Nothing Special


With the end of snowboarding season for season pass holders of local mountain this winter, there’s nothing that stops the good ol’ brain from wanting. There’s a certain restlessness and intolerable boredom. The answer for “What’s been going on in your life recently?” becomes “Nothing special.” However, before we transition in warm weather activities, we’ll always find a way to extend that season a little longer. We might choose to wax our boards to put into storage or hang/strew our gear around the house to the dismay of odour-sensitive housemates, but we won’t dust off those bikes or skateboards or Mini Golfs just yet. Fortunately or unfortunately, there’s just no way to get rid of that itch except to press it out.

Stay snowy.



Wordapus through the Blender

I desperately lack computer knowledge. It’s something I’ve slowly realized with dawning horror in the wake of having so many computer whiz friends. I didn’t know how to add tabs to the page, so I switched themes. It’s just a short term solution though. If I want to enjoy graphics/media/pretend I’ll one day make nice things, I need to keep up to date. And in the process of remaking the randomized headers, wordpress asked me for a logo. So I did. I went crazy. wriderlogowordapuswordapus4

Literally just a silhouette until I went haywire on it.

Here’s to being really bad at the computer despite spending way too much time admiring really nice graphics but nearly as much time as I should be.

Letter from a Hater

(rescheduled post from 2015; done so to fit with the teenage tarnish that is the highlight of this month’s posts!)

A funny letter by an angry reader inspired by the words “I think that’s pretty rare, especially in a [snowboarding] culture where people love to hate.” -Susie Floros


Dear Liker,

I read a line in a snowboarding publication the other day, and its brazen statement rang true: “It was odd for a sport based on haters.”

Yes, snowboarding culture is a sport run on hate, and yes, I’ve been a hater for most of my life. The list of things I’ve hated on: it’s endless. I love hating. Hating is so much fun that, when you have nothing else to be happy about, hating makes the bleakest days fun. In a way, the opposite happens when you channel negativity into the worst situations: interesting action abounds. Let me welcome you to my abode of hate.

My friends think I smile too much. I don’t think I hate enough. It’s infectious; it spreads like wildfire. Hating becomes so widespread that it reverses day and night, so that hating becomes lovin’. Just like the day is always for playin’ and the night is for sleepin’.

The most annoying thing to a hater is when no one hates back. It’s like lighting a match and finding out it’s wet: the fire you were expecting sizzles out like a slow-burning hiss of dread, so lethally quiet it deflates you. Hate inflates, despite what endlessly optimistic people would say, and when the fire dissipates, something matchless takes its stead: love. And boy, what a scary replacement that is.

Case in point, when I hated on the snow this season, I was met with a bunch of Likers. People who were upping their game; people who were sticking to the lean slopes even though they were learning for the first time. People attacked the slush and dirt like a pack of blind mole rats. Even the haters that I armed myself with refused to light the fuse with as much abandon as I did (and other things, too.)

The likers and lesser haters tried hard again and again to convince me that I was missing out. That by hating I was actually limiting the amount of fun experiences I’d have-after all, if I only showed up to hate, where would I go when the snow finally come down? I’d have to slither back to my burrow and hibernate until I found another dismal condition to hate, and by then I’d have revealed that the half-alive season had gotten to me. I’d have to admit that a semi-conscious season had taken its toll on me as a hater, and that likers and others were actually having a better time of it, dare I say-enjoying it.

But I rest my case. I have my place in the world. I anger the people who wouldn’t have come out otherwise but do so in order to prove me wrong, and I make seriously bad conditions so much more entertaining. Let’s face it: I entertain you. And you, me. Bad conditions or no, we’re in this together, and because we’re not a sport that discriminates, we’ll be on those lifts together. For better or for worse.

But I’m hoping for worse.



A Hater.

Ride Safe, Not Hard

Snowboarding as an commercial hard goods industry tries too hard. Yeah, I’m looking at you, skulls and dripping curse words. That’s the best of it. Those dam nice graphics in the store translate to try hards on the slope, where skulls and sexual innuendoes are a dime a dozen, and good riders are on a ratio of 1000:1. Snowboard graphics have pushed the envelop so hard since its inception the message has been lost to outer space. Instead I propose a graphics industry where snowboards don’t break the envelop but aim to stay sealed inside. Here are a few of my safely message-tucked-inside designs:

Screen Shot 2014-07-08 at 10.36.24 AM

The Be Safe from Protection Rides Co. $599. Start up company by a gang of “equal guys and girls” looking to keep people safe, and not make a lot of money with “tampon packaging inspired graphics”.  Each limited edition board comes with a holographic sticker guaranteed to save you from spills. Their motto is “Keeping you safe, just like your favourite ******”

Not sure why they went with an asterix rather than spell *. Maybe it B* stands for something?

 (to be continued…not)

Wired or Weird

One day I was browsing my friend’s TwoFacedbook account. There were lots of pictures of her looking great and happy partying with her friends. A second later, before I could even click on one of the pictures, my friend caught me on chat and wailed to me: HII HOW ARE YOU? 

