NB: This blog is designed to launch before, or concurrent with, the release of the book.

My writing partner Laura and I, we're going to be famous some day, mark my words. How does it work when you get famous anyway? Do you call other famous people directly, or do you call their agents, or what? I probably have to get an agent and then get my agent to call their agent. Anyway, the following people should feel free to call me any time: Leonard Cohen; Robert Smith (why can't I be you?); Stephen King; Sarah Schneider; Jian Ghomeshi (screw you Billy Bob); Sook-Yin Lee (my celebrity lady friend); Margaret Atwood; Justin Bieber slowed down 800% (I'm a Belieber); Walter Gretzky; Terry Fox's mom; Gillian Anderson; Daniel Negraneu (sp?); Laura (want to go to the Blenz at the library tomorrow and write? The stuff about famous people doesn't apply to you, obviously); Thom Yorke; The Wainwrights; The Coens; The Sedins; Cœur de Pirate; BNL; GSP; NPH; Seth Rogan; The Pixies; and, it goes without saying, women who want to date me because I'm me, not just a rich and famous writer whose book got turned into a multi-Oscar winning movie for which I did a cameo in the role of the junkie for which I had to lose 50 pounds and smoke meth so I could really get the character. Method acting, hopefully not meth 0.D.

People who should under no circumstances call me: Benny Hinn; Jimmies Swaggart, Stewart, and Jones (not too worried about the latter); any kind of guru; Mel Gibson; that actor who threw the phone at the bellboy's head...what was his name, Russel, Australian, Russel something; the guy who throws lit cigarette butts and pennies and raw eggs down on homeless people and dumpster divers from the second floor of the building by the Aquatic Centre (yeah, you, I yelled at you, remember? Fuck you.); people who won't let you into traffic; people who talk really loud on their cell phones on the SkyTrain; people who can't take a hint; people who can't take a friggin joke; Ernst Zündel; Christian Bale; Ben Ali; Hosni Mubarrak; and, it should go without saying, driving instructors who drive on the right side of the car on the extra wheel even when they don't have a student in the driver's seat.

My writing partner, Laura, not that I hate her, because I love her, but she's the type of happy mommy I want to wake up having sex with. I mean next to. She started her family young and has two kids: a little boy who's five — Levy — and a little girl who's three — Mina. Levy is a genius who knows the timetables better than I do, and Mina is a tanky little cherub who said, yesterday, “Mommy, Mommy, I did two poops so I get two chocolates. Because chocolates are for poops.” And you all know that the younger you have puppies, the younger you can start base jumping and henching models. (Actually, strike 'model henching,' I just remembered, my wife's reading. Too late? Alright, roll with it, we'll deal with it in post.)

Laura and I, we take care of each other. We hurt each other too, I don't know what we do more of. We just finished a story about a Mexican child prostitute, I was going to include some of it, but Laura said it was just a cop out and that I should follow the line of this story rather than filling it with superfluous writing. Well, she hasn't said it yet, but I know she will.

Or wouldn't it be nice if we lived in a society where our parents chose a mate for us? In this world, everybody goes to the bath house once a week (whether they need it or not, ha ha) and scrubs down. You know everybody there and everybody there knows you because you've been going there since you were a kid. When you finally reach the age when it's time to hook up, your mom has a little whisper session in the bath house with a girl's mom and then says, “Son, you are going to marry a young woman named Jenn. She is five months younger than you, she loves making chocolate, she has nice eyes and some serious child-bearing hips. Good luck son.”

“But Mom, I'm deeply in love with....”

“Quiet son, wedding's in a month, better start working out.”

“But Dad, can't you talk some sense into her!? I am a free man and I want to follow my heart. My deepest heart's desire is...”

“Shut up son, listen to your mother, you're getting married, that's the way it is. And you better start sending resumes out, you're going to have a family to support pretty quick so you need a real job.”

My non-hypothetical dad has an idea about women. In his opinion, they are like rocks on a beach — they're either keepers or skippers. All unique and beautiful in their own way, but you only get one, so you better choose carefully. You have to walk the beach for a while, looking for the perfect one. Most you have to huck because they're metaphorically too big or too small or too jagged or too square. These are the skippers. But, if you're lucky, you'll find a keeper. And if you're lucky enough to find a keeper, you better grab it and never let it out of your sight. Although nowadays I'm sure my dad is thinking, “Just pick one for heaven's sake.” Last Christmas my parents put up a $500 bounty for any of the three unmarried brothers who could bring a legit prospective grandchild-incubator to Easter dinner.

If I were God, immediately after coming up with the vulva (excellent work btw), I would make it so that each vulva would have a single penis that could unlock it. So it would be impossible to do it with somebody who's not yours. Not only that, I would tweak the sex drive so you would never even want to spend ten years eating Costco samples which would mean families wouldn't get broken all the time. Downside: you'd never stop walking in on your parents.

The way it would work is there'd be one person in the world for you. So there really would be “The One.” You would know the one because s/he is the only on in the world who you would find attractive. Everybody else would look like a mix between your grandma and a zombie and a mob boss. And any vagina that wasn't rightfully yours would look just seem wrong and any cock that wasn't yours would seem bent or sick somehow. So, your baby might live next door to you and you would be lucky, but she might live across the world and you would have to go on an epic quest to find her — travel the high seas, conquer the beasts without and within, live on plover eggs you harvest from sheer cliffs you scale. Everybody would be 'the one', everybody would be Neo, everybody would have something worth putting in a book.

