You still have this blog in your Google Readers?

Come on over to the new blog.

It’s fun.

You’ll like it.

I promise.

And neither do I.

New blog, kids.

And you should update your feeds.


Stick this one in your Google Reader:

And now you won’t miss out on any future Petergoodness.

Awesome, right?

Rock n’ roll.

A new blog?



It was time for a fresh start on a big boy blog.

Check it out!

I hope you’ll update all your update-ables.

Because if you don’t, I’ll look like this…


BUT if you do, I’ll look like this…


And when I set something to record on my dvr and it runs long and I miss the end, I look like this…


So come visit.

Update your feeds, readers and whatnots.

In addition to my usual Peterness, there’ll be all sorts of new content and projects and even some special guests.

It’ll be fun!

Hiiiiiii, baby.

My proposal to you is going to be an all-timer. Your friends will smile through gritted, jealous teeth. Other dudes will hate me for raising the bar.

It’ll be epic.



Then you’ll have to marry me.

Ruh roh.

I’ll first pitch my idea for a simple, Peter-in-jeans-and-tshirt, ceremony overlooking the water someplace.

If you don’t go for that, I’ll mumble “Smokey and the Bandit-themed wedding?”

Once people pull you off of me, and I begin icing my black eye, you’ll start planning the blessed event — an activity for which I’ll be less than useless.

My one legit request will be to have The Monkey pushing The ACN in her wheelchair up the aisle. Of course The ACN will be giggling and considering tossing her bouquet on the floor to make me grrrr, while The Monkey sends me BBMs.

Then I’ll come with what I think are super awesome questions and suggestions.

“Do the tux rental places supply matching baseball caps, or will I have to bring my own?”

“Pancake bar! Maple syrups from various parts of Canada.”

You’ll banish me.

But you’ll forget how much of a pain in the ass I am and take me to a cake tasting. Which, considering the fact that I’m allergic to anything with flour or sugar or that casts a shadow, is kinda cruel. But, since you’re a sweetie, you’ll surprise me with a second, little cake that I’m allowed to eat. It’ll taste like drywall, with a slightly less fluffy texture, and I won’t be able to smush it in your face for fear of concussing you.

But eventually we’ll get to the big day.

You’ll say, “I do.”

I’ll reply, “You’re SUCH a lucky girl.”

You’ll hope I’m kidding.

As the reception is winding down and you escape the clutches of my flirty, dancing-machine uncle, while my family and friends are having a drinking and/or burping contest in a corner of the room, and I’m on stage with the band singing Nazareth’s “Hair of the Dog” with my bow tie tied around my head, you’ll pound wine and wonder what you got yourself into.

I’ll find you in the lobby.

I’ll strut over and flash you a smirk — as I do.

Your already big and pretty eyes will be huge and terrified.

I’ll take your little hand in mine and say…

“Babe… I have no idea why in the world you chose me. But I promise to spend every day for the rest of my life making sure you never regret the decision”

You’ll exhale.

We’ll walk to the dance floor. On cue, Blue Rodeo’s “Lost Together” will start playing.

“Baby…” I’ll say.

“Yeah…” you’ll reply.

“Seriously, where are the pancakes?”

I bet you want to start your dress shopping now.




The heat is rising off the black top.

As it has been doing for weeks.

Patience and clothing are both being worn thin in this relatively urban powder keg.

Sounds of the bouncing, well-worn basketball are echoing off the surrounding buildings.

Likely annoying occupants and passers-by.

But they don’t care.

Adidas is down a basket to Nike.

And he is pissed.

Body slams against body.

No quarter asked or given.

Adidas spins.

Adidas bounces a shot off the backboard — just above the bullet hole — and in.


He struts a little back to the foul line.

Chest sticking out just a bit more.

Nike whips the ball to him.

Adidas catches it with a smirk.

He lazily bounces it back to be checked.

Nike fires it back even harder — at Adidas’ head.

Adidas dribbles.

Cross over.

A crowd gathers.

Cross over.

The lone cloud in the sky heads off, leaving the sun’s oppressive light uninterrupted.

Through the legs.

A fire truck siren tries to interrupt.

Nike takes a defensive stance.

Sweat drips down faces.

Adidas drives.

There exists a moment, on the edge of violence, when this truly becomes a gritty ballet.

Elbow in ribs.



Adidas steps back.

He shoots.

Nothing but chain “net.”

Nike bends over.

Adidas catches his breath, with his hands pulling on the bottom of his shorts.

“So, how are things with the ladies lately?” Nike asks.

Adidas picks up the ball. He dribbles it a few times, as if each bounce clarifies his thoughts a little more.

He takes a long, deep breath.

“In the utensil drawer of life, aren’t we all just looking for a little spoon?”

Silence for a few moments.

“Dude… what did I tell you about that?”

“Sorry. Sorry.”



You know it’s a special sunset when it changes the colour in your room.

The clicking and clacking of our keys create an oddly harmonious din, echoing off largely bare walls.

We sit, side by side, on the messily-made bed.

I’m writing.

You’re teaching yourself how to do something.  Reading manuals.  Watching videos.  Frowning.  Watching more videos.

I catch myself staring.

I like your make-up best at the end of the day.

I play a song on my computer.  Low volume.  It’s a song that reminds me of you.  As most do.

You are trying not to be irked by it.  You’re probably unaware that you’re tapping your foot on mine.  Well, on my shin.  My legs go on for three days longer than yours.

It’s like the carefully selected, and expertly applied, colours have realized they’ve been giving assistance to a face that can more than stand on its own.  They fade a little.  Into the background. Where they belong, really.

“What are you doing?” you ask without looking.

“Baseball pool.”

“Babe… you have to write.”

“I’m waiting for the mood to strike.  Moods are mysterious creatures.  Some would say mythical…”

“You’re a pain in my bum.”

“That’s just so you don’t forget I’m here.”

I flash you a sheepish grin, that I hope will continue getting me out of trouble.

I don’t really have a back-up plan.

You smile with your entire face, in one of the most amazing examples of teamwork I’ve ever seen.  Dimples.  DIMPLES.  Come on.

You shake your head.

You put your hand on my arm.

You abruptly go back to your studying.

Serious face.

You bite your lip.

I still can’t believe you rarely put lipstick on them.

Perfect colour.

Perfect shape.

Perfect softness.

Lips that, when not kissing me, lovingly wrap around the most beautiful voice and words that melt me to my core.

I sigh and turn back to my laptop.

I wonder, for a moment, why I didn’t tell you what I was actually doing.

I could have.


I suppose that I just want the words to be as wonderful a surprise for you when you read them, as they are for me right now.

we’re writing a story
you and i
of colourful characters
of intricate plot lines
new worlds
opening to us
i know
you know
being judged by
the cover
pulled over our heads
you read my face
by the stubble
under your hand
i read your body
by the goosebumps
i’m causing
our footnotes are whispers
our acknowledgments
in the dark
i lay you
on the table
our best moments are dog-eared
we’re living a story
you and i
that is meant
as all the best ones are
for an audience of two

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