I’m an unapologetic reader. It’s a part of my daily routine and there’s very few nights I don’t first settle into bed to read before falling asleep. For the entirety of this past year however that reading was done on my iPad.

A year ago I would have dismissed e-reading, defending my love of the written word, the pure joy of having shelves packed with books as a visual testament to my literary tastes. The tactile feel of a good hardcover, the elegance of a deckle edge and the cosy scent of good paper. Why would I give that up for an overly indulgent, mini TV screen that holds my books hostage in some ephemeral library. Even more troubling, these virtual books are tied solely to me, or at least my iTunes profile, to ensure they are not easily “lent” to friends or even passed down to my daughter.

All true, but you know what? I love reading on the iPad!

In the last year I’ve read about 36 e-books. That’s a good 40% more than my usual dead-tree component. I’m reading more now. The beauty of the backlit LED screen is that I can read anywhere. I read with the lights off. No need to crane for a bedside light or huddle next to a lamp on overcast days. Inexplicably awake at 3am? Dash through a chapter without waking the wife.

I’ve enjoyed a ton of new releases. I was previously a trade paperback buyer, avoiding the costs of hardcover. Now, while the hardcover new release sits on the shelf for $30, I can grab the e-book for $12. With the amount of coupons Kobo has afforded me, ranging from an additional 20-30%, I save even more. Room, The Night Circus, Freedom all snatched up while only a few weeks on the bestseller lists. Books like Robopocalypse or Ready Player One are picked up on the strength of some heavy geek cred. These are books I would have long forgotten by the time they’d seen release as trade paperbacks.

I’m getting more diverse in my reading choices now. At the bookstore I’m floored by the sheer choice available to me. There’s the bestsellers – too expensive, maybe one or two possibilities in the newly released paperbacks and then I proceed to get lost in the stacks. There’s the inevitable struggle with how this purchase will fit into my bookshelf. Is it worthy to sit next to my Foster Wallace or Sedaris? Yes, shallow. Bookshelf as aspirational metaphor. Online though I’m free to indulge. Janet Evanovich’s One for the Money seems way too chick lit, McNovel but what the hell – fun read! Autobiography is generally not my thing but Tina Fey’s Bossypants was great! No way Christopher Moore’s Lamb would have made the book cover cut but talk about fantastic!

As bits of data, books suddenly become “crackable”. There’s a host of content floating around the digital ether “free” for the torrenting. .epub and .mobi the new .mp3. Online bookstores appeal to my bent towards instant gratification. Hear about Mindy Kaling’s Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns) and wham! Into the library it goes. Love it and I haven’t even told you how awesome comics are on this thing.

My tournament life is on the line as I shove my short stack all in with 9/10 suited. The big blind snap calls and turns over American Airlines.

This is me getting my poker fix. It’s the annual foray into the heart of Nevada for some Texas Hold-em. That’s the extent of my trip. Despite all it has to offer I’ve yet to partake in anything remotely cultural. No Cirque show, not Penn and Teller, David Copperfield or even Carrot Top. Home to some of the nation’s finest dining, a good number of my meals this trip will be had off the felt. Bites of a reuben between hands, a greasy burger while waiting for the cowboys to land.

Let’s be clear, I’m no great player. I hold my own at our home games but am no more favoured to win than any of our other regulars. Across the table I’m not spying nervous glances sweating my dominant poker chops but outright laughter as my bluff is picked off and I’m sheepishly caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

Back in Vegas I’m getting schooled at the Venetian’s $130 tournament. I’m being broken down with surgical precision. I might as well be playing with my cards face up. The players are completely in my head and it takes them little over an hour to fleece me and kick me to the curb. It’s a wonder to watch, like breaching sharks feeding on hapless seals.

Then there’s the players with more money than sense. I have no idea why they’re sitting at the 1/2 small stakes when, for them, a $20 pre-flop raise is nothing more than a pot sweetener and $60 is a standard continuation bet. When I push with big slick I’m making the right call at the wrong time when their K7 off, two pairs and busts me out. But that’s poker.

