Oops, I did it again

Let me set the scene for you. It was a Friday night and me and Crabu were at Ein-Stein's. Richard had gone the day before, and I realized that I haven't been since April. So we're playing pool and these two ummm...ladies of the night who aren't professionals come up to us and challenge us to a game, but go off and smoke first. Our game was whatever, as they were both very desperate and as Mike put it, "combined, they may be attractive enough", but this was a generous statement. The next pool table seemed more promising, as there was a cute blonde number, and a semi-unthreatening, (albeit tall), with her. She was kind of cold to begin with, but during the course of our game, (in which Crabu demonstrated a superb amount of pool skill I wasn't aware that he was hiding), she warmed up to us a little more.

Side note: Kaspar's mom has a massage table, and last night I put it to good use with Misha. Hence the cryptic title(s) of my last post. However, my massages are in now way sexual, so it's not like I'm getting off on giving them. I also gave one to Kaspar's sister, and also to Mike later on this night, but I seem to be getting ahead of myself slightly.

Side note two: Part of the reason I enjoy giving massages, (other than the fact I've got magic hands), is the fact that a person's back, shoulders and neck tell you an awful lot about their personality. Call it a generalization if you must, but I find the situation to be: loose back, loose attitude, tense back, tense living. Mike called this statement "Kunderaesque", which I took as a great compliment. Of course, of you think that this explains my shoddy posture, my pressure actually comes from my 'pelvic bone being higher on one side than the other', (this comes from ten sessions of rolfing, thank you very much). If I ever offer you a massage, make sure to take it. It's fun for me and relaxing for you.

Back to our scene. So the cute blonde girl makes a point to say "I've got a kink in my back", and I think back to the massages I bestowed earlier in the day and ask her "Want a massage?" She laughs it off as a lame pick-up line (cough!) and just to prove myself, I give Mike a shoulder rub. For the record, Mike Crabu, had one sole knot which was easily massaged out, and then it was smooth sailing. So the blonde number asks Mike "Was it any good?", from which Mike responds "Sure was".

At this point, the non-professionals had gone off to smoke a joint, (their goodbye to us was "we're going off to smoke a joint". I have nothing to say on the matter). Meanwhile, the non-threatening guy had challenged us, (along with his brother, or what I assumed was his brother), to play doubles against him. From what I recall, the game was pretty even. I summoned all of my Zen to actually sink a few shots, (though nothing like Mike's red ball), and we were close to winning. It was then that the blonde number, who the non-threatening guy had prevented from playing, had gotten pretty tired and was looking for a one way ticket to massage heaven. I tried to 'unknot her kink' for about ten seconds, when I noticed: "This is one of the most twisted backs I had ever seen. I asked her if she was a migrant worker or a field laborer, and her response made perfect sense: "Waitress".

Within these ten seconds, our pool game was still going. Non-threatening guy saw what was going on, (ooohhh, a massage, scary!), and proceeded to slam the cue ball into the corner pocket, thus ending what was a close game. He tried to grab cute blonde number and storm off, and it was at this time she leaned in close to me and uttered "we don't actually know each other very well", implying that the ink was still wet with her and non-threatening dude, and guess what! I had probably broken up a promising relationship by offering up a simple massage. Oops, I did it again.

Then again, it could have been two random people who barely knew each other coming face to face with 'trust issues'. So maybe next time I'll keep my hands to myself, but I strongly doubt it.

Also, Mike and I almost got run over by a guy driving a racing bike on the crowded College Street sidewalk at about eighty miles an hour at 2 in the morning, clearly jacked up on something. But hey, I'm just happy to see that Timmy's back on his feet again. You can rest easy, Sevvy. Now call me already!

The blogspot spell checker doesn't recognize the word Kaspar. It suggests 'Sassafras' instead. This makes me want to believe in fate, even more than I already do.

Rohab Dales offered up this secret of enlightenment: lighten up. This man is my spiritual guru. If only I I knew where to find him...

Text Massage

I just told my friend Misha that my hands are lethal weapons. My fingers aren't bad either, so that's why I am going to let them do the walking tonight, and see what happens. Envoy!

