Sometimes Things Just Come To Us...

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Being Preoccupied

I've been a bit busy recently. I've found a job and perhaps more importantly, I've begun to write more consistently. I can say without any hesitation, that in the months of silence on this blog, I have (FINALLY!) completed the very first draft of my very first official script.

[Party whistle]

That was two months ago.

Being the lazy son of a bitch that I am, I decided to reward myself with two months of creative rest before starting a rewrite by doing fuck all and starting a short story that, much like my other stories, never got anywhere nor completed.

But hey, little baby steps.

I Was Living in a Moon Colony

I had one of those strange dreams last night. Honestly, I've been having a few more dreams of late that were quite vivid. But much like my life, nothing interesting really happens in them.

But this one's the exception. This was a dream with PLOT.

- The Dream -

It took place sometime in the future, because for some strange reason, I lived on a newly colonized moon. Life is pretty good here, except for the board of directors that did some bad stuff I can't remember, it just felt that they were bad (it's a dream so believe me that they were up to no good. Feelings are as good as evidence and I got a bad feeling around them).

Anyways, I ended up doing some sort of corporate espionage shit that exposed a nasty secret about these guys and the entire colony. Unfortunately, I got caught.

Then I was presented to the board of directors on the moon where for some reason, The Rock was there.



So the board of directors start discussing about how to deal with me and they decide to kill me or some shit (like I said, got a bad feeling about them).

For some reason, The Rock jumps up and says "I'll do it. I'll kill him."

Obviously, I just about shit my dreamt up pants and then he escorts me into the elevator. For some reason, the elevator was operated by this hot blonde chick (Apparently in my future, elevators on the moon need operators). The Rock turns to me and reveals that he is actually a secret agent and was sent to protect me from the bad guys because it's important that this information I got is revealed. The elevator stops he steps out to survey. Then, The Rock gets made into swiss cheese as he's gunned down.

I immediately pushed for the door to close (hot blonde operator couldn't do shit probably because she was in awe that someone killed The Rock. Luckily, I heroed up and pushed the button like a boss).

The elevator rapidly flew down 32 levels (don't know why, but that's the number). We rush out to this rocky terrain under the moon filled with tunnels and shit.

With the bad guys not far behind we run through this really tight maze like dungeon, like something you see out of a Legend of Zelda game (I don't know enough about the moon to confirm or deny such an existence).

Anyways, the tunnels started getting smaller and smaller until we're both on our knees crawling through. Then I started developing an immense phobia about the cramped space and run the hell out, leaving the chick all alone. Basically, I abandon her to save my own ass.

But the bad guys were real close. I manage to dodge them without being seen and I saw that the chasing party was being led by none other than Scarecrow from Batman Begins. Then, I take out my gun and started going Rambo on their asses, protecting my beloved blonde companion whom I just met a few minutes ago. I was poppin' caps left and right while being a bad-ass.

Scarecrow was right on her heels and was about to catch her. I was running through, desperately trying to reach the blonde chick before the guy does any harm to her. I see scarecrow reaching out to her. Then, I blew his brains out and saved her life.

Soon, we make it to safety on a boat where she was no longer a blonde but the hot young red haired version of the maid from American Horror Story. We make out cause I'm a badass.

Action heroes get the hot chicks

I woke up soon after and I knew that this was the one dream I had to blog about for the sheer scale of epicness. It was definitely one of the strangest dreams I had in a while.

Please note: I don't always have strange dreams, but when I do, I make sure it's lucid.

The Winnipeg Jets

I've written a few posts about Hockey on this blog. Usually, it's some lamentation about how the team I'm cheering for won't make it past their opponents in an effort to lessen the blow should my team actually lose. It's so far 1 for 2 in that category (Canada won Gold but Vancouver lost game 7).

Rather than do a post on that, I wanted to reminisce about how I started watching hockey in the first place.

Unlike most Canadian kids, I was never an avid hockey fan. I couldn't tell Mario Lemieux apart from Claude and the only hockey player I knew was Wayne Gretsky (that's only because Canada makes such a big deal out of him). I never got to play a game on a frozen pond lake because I never learned to skate.

I do remember very vividly how in the winter of 2002, my teachers huddled about four classes together to watch a broadcast of the Olympic Hockey game in Salt Lake City. This was the first game I ever watched, and it was something special, but we didn't watch the full game though, just enough. I don't remember the score or if it was a medal game or the round robin portion of the tournament.

