taxes and charging consumers more, imagine if we decided that we would build a world wonder. How about the Great Pyramid at Giza? Well? Who’s up for it? How much do you think that would cost today’s world economy? There is one calculation that puts the cost at about one billion dollars.

Funny how that 1/1000th the cost of military spending keeps coming back isn’t it?

So for 2/1000th of the cost of military spending we could build a gigantic stone pyramid and duplicate one of the great wonders of the world and feed the children of the world in one year. Seems like a no-brainer to me.

So what does the US Military (for example) buy with 2/1000th the cost of the world’s military budget? What scary, wondrous, terrible, awe-inspiring weapons can you buy for 2 billion dollars? Well how about twenty F22 Stealth Fighter Jets? Or perhaps 1.75 of the world’s most expensive military aircraft at $1.3 billion: the B2 Spirit.

Oddly I think more people visit Egypt to see the pyramids than scour the United States looking at the B2 Spirit… I think there’s a lesson here somewhere, but I choose to ignore it and watch more prime-time television.

Last we left our intrepid hero, he was on his way to Golden, British Columbia. He had joined with fifty of his work colleagues and boarded a Backside Tours bus to Kicking Horse Mountain Resort for a weekend of fun in the snow. Snowboarding, skiing, careening down slopes, hot-tubbing and generally spending some time with good friends. This is not an unusual occurrence during a Canadian winter and indeed, normally, you would expect nothing but a bit of fun. Normally.

This past weekend, our hero discovered that the reason why humans decide to envelope themselves in aluminium shells before attempting to fly is because the landing is killer without one.

You see, he had spent the entire day getting over a rather brutal hang-over which was the result of a combination of vodka, soda water and a seven-hour bus ride of hilarity. At first the occupants of the bus (those who were sober) were concerned about the seemingly erratic driving of the driver who kept going from side to side from rumble strip to rumble strip, narrowly missing oncoming vehicles. The reality struck that the driver was actually quite accomplished on the mountain roads.

Nevertheless by the time the bus reached the serene mountainside and the good folk piled into the beautiful Whispering Pine lodges, it was late and the vodka had certainly permeated through every part of their being. Certainly the late night soak in the hot tub was of no help during the morning’s hang-over and snowboarding.

By the time afternoon struck, our hero was careening down the mountainside, narrowly missing accidentally entering black diamond trails, usually saved by his friends arresting his inane incontrollable board from falling off the cliffs. Somewhat further down the hill, our hero picked up speed. He could feel the air whistling past him. The snow was crunching and sliding against the edge of the snowboard. He got this. He understood the board. He was one with the board. He was on top of the world.

That’s when he decided to try and fly.

He turned one way, he turned another and then the front edge hit the snow. The edge moved slower than the rest of the board, and indeed, the idiot strapped to it.

The ground heaved and burped. Our hero was airbourne and cutting through the air head first with greater ease than moments before against the cold snow. Sadly, as mentioned before, our hero forgot to wear his aluminium suit. As Newton observed what goes up, must come down, and please believe this: snow is not soft when hit with speed.

Stunned he stared into the air after he rolled over, his breath all knocked out of him. He was alive. My god, what was that pain? He felt inside his shirt and withdrew it shaking hoping not to see blood or feel a bone sticking out. No such luck. He had landed square on his chest, right onto his ribs.

Suffice it to say our hero should have learned his lesson. One would have thought that he would not possibly get up the next day and attempt to snowboard through the pain of bruised or cracked ribs. Well, most rational people would have thought that. Unfortunately our hero is a little stupid.

So far this week, he has discovered the importance of one’s ribs. They keep the lung from collapsing. Coughing causes great pain. Sneezing is the equivalent of yelling “Hiroshima” and hitting your head against a wall. Breathing is something he would like to do without but he’s been assured that ceasing to breathe is a tad unhealthy.

His heroic actions have not garnered the respect that he would have thought amongst his peers. The doctor spent five solid minutes laughing at him before ushering him out. His coworkers on the other hand have been quite supportive:

“Quick! Make Dups laugh! It’s a lot of fun!”

The bastards.