My current location is the wood of edge drive, just off of the beach. I decided to complete the trifecta tonight by doing even more nightswimming, but this time feels a little different, probably because peeps decided to go in without me having to beg them, I didn't put my head under the water, and the Vodkee hit someone, (but not me), pretty hard. Let's just say that My half brother's sister is plastered, (say that word as three separate syllables, p las tered, and emphasize the second syllable).

The day started today, (at 2:30), by crashing the wedding crashers). The movie hit waaay too close to home because, Spoiler Alert: the Will Ferrell character is named Chazz, and lives at home with his momma. Also, there is a snooty guy in the movie called 'Trapster', which never got explained. Maybe he'll have his own spin-off movie. It's too bad that Rachel McAdams wasn't allowed to do anything other than pout, and Christopher Walken was elegantly wasted. Other than that... hella funny, (but way long). Go see it.

I caught the last inning of the Jays game tonight, but I missed the first seventeen. Unbelievable...two fantastic games and I caught the eight-nothing blowout. My Red Sox rant wasn't actually a Red Sox rant, but an invocation for a new team to rise up and become a manifest destiny this year. Back-to-back championships are highly overrated. All I can remember about the 93 series is Mitch Williams hanging himself after the game, as well as that annoying 'Always Coca Cola' jingle which seemed to premiere the second after the game ended. It was worse than Jimmy Fallon, that little jingle: Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo Always Coca-Cola. All I remember of the Joltin Joe blast is the immortal line "Hit a home run to left field like Carter did to Philly" from the Choclair classic "Let's Ride". It's like the shot itself never actually happened. Though I remember that Curt Schilling was on the losing team, so that was nice. I can't believe that the ump overturned the call in T Bay just because he was afraid of Schill. Just because the guy's a gun nut, doesn't mean he's going to pull one on you during the game. Wait, something else is coming back to me. I remember one other thing about '93 - the CBC announcers interviewing Mark Tewksbury for some reason. Maybe they were hyping the Olympics. Man, Brian Williams is a sucky announcer. He's worse than Joe Carter and Rod Black combined!

At least the Jays had the 'Win it for Molly' fell good thing going. What would the Red Sox do? Let's do it for Alex Cora? Give it to Graffanino? I'm sorry Red Sox fans, you've had your moment to shine, and now it's Twinkie time. Tear it up for Torii. Contract this, Selig! Time for a glass of 'Sota.

Lastly, I've never written a post with two gimps hanging over my shoulder, but it really didn't seem to bother me this time. However, I decoded a secret message within the confines of the text. Happy hunting, everybody! Oh, and Rob Butler, too.

Blog Party

Just in case I forgot to mention, Rich Traps and I are holding down 175 until my 'rents get back next week. So if any wants to drop by, it's open 24/7. If you feel like drinking basement beers, or eating delicious Kraft Dinner, or perhaps even watching a ballgame on one of my many satellite channels which seem to always be showing games, much to my brother's chagrin.

Today's slate started with the Cubs vs. Giants, featuring a fantastic ending, which I admit that I missed, due to the fact that I normally stop watching Cubs games after the seventh inning stretch. Today's guest stretcher was Denis Savard. He said: "hockey's back" and that made me sad. Fuck hockey. This was followed by the Red Sox and Tampa at 4 on Sportsnet whatever. I can't watch the Red Sox on the road anymore, because their large cheering section reminds how bandwagony the fans are. Where were all the diehards during the Jimi Williams era, I wonder? Now everyone says "I liked 'em from the beginning". It's these kind of people who cheered for the Dallas Cowboys and the 'Dream Team' in the early 90s and I strongly suspect rooting the Yankees in the later 90s. Everybody loves a winner.

Also playing, was the Jays / Angels game, which I guess isn't all that exciting considering that it was on TSN, but the game itself was a thriller. I admit though, I'm probably stilled jazzed from the game yesterday, (in which Vlad Guerrero demonstrated that he is a six tool player, while Alex Rios demonstrated that he should be demoted), followed by walking home from the subway station, but sticking around the Park Hyatt to see the Angels exiting the team bus. My conclusion: Bartolo Colon is less rotund then he appears on TV, Chone Figgins rocks two cell phones at once, John Lackey is one ugly man, and Vladdy is the last man off the bus, because he is the coolest. Poor, poor Wilton. Maybe him and Ramon Martinez are somewhere cursing their inferior genes. The late game was Cleveland and Seattle, also on Sportsnet whatever, (because I can't keep track of the difference between West and Pacific), which I didn't watch because I miss Travis Hafner. North Dakota wishes you a speedy recovery.