You must be great, I thought. I am fine, I typed. Quickly I was replied: ARGH! Life sucks right now. Help?

Me, I said: Are you sure? You look great right now. Someone jack your account?

Said my friend: What are you talking about?? HELLO? ARE YOU THERE?


Someone hacked your account, sorry I don’t converse with hackers…

I had already logged off.

The same thing happened on Twiddler. And then Instagross. What a commotion! Everywhere I went seemed to heave its facade on me. I for one felt exhausted after an hour of social media and resolved to power off and leave them be. 

I laid down on my bed and got comfortable. Just as I was drifting off, I felt a hard object vibrate near me. Then something that sounded like an alarm went off.

I had forgotten to turn off my phone.

I had gotten a message on my I-Moan. Uh-oh, I thought. My phone was my last resort. I couldn’t cut off from that.

GET BACK ON TWOFACEDBOOK, my friend texted.

I threw my I-Moan at the wall and it left a fist size hole in the wall whereupon an eye peeked through. It was my mom.

“What are you children smoking these days?” she inquired incredulously. “No need to throw an expensive piece of technology away. Think of how useful it’s been and what if you didn’t have one like everybody else does!”

“Nah, mom! I’m not on anything! I’m really just thinking about what if I really didn’t have one like everyone else does!”


Continue reading

The Bearded Man With the Green Honky

Old Man with the Green Honky

The bus is undeniably a place of judgement. Every time someone’s eye sweeps over you, you can be sure you’re being judged, even if when you do it you’re just giving your eyes a good old roll-about. You’re no good at it of course. People are either business men, children, or weird. There seems to be an abundance of weird people on the bus-maybe busses are weird people’s favourite mode of transportation? That girl with bright pink lipstick and hacked away hair. Well, at least she’s interesting to look at. You wonder what demons in her consciousness convened to create such a notion. Then your head jerks, and it’s time for you to go to sleep.
Sound familiar? It probably happens to you everyday monday to friday, or it feels like it happens to you monday to friday, even if you only take the bus the last day of every month to visit your parents. But that’s not what happens today. Your head homes onto its customary spot on your shoulder (shoulders stick out from your body so you can rest your head on them. It’s true.) and snuggles in, like a pigeon into its nest…
And it’s interrupted! Drat! Because out of the monotony a honk blares from some unseen corner of the bus. No, something that shrill has to be a squeak. It sounds like a giant stepped on a squeaky toy, partially because it shatters your midday reveries and partly because you still have no idea where it came from. And then you finally look where everyone tries not to look on the bus, in fear of being called a stalker. You look straight ahead. And there it is. It’s the last thing you expect. The squeak emitted from a green horn. The green horn was attached to a handlebar. The handlebar was attached to a bike. And the bike was attached to an old man!
All eyes sticker onto this man. (He had a beard. He meant serious business.) He’s only in conversation with the young man across from him (PHOTO: red pants), but everyone’s eyes make conversation, too (if everyone staring at the same thing without staring even once at each other can be considered conversation). Is the bike attached to the man, or is the man attached to the bike? Was there ever a worse time to ponder the greatest of seven wonders, grammar? The effort of figuring this out can be seen in the bulge of everyone’s (avoidant) eyes. Golly, most people on this bus know sounds emit from electronic devices, not hand-held green plastic doohickeys. Is he engaging in a phone-ringtone show off? Sending or receiving SMS, which his tires then write in morse code on the ground? The man he’s honking it at is dancing on his feet. Pretty soon someone will have to call the ambulance for asphyxiation by laughter. The man wasn’t just honking his horn. He was honking it deliberately. Like a wolf springing just short of his elk prey until the poor animal is run down, the man honks as if he has innate knowledge of the tides of his laughter. That’s not all. No one else on the bus laughed aloud, but it was as if he could read each and every one of our minds. He honked his mini green bike horn every time one of us laughed inside. It was magic I tell you! With one honk he had everyone awake.

The hilarity of the moment climaxed and declined. It was just an old man and a cheap plastic horn that his grandchild probably gave him for his 70th birthday for surviving that long despite his parent’s continuous attempts to snuff him out with unabated arguments. It was really funny-who would’ve known? but for those who’ve dealt with younger, very naive children play with rubber duckies, well, it was as if that annoying spirit had been transmuted to a larger more ungainly form and come back to haunt you. Eventually the man reaches his spot and giving one last light hearted SQUEAK! carted his gallant stead off the bus, leaving a trail of fairy dust.
Some people went back to sleep, but not me. Sensing a chance for a few cents, I snapped this photo before he left (Sorry about the butt, if it makes you feel better, you can take a picture of mine anytime-I can squat 2X my body weight everyday, although I eat 3X my body weight in food everyday, too) and immediately uploaded to my nuckeriter bro’s. They all agreed this made a great story. So we hijacked this production, the only one we were able to hijack without getting arrest warnings.
We hoped you enjoyed this story.