But beyond this one little hockey game, I didn't watch any sport in regularity. I have always been one of those people that believed playing sports was far better and far more fun than watching an actual game. Of course, I didn't play much of anything. It was just a lazy kid's sad attempt of lowering the status of spectator sports (that being said, I do enjoy a good game of floor hockey, that was the only thing I ever looked forward to in gym class). I didn't watch hockey at all after the Salt Lake City Winter Olympics. Not until the Winter Olympics of 2010.

2010 was something special to watch because the Olympic games took place in my home city. Despite never having been a close follower of Olympic sport, I had to tune in to this particular one. It was home soil, it was a chance to witness Canadian history. As a country, we haven't won gold on home soil since... ever. We had two prior chances, the 1976 summer games of Montreal and the 1988 winter games of Calgary, both yielding no gold medals.

Would this be our chance? Like every other Canadian, the one medal we actually cared about winning gold in was in Men's Ice Hockey. There was a saying that we would've traded all the gold we won just to guarantee we Hockey Gold. We didn't go through a particularly strong start, losing to the United States in the Round Robin portion of the tournament in a very deciding 3-5 lost. But the team bounced back, eliminating Russia, edging out Slovakia and finally meeting the United States, playing for gold. The game was a harrowing battle, Team Canada dominating play for the first two periods, scoring two goals. But Team U.S.A responded back with two goals of their own, tying the game up in the last few seconds of regulation play. This baby was going into overtime.


The thing is, suddenly, I found a way home. Every night that Vs. broadcasts a home game of the Vancouver Canucks, I get a little slice of the city I call home. The Winter games was the closest I came to feeling at home in a long time, not counting the yearly vacations back. The gold medal brought a sense of pride in me, that

But over the past few years, I've come to the realization of why sports matters. It's not just because it's something fun to watch but also because it brings people together.

Which brings me to the return of the Winnipeg Jets. Obviously, I had no prior knowledge of the team until very recently. I know for a fact that Winnipeg is a bit of a dustbowl with schizophrenic weather. But I never knew that there was once a hockey team in the city of my birthplace. To me, Winnipeg was always the middle of nowhere "city" that no one really cares about. It was generic, it was unspectacular, it was boring.

But the Jets were there. They gave this city a bit of flavour. The team was Winnipeg's statement that "we're not generic and unimportant. We are here". I was five at the time the Jet's relocated to Phoenix. I wasn't a hockey fan then, and I knew of no one that was. Strangely enough, I too relocated. Before moving permanently to Oakland in 2003, I once stayed in the city for six months when I was five.

My parents grew tired of Winnipeg, which in my family terms, meant my dad grew tired of Winnipeg. He was tired of all the house break ins and broken car windows in my neighborhood, but I suspect it wasn't the true reason. The city was too small.

When you blow through four different restaurants in the span of a year and a half as a cook, the list of restaurants you haven't worked in grow exponentially fewer. There weren't too many chinese restaurants in the city. So we packed our bags and moved to the states for six months.

After the visas expired, we relocated again. This time, to Vancouver. I grew up in that city and it is where I met some of my closest friends and where I still hold my most cherished memories. But living in Vancouver wasn't good enough. My dad wanted to live in the States and pursue his dreams of owning a restaurant that for some reason was unattainable in the city. After six years of living in the beautiful city of Vancouver, off we moved again, this time to Oakland, permanently.

To say that life in Oakland is decent would be a vast overstatement. It's not bad, but it's not great. I don't want to get into the many social and political problems that plague this city because this isn't what the post is about, but it's certainly amongst a few of my complains about living here. All I know is this, ever since I left my home country, nothing felt right in me. It was as though something very distinct about my identity was stripped away never to be seen again. I don't know if you could call it homesick. The word sick implies that you eventually recover from it, like a bad flu. I've been living here for a good eight years, and I still dream as though I never left my home.

When the 2010 Winter Olympics rolled around, I was reminded of the times when all of the sixth and seventh graders huddled around our little television to watch the games, specifically hockey. Being Canadian doesn't mean you have to like hockey, but you certainly appreciate how a simple little sport manages to bring people together.