Okay, so after that long tangent, the only rules at Casa del Traps are: don't smoke in the house, (that's what my Nashville ashtray is for, or should I say, my nashtray), and the other rule is: no self-loathing, at least not blatant self-loathing. Quiet self-loathing is acceptable. Actually, there's a third rule, but it's hard to define: you can bring anybody you want, in fact, I encourage it, but they have to be comfortable in the presence of other people. This is surprisingly not a given. In return, I'll make offhand comments about strip clubs that cause you to reexamine everything that is sacred and profane, and may in fact lead to self-loathing. I'm a good friend. Also, if you have a problem with what has become 'The Chas Traps show', that you can fuck off, Erik. I like everybody who comes round, even if they mumble gibberish, and when asked what they just said, mumble the same gibberish, tough a little bit louder. At least it amuses my brother. Tomorrow, we are going to crash the Wedding Crashers. That it, if we can get up in time for the 3:10 show. I'm hoping that we make it. I don't know how I made it to a 9 a.m. class this year, two days a week! I bet that's why I felt logey all day, every day.

Pink Bullets

- In my last post, about the guy whose relationship I broke up, I forget to mention that I also got him kicked out his band. Apparently I was cheering too loud for the drummer, (him), and the lead singer had a fit about it. Yeah, mon.

- My buddy is passed out my couch right now. It's so cute, and he's trying to apologize, but I don't mind in the least. I'm going to draw the line at taking pictures, though it's really tough. I don't understand how this happened though. He just showed up and dropped out.

- It was actualyl my brother who came up with the name Sega Genocide. My hardcore band was called Recipro-hate. My bad. (Note - I still think that 'The Checkpoints' would be a fantastic Ska band). I wish I had patents.

- I'm still curious as to whether I'll see Sevvy's best friend while she's in Italy. The girl reminds me a lot of the South Park episode when Cartman went on Maury Povich episode. "I don't go to school and I kill people. Whatever! I do what I want!" If she can sit still for thirteen seconds, we'll get along just fine.

- I'm going to try to learn how to skank properly. It's not what you think.

- Vladimir Guerrero is the best player in baseball, bar none. Sorry, Manny.

- I think that it's about time to get a J.O.B. I can't believe that I actually offered to guest blog. You know what, that offer is still on the table.

- I will blog for food.

I think...about things

When I'm on the road, I have strange thoughts. Like starting a hardcore band and performing under the name "Sega Genocide". Or perhaps "Recipro-hate". If only I could get some talent. Oh wait, it's a hardcore band, so that's not really important.

Also, I think about how an offhand comment I made ended a four and a half year relationship. Of course, it wasn't my four and a half relationship, but I guess that makes it much worse. It was a pure Larry David / George Costanza moment, and the story is definitely to follow.

I think about how much fun I had when I brought two of my best friends together, and how I didn't at all feel like the third wheel. But now they're on different continents for the next, oh, let's say six weeks. And I fully intend to stay friends with both of them, but how this can't help feeling like every time I was dating a girl and she went to another city for an indeterminite amount of time, and the result was always the same.

Come to think of it, I haven't had many relationships that ended the 'traditional' way. By 'traditional', of course, I mean that one person gets sick of the other one, think that they can do better, and move on to something or someone else, which turns out to be less better. Of course, this is just my stilted view of why people break-up, and reminds me way too much of the book and movie version of High Fidelity. Hear that, Charlie?

I have come to determine that there is no good way to deal with a relationship that ends due to distance. Every option is the wrong one. Staying together, breaking up, e-mailing each other, not e-mailing each other, caring, not caring. Moving on, not moving on...every result is exactly the same. It feels weird to be on the other side of the fence for once.

See y'all in the city.

Lest we forget...

I've already done New York City sideways. I gotsa get back to my life here in TO!

Note: I may currently be leaving for Thornbury. In that case, I'll be seeing y'all on Monday!

120

Chas Traps may be taking this baby in an unforeseen direction. I am not comfortable having to choose between my uncensored thought and a work environment, so, as has been my wont lately, I am going to bring the two of them together!

I am going to write, and not worry about the wrong.