That same rule applies when the suited connectors from earlier hits the flush on the river to crush the rockets of the good natured lady to my right in the photo (who made it to the threeway nonetheless). I’m in good tournament position to hit the final table which I manage to convert to a heads-up chop at the MGM. I manage a win the next day at Excalibar and with a couple of cash game sit and go sessions, my trip is completely covered.

It’s a great run this time out despite/because I’m travelling on my own. The usual crew can’t make my schedule and I couldn’t pass this small window of opportunity. Frankly Christina is a saint to even let me go. Not many wife’s would. It’s head clearing. I like the isolation and tinge of self-consciousness that comes with being on my own. Vegas standing in for Walden Pond. When everything is interpreted through the lens of self, every so often it’s good to clean the glass.

What does it take exactly? What does the region want from the Centre in the Square? Here we have a critically acclaimed Broadway musical mining the era of guilty pleasure, hair metal music. It’s a Poison video brought to life that’s warranted enough attention to deserve a big budget motion picture set to release next year with Tom Cruise (shudder) Catherine Zeta-Jones and Russell Brand. And yet here we are on opening night and half the seats are empty.

Those that did make it out were giddy with anticipation. Several of our seat mates had seen the Toronto production and couldn’t wait to take this ride again. The button down chemistry teacher sitting beside me was already bobbing to Warrant’s Cherry Pie playing over the loudspeakers. I kept waiting for him to throw up the horns and headbang his thinning comb-over. And me? I’m that 80′s kid who spent his formative years on a steady diet of Motley Crue, Def Leppard, and Van Halen. I may not have been a fan of Jefferson Starship, Bon Jovi or REO Speedwagon but you couldn’t escape it back when radio still ruled and they actually played music videos on music TV. Anyone remember Toronto Rocks on CityTV with Jon Majhor?

So Rock of Ages isn’t exactly rife with plot. You’ve got the boy from Detroit and a small-town girl from Kansas chasing their dreams on the Sunset Strip. You know how it goes. It raucous and wild, packed with 80′s era music on a perfectly realized set that harks to every hedonistic rock and roll LA glam bar of that era. I was wondering what the hell some lady was thinking bringing her grandkids, the youngest a boy of about 7, to the show. A show that’s got a gaggle of hard bodied ladies wearing garters and barely there lace unmentionables painted on their lithe dancers bodies bumping and grinding with lascivious abandon… what am I saying – best Grandma ever!

Dominique Scott as Drew, the Detroit rocker wannabe was fantastic with some serious Sebastian Bach level pipes. Justin Colombo as Lonny had so much good stuff to work with. While he may have, in a fourth wall breaking monologue, lamented his theatric fate that had him narrating a musical filled with poop jokes and Whitesnake, even he had to admit to having a kick ass time. Lonny was half the guys I hung around with in highschool – even in his “Show my your Boobies” T-shirt Lonny was the better dressed version of an old friend who would have accessorized with snake skin boots and bandanas – he even had the nunchuks.

Rock of Ages is wall to wall music. Lonny and Dennis’ rendition of “I Can’t Fight This Feeling” complete with travel photos and Titantic level swooning was hilarious and while “Don’t Stop Believing” will always be that Glee song, it still brought the house down. Throw in some Twisted Sister, Bon Jovi, Styx, Quiet Riot, David Lee Roth and Asia and you’ve got a serious good time. Give me a seedier room liberally doused with alcohol and that chem teacher beside me would have been singing along at the top of his lungs remembering the days when he could have whipped his hair back and forth in his quarter sleeve Iron Maiden T-shirt. Fuck yeah.

Another great evening at Ignite Waterloo. Thanks to Stephen Heron – an Igniter since the beginning and my talented co-MC. The event, as it exists today, would not have been possible without his involvement since the beginning.

Once again had the good fortune of interacting with our varied speakers. Whether it’s discussing the vagaries of the sound system, massaging their slide deck or getting them past some last minute jitters, I love being an usher to this experience. I’m legitimately happy for all our presenters. I know the exhilaration of pushing past your fears, stepping onstage and leading the crowd through your 5 minutes. It goes by in a blur but it’s still heady stuff. Talk to any of our past presenters and I’m confident they will exhort you to give a shot. There are still so many more stories out there and I want to hear them all!