Hockey instilled a sense of identity in me. I know it's superficial and very stereotypical for a Canadian. But the fact is, every time I watch a Canucks hockey game, I see a little bit of the city that I left. It's not much, but it's a sense of familiarity. Hockey has filled that hole for me, that sense of losing your identity.

When I learned about the Winnipeg Jets in all there history, I cheered for their return as well. Not only because I hailed from the town, but because they too have a history much like my own; unwillingly leaving a beloved home to an new and indifferent city.

When I heard that True North Sports and Entertainment purchased the Atlanta Thrashers team and subsequently renamed them the jets, I was elated that Winnipeg was getting their team back. They weren't the original, but I don't think the fans mind. I certainly don't. I suppose the fanbase regained a little bit of what they lost, and I get the benefit of feeling a little closer to home. I suspect that much of the identity of Winnipeggers have been lost in the 15 years of their absence, like something missing has suddenly been replaced in their return.

All I know is that I'll be watching closely.

Welcome back Jets. You should never have left.

Con Air Chronicles

Sunday October 2. Con Air came on, and the weekend was suddenly better. Con Air is the type of movie that know exactly what it is and doesn't apologize for it. It's a big cliched Hollywood blockbuster that Michael Bay wished he directed.

I can't explain it but every time Con Air comes on, I can't help but tune in. It's perhaps my third time that I've watched it in its entirety on cable t.v. and without a doubt one of the movies that I absolutely have to turn to (save for an important hockey game).

One of the major drawing points is Nicolas Cage and his crazy hillbilly hair. If I didn't know any better, the movie could've been a big advertisement for Conair Hair dryers disguised as a cheesy hollywood action film. Certainly Nic Cage's hair was just dying for some treatment. And what about that accent? It was one of the most unconvincing southern accents I've ever heard, and I absolutely loved it. It pushed the movie from just another cliched action flick to an incredibly cheesy and (un)intentionally funny action movie.

I just thought it was something worth sharing.

Free Write 5

It's strange that despite my interest in writing that I have not been more well read than I should have. As I posted in the last free write, I'm currently taking a creative break from writing my script and focusing instead on writing a short story. It's been dawning on me how shameful it is that I have not read more works by classic authors and have the audacity to call myself a writer in any capacity.

I thought it would be a good idea to read authors that I wasn't very well exposed to in High School. It was just yesterday that I came across the full 201 collection of short stories written by Anton Chekhov. I figured that even though I may not be the most well read of writers, I can certainly start becoming more of one. Hopefully I learn a few things.

Btw, if anyone is interested (I don't know who's sorry soul would dare stumble on this blog), here is the link to the full collection of short stories by Anton Chekhov.

Scariest Nightmare I'll Ever Have

It's been a while since I wrote about what I dreamed. I'm not like most folks who'll have the most absurd and quite honestly best sounding acid induced dream you could ever have the hope of experiencing. My dreams can be rather bland. If I'm lucky, I'll have a nightmare of being chased by an invisible phantom. Usually I either get caught or another dream starts. On the occasion that I do get caught, I usually get a very threatening stern verbal warning, then I'm let go for some strange reason.

So it hardly constitutes as a nightmare. The ending is usually disappointing which is why I think those dreams usually end right in the middle of being chased being scared shitless for my life.

This is a dream where I was being chased, and my friends was I scared shitless.

For some reason, I'm back in highschool, except that my highschool is suddenly built with an indoor playground you would find at a Chuck E. Cheese. Nothing really happens here except that I'm going to classes, meeting my old highschool teachers. Until... complete fear enters my veins. I fucking duck down underneath a table and slowly begin finding an escape out. Why? I was being chased. Who?



Steven Seagal.

No, not fat Steven. I'm talking about in his prime, Under Siege, Hard to Kill, Steven Seagal.

Luckily, I managed to out wit him a few times as I tried to make my escape (that or he was simply lulling me into a false sense of security). I don't remember much of what happened, maybe because much didn't happen or the nightmare was far too traumatizing for me to remember the ending. I just knew that when I woke up, I was never more thankful to be living a shitty life. Nothing could possibly compare to the nightmare of being hunted down by a Hard to Kill era Steven Seagal.

As soon as I woke up in bed, I checked every limb of my body to make sure I didn't have any broken bones.

I didn't.