Now that my watch is no longer waterlogged from swimming in pools and lakes, I am going to make sure that everybody knows what time it is. Starting with myself.

Cheesenormous

"Our former nanny, a 26-year-old former teacher with excellent references, like to touch her breasts while reading The New Yorker and often woke her lovers in the night by biting them. She took sleeping pills, joked about offbeat erotic fantasies involving Tucker Carlson and determined she'd had more female sexual partners than her boyfriend" --- from today's New York Times Styles section.

Well, it's finally happened. The bloggers have taken over the mainstream media, to the point that the mainstream media has taken to writing about the blogs and bloggers themselves. It is all very meta, and I'm sure I would be able to throw in something I learned about McLuhan in my Humanism course, but I could never get the gist of the difference between warm and cool media, (still can't, really).

The front page article was about a gay teenager blogging his experience at a Christian 'reform' cam, but I'll come back to that one later. The article that really interested me was one about a babysitter who broadcasted her most personal of confessions online, sexual and otherwise, much to the chagrin of her employer. My guess is that she probably had a LiveJournal, but that's neither here nor there. Current music: Teenage Lobotomy by The Ramones.

I wonder though, am I cgiving away T.M.I. in my blog posts? BTW, that means too much information for those acronym impaired. Oh, and BTW means, well, you know. Seriously though, how much of the nitty-gritty am I really sharing with my sixteen readers? I realized something kind of strange when I went over my last post. I chose to somehow try to summarize the whirlwind that was the last four days with a Bowie song. If you were to read between the lines, you might say "Oh, he quotes Bowie all the time, there's nothing to it" (or you might say "Who's Bowie", in which case stop reading this right now). But if you were to read between the lines even further, you might say "Hey, Oh! You Pretty Things is kind of, shall we say, experimental, and when you coupld that with Chas Traps' newfound wearing eye make-up, not to mention his closing coda of 'homo superior', and his not having a girlfriend, and hmmmm, Chas Traps may be subtly trying to come out into the blogosphere. And you couldn't be more wrong. Why do I feel like Mike Piazza all of a sudden.

The point is not that I'm turning "Caught in the Traps" into another kind of website, (though if I did, it would probably still have the name "Caught in the Traps", but that I am really trying to share more and more of my personal life experience with my invisible audience. I don't want to write for me, as I already know what it that I'm thinking and feeling and doing. I'm writing for those who can't be with me, and for those that sometimes were with me. I want to share my thoughts and strange compositions and bits and go into as much depth as possible... but I still have to keep a slight distance for potential employers.

What I'm rambling to say is that I have a lot to tell you all. And what I expect is that you'll have a lot to say back to me, (like Misha's long response a few posts back).

The last few days I have been at the centre of peeps of a certain sort coming and going at my place as they please, and I have loved every minute of it. Complain if you will, but this is the kind of life that I enjoy living.

Wake up you sleepy head

Put on some clothes, shake up your bed
Put another log on the fire for me

Oh! You Pretty People. I have been thrust into an orgy of drop-ins, drop-outs, and all things in between. Since my parents departed for the lovely state of Minneapolis, the drum solo began, and I haven't had two moments to myself to do the things I love best, (blogging, silly!) Of course, as I am an ENFP, I prefer the company of others, (and their wacky, petty differences), to my own nostalgic ramblings. Yesterday, I went nightswimming again, and unlike before, someone joined me. Thank You Thank You Thank You to the flashlight people who helped me find my cell phone and keys in the sand. One of them I could understand losing, but both at the same time! Coupled with Sevvy turning into deadweight, this made for a hasty retreat from the peaceful tranquility of the beach, (or as peaceful as you can get with my incessant insistence that errbody come swimming with me.

You gotta make way for the homo superior

Hey Now, You're an All-Star

Before I get this mutha started, I want to say that the above quote is not from the corresponding Smash Mouth song, but actually from the N.O.R.E classic "Nothin'". Or at least I'd like to believe that it is.

That being said, IT'S THE ALL-STAR GAME, BABY! I have decided to celebrate by going to the most random, the Sports Cafe, and inviting all of my random friends to celebrate. My pick for all-star MVP: Pujols. There's nothing I like about him, but I'm getting 'the vibes'. N.B. If he ends up winning, I swear to Gawd that I wrote this before the game. Oddly enough, Pujols is the only NL back-up at first base. So unless Derrek Lee is playing the enitre game at first, (how retro!), I don't know how the game is going to play out. Perhaps Jake Peavy can play a little first.