My friend read this part and said it was heteronormative, so let me state for the Hansard, this world would be just as shitty for queer people. Probably worse because there are fewer of you.

Paloma is funky to the point of being a rock star. We're still at the beginning stages, but I could tell my mom would like her if they ever met. We drank a bunch and then watched two women and a man flamenco, all clapping and red and writhing and sexy. We held hands and walked to her place where we kissed and I put my hand on her heavenly ass. It was a nice first date and we said we'd call each other back.

If it works out, we'll have to make up a story because I don't want to tell people we met through Craig Zlist. I know the internet is how people meet each other these days, but Christ, is that the story we want to tell at weddings ? How did you guys meet, Uh, a mutual friend, Oh yeah, who, I don't think you know them actually, Well try me, you never know, OK, do you know Fuck You, It's None Of Your Damn Business?

Maybe Paloma's it, I don't know. Why not? Why does a man need to sample so many flavours? It's like some glutton who hangs out at Costco, lurking around all day sampling everything, trail mix, perogies, pizza, dips, crackers, salad, olives, butter tarts, hot sauce, energy bars, pasta, pickles, I'm going to go on, because this is an important point, apple slices, cheese cubes, pie, grapes, bagels, fudge squares, cookies, macaroni, yoghurt, STOP! Just settle on something, pay for your shit, and GTFO, no need to glut out and never settle for anything. And I don't mean settle as in 'settle' for somebody because that's just one way of looking at it. Every marriage has hard parts and I guess you could say you've 'settled' for your wife or she's 'settled' for you, but you might as well say, thank Jesus, I found you, I get you, praise god you love me and I love you and we're going to make this henching tin boat of a marriage float because love is a decision and not any kind of hormonal imbalance or passing fancy. I know, take my own advice. Paloma, hmm, Palomina, Palomita.

And then, “So, are you religious at all?”

“Not really. I was brought up in an Anglican family, but I never really liked God. I mean, what kind of father would threaten to abandon his children because they ignore him? And not only abandon them, but send them to the basement that happens to be on fire. And not only that, he's also invisible. And, oh yeah, almost forgot, he statutorially rapes virgins. And the kids are doubly messed up because they have an absentee mother.”

“Well, maybe he's just busy, like, trying to reconcile with his wife, and the whole hell thing is an idle threat but we blow it way out of proportion.”

“What do you mean?”

“OK, well, he has an entire universe to run, so maybe we're like little kids who are jumping on beds and smearing jam on the walls and colouring on tables and he's like, 'Kids! Daddy's working, OK, his job is important, he's granting a touchdown, OK, so quiet down in there or I'll send you to hell for eternity.' But he never would, because he loves us, he just wants to put the fear of himself in his kids, and if he realized how much we fear hell, he'd never use it as an idle threat.

“Hmm. I like it. Maybe that's what Earth kids hear when they get in shit. Their version of hell is actually a desolate, Stygian wasteland called Time Out and purgatory is the dreaded kingdom of Don't Make me Count to Ten.”

We had food and more drinks. She has the weirdest and awesomest job ever. This is how you know a lot of this story is nonfiction because I couldn't come up with this shit. She creates names and flavours of lollipop. She's mostly created normalish flavours (like Cotton Candy Creme), but we got to talking about the weirdest flavours she'd ever come across (Maple & Bacon; Tequila & Worm) and then we started making up some of our own flavours, trying to one-up each other. Here are just a few:

Sex Sweat
Grandparents House Smell
Jennifer Aniston's Garbage Sampler
Eau de What Charlie Sheen's On
Teenage Boy on a Camping Trip Underpants
Prison Shower
Zombie Pit Lick

This date was going well, I could just about smell her sweet nakedness already. BTW, If you would like to add your own lollipop flavour, go to the blog and I'll put up a special place for it.

First date, we went to Kino Cafe, that place up Cambie where they have flamenco dancing. I took a girl there once on a first date and we ended up kissing that night AND MORE. But you'll have to buy the next book in the series to find out what deviant sex we got up to because this one is strictly PGmuthafuckin13. Anyway, I love her pseudonym, Paloma, although it kind of reminds me of Papilloma. If she were my baby I'd call her my little virus. Maybe. We met there, I told her I'd be the guy who looks like he could use a haircut and she said she'd definitely never find me then because it is a rule that all guys look like they need a haircut. She's funny, nice.

She definitely has baby potential (by which I mean she could be my baby, not bear me babies. Although I guess they're kind of one in the same considering which market I'm in. Good lord, note to my eventual kids here: See, I love you before you even arrived. So listen to your father and do [whatever thing I'm trying to get you to do] RIGHT NOW! No, but for real, I love you. And remember kids, all the parts of this book that make Daddy look like an asshole or a lecherous weirdo are fictional).

Paloma was biggish too, zaftig if you will, corporeally robust if you won't. And gorgeous. Tall, short reddish hair, spatter of well-spaced freckles, cute smile, broad shoulders and broad ass. So we sit down (I'd made reservations, BLAM!) at a little corner table and order food and drinks. There's some banter about this and that, what do you like, I like your shirt, nice place, good food.