Also, I am back (for the first time, another hip-hop allusion, dawg), from Thornbury, or as I like to call it: "The place where I get a wicked sunburn". Right now I am wearing a pink shirt. If I wear to take off said pink shirt, I would still be wearing a pink shirt. Got it?

I am sad that BSS didn't play anthem for a seventeen year old girl at their show last week. Also, their show was mucho disappointing, especially since they had to follow the elephants. To make up for this, I will be writing my own anthems for a seventeen year old girl. Stay tuned.

General question: Is a MILF required to have children? If there existed a forty-something woman who fit the general MILF criteria, (big hair, big boobs, etc.), would she still be classified as a MILF? Or must she actually have kids? Also, what about a non-flashy twenty-four year old woman with a young kid? MILF or not? I need the specific definition...for ummm...research purposes. Okay, I'm porn again! Stay tuned for that and other hunting reports.

So I guess I'm trying to say....All that glitters is gold. Furthermore, only shooting stars break the mold. Go Pujols!

Germinal Rabu aka The post so nice I wrote it twice

So there I was on the Island. I know that I had taken the ferry to Ward's Island, but apparently Algonquin Island is the one with houses. Regardless, I had missed the last boat, so I was stuck on the island for the night. I think this was by design, but I am not completely sure. I was eighteen years old, and flunking out of high school. My friends, Rohab and Rabu, both lived on the island, a fact that amazes people to this very day. Apparently they are all a tight knit community. One or both of them had the idea of firing up their infamous 'gimp machine' and asked me if I wanted to smoke with them. I of course, said yes. I had previously that day taken mushrooms, and was coming down. I may have taken them in the art room of our High School, or that may have been a separate incident. I didn't, nor have at any time taken an art class. Oh, but it just gets better from there.

Once we were nice and toasty, Rabu suggested we go for a walk. I wanted to go inside his house, where I could relax and perhaps stare at a wall or something. Rabu urged us to push on, and Rohab readily agreed. I begrudgingly went, thinking that we would be back shortly, all the while swatting away imaginary spiders, making weird throat clearing sounds, and wailing "Guys, let's go back now". I had figured that we were going to walk to Centre Island and back, a roughly twenty minute trip. Apparently, that night we walked the entire length of the Toronto Islands. Now, unbeknownst to me, the island are not actually that close together. Hanlon's Point especially, is far out there. This is what I learned that night, as we traversed the entire islands, in order to arrive back at the spot we just started. This was a roughly four hour trip. And the whole time, I was tripping out on a combination of mushrooms, weed, and ignorance. In my haziness, I figured that walking forward would bring us closer back. And after a while, I was correct. A long while.

So once we arrived back at Crabu's place, I went straight to the couch, and my memory gets a little cloudy after that, (though hooray! I clearly remember the walk!) I think I had blisters the next day, but of course, I was too high to remember.

There was another incident where my Hungarian friend offered me Hungarian sober pills to remove my paranoid high. And I took them.

How did I even get to where I am now?

My experience proves two things: 1. Perhaps there is another reason I'm down on weed other than "I don't get why boring people take it" and 2. I clearly need some new friends.

Bong!

Re: hash

I just don't understand the appeal of certain types of 'inhalable drugs'. Of course, I'm talking about the narcotic affectionately known as marahoochie.

Last week at the Modest Mouse concert, a friend of mine turned to me and said "this is amazing, but imagine how good it would be with weed". That just made me feel kind of sad. Is the sensation for 'casual' drug takes that events are somehow less fascinating when taken not under the haze that a little pot gives you?

Maybe I am something of a hypocrite. As many of you know, I spent most of the last two years taking a pharmaceutical drug known as 'Concerta', and before that, I spent a few months on ritalin. Now, I am in know way implying that smoking joints and taking pills under the supervision of a pharmacist are the same thing, (even though Chris Rock would). The Concerta I took was a Godsend in helping me pay attention during my classes, writing my assignments, and even showing up places on time, (well, sort of). In short, I was taking the pills for their intended use...and I was an intended user. I saw a (different) friend of mine pop a ritty in order to study for his exam, (he took his schooling WAAAAYYYY serious). Problem is, he took the drug at 10 p.m. and stayed up all night dealing with the effects.

The T.V. show Desperate Housewives featured an episode arc where the Felicity Huffman character would take a few of her presumable ADD affected kid, and found the drug to be pretty relaxing. Even though this was played for laughs, I've heard that ritalin can have really troubling effects to those who take it recreationally. I wouldn't know - I don't share my pills.

Even though these drugs are supposed to help students whose minds tend to wander, I found that the pills would tend to neutralize me. Not to the effect of the South Park episode where all the kids took ritalin, (and no, I didn't see any pink Christina Aguilera monsters), but I certainly found myself to be more 'agreeable'.

However, since I am out of school and out of work, I really have no reason to take the pills. Yet I spent about a month afterwards where I continued to take them, as it had become something of a routine for me, and because I like the feeling of being settled. Then, for reasons of my own choosing, I decided to stop...and haven't taken a pill in about three weeks. I gotta say...I like the feeling of more highs and lows. I can certainly feel 'high' on my own, and when I bottom out, I don't really fall very far. This is who I am though, and has nothing to with drugs. However, I miss the feeling of being on Concerta. It's not quite a high, but more of a..well, I'm not quite sure how to describe it, only that I've heard LSD reffered to as a mind-altering drug, and if there was an opposite feeling to that, where one's mind is unaltered and can focus only on the task at hand, that would be it. Why would I want to let that feeling persist, if the drugs clearly have a positive effect on me?

Is that worth letting go if it means that I don't get really really happy or sad when I'm taking the pills? I find that marijuana gives me an awful feeling, as it tends to make me feel less in control of myself, a sort of 'floating away' feeling while the pills reaffirm me as the captain of the captain of my own ship.

Maybe some people like that 'losing control' sensation, and don't want to feel responsible for their actions i.e. it was the weed talking, but I like to experience everything, even if it's a 'wow, I feel fucked up' state of mind, (which I can happily acheieve without taking a single drug, thank you very much).

I know someone who quit smoking because he was doing it too much and I applaud him for that. Of course, I quit as well, but I don't consider that an accomplishment because I neer really liked it in the first place, and (almost) every experience that I've been stoned has been anti-climactic. Even the Jon Stewart in Half-Baked, "You think --- is fun, you should try it on weed" maxim is a bit of a letdown for me. Been there, done that, it's more fun when you are sober.

In fact, I don't get it. Are people really so uninteresting that they feel the want, nay need to run away from their boring seleves and let the weed do the talking for them? Or is it some sort of enhancement to the bliss that they experience on a regular basis? And I am any better for finding my own narcotic, albeit a legal and helpful one to be as beneficial to me as pot is to others? Perhaps I've just grown up a little. After all, how long into your life can you continue smoking weed until it just becomes sad? By, say, thirty, haven't you either moved on, or started taking something more powerful, like cocaine or glue? This, of course, applies to those who smoke even though they don't hafta. I'm not getting into medicinal marijuana. Also, is smoking pot a lower class activity, like getting tattoos, smoking cigarettes all the time, and shoplifting? Or is it considered 'high class' to have a little puff now and then? I sure don't think so.

Societal reasons aside, I just don't like smoking and plan never to do it again. I hope I don't sound too preachy. About the prescription meds though...I'm on the fence. I hoep that in the next few days, I get off the fence and on with my life.

Thornburied

For those of you unfamiliar with the Splendor of Northern Ontario, Thornbury is a little burg about ten minutes east of Collingwood.

Being the city boy that I am, I was surprised at how much I enjoyed a jaunty country retreat on this, our country's birthday.

So those of you who check every day, and when they don't see a post from me, panic, here I am! Leave me a comment if you like.

The highlights of the trip were: 1. My skin, transforming from chalk white into lobster red. 2. My father's golf swing. 3. My mussels from 'Sisi on Main'. Boy were those delicious mussels.

The lowlights of the trip were: 1. Drinking a half carton of milk right before we left, just so I wouldn't 'waste' it. 2. Accidentally leaving two bags behind.

So in other words, fuck New York, (and their three, perhaps four, all-star Yankees). Country living is the life for me!