Nonetheless, Ignite 7 marks my break from the event. In large part juggling my role with TEDx Waterloo in March with another spring Ignite is none too appealing. I am however looking forward to seeing the show as an audience member. The surprise of each presentation, the challenge of the contest, the ability to sit back and take it in. At $5 a person it’s still consistently the region’s best event value.

All of it wouldn’t be possible without the raft of volunteers past and present that have given up their time to make it happen. It’s often a crazy, seat of the pants, ad hoc process and yet it has consistently put out great events. Planned serendipity at it’s best.

The running shoes I bought to kick off my jogging career sat unused for a full year. Typical aspirational spending. That was after a year of quitting smoking where I had adopted that smug, non-smoker readiness to embrace some new, healthier lifestyle. I’ve been on the verge of ready for a while.

I probably would have been happy to be “ready” for another year if it wasn’t for the fantastic book, Born to Run by Christopher McDougall. It’s an all over the place read, focusing on elusive Mexican runners called the Tarahumaras, evolutionary science, ultramarathons and reconsidering the way we run. (you can read my review on Goodreads) In short, I loved the idea proffered by the book. Running is not the ticket to health and weight loss but simply an evolutionary imperative. An act of joy.

So I’m off my ass and armed with the Couch to 5K app on the iPhone. Nice and simple. Week 1 Day 1 starts with a brisk 5 minute warmup walk before diving in. Then it’s a nice 60 second jog followed by a 90 second walk. Repeat for 20 minutes.

I thought I was going to have a heart attack by the 4th rep. The last 10 seconds of each minute-long jog seemed to stretch interminably and I could barely suck enough oxygen into my spasming lungs. Day 2 saw a far more reticent jogger, warily pacing each 60 second jog. A bit better but when I tried breathing through my nose I nearly suffocated myself from lack of oxygen. I was still full on panting.

This isn’t expository hyperbole. I truly had a difficult time of it.

I still can’t believe I stuck it out, and just in time for my birthday I managed to complete the entire 9 week program. I’m jogging 5km. Along the way I come to realize that it’s truly a geek endeavor and found a host of experienced jogging friends more than happy to offer insight and encouragement. I’m liking it, I’m somehow waking up before my alarm clock at 5:30am so I can get out there for a run.

Of course it’s still early days. 2.5 months isn’t a lot of time under my belt and I’m conscious of the fact that I could still hit a wall at some future point. In the meantime I’m wondering how I’m going to fare over the winter season and when I’m going to enter my first 5km event. Knock on wood – it’s still a blast to get out there and just run.

The text message said to meet at the parking lot of Mill and Parliament for 6pm.

So here I am in my car, dressed completely in white, feeling like Mr. Roarke making his morning commute to Fantasy Island. The weather had glowered all day and the forecast was nothing but rain making me more than a little nervous about dining al fresco.

I’m here for Dîner en Blanc – a dining flashmob of white-clad picnickers that began in 1988 in Paris. That at least sounds better than me trying to explain why I’m going to a white rally. Toronto’s first unofficial Dîner, this was to be a modest affair of about 400. Pulled off by a handful of GTA foodies in about 6 weeks, the event was spurred on by the August Niagara on the Lake DEB.

Waiting in the parking lot I took consolation in the fact that participants were easy to spot. Head to toe white after labor day isn’t exactly a common sight down in the Toronto Quay. Obviously this was not a sanctioned event as I spotted hints of ivory and, horrors, what was clearly a cream outfit. (I later found out the official society had sent an overseer to see if we were up to snuff for official sanction)

We were finally ushered to our location. Organizers had spent the day setting up tables, chairs and linens in the cobbled streets of the Distillery district. The clouds, though still hovering, had lightened up while attendees began setting their tables up. This was a foodie event, – a veritable who’s who of GTA food bloggers loaded for bear. Kitchen torches to crisp up entrees, tureens of decadent soup, homemade breads, charcuterie plates and more. There was probably just as many photos taken of the food as the people in attendance and here I was with soggy containers of pasta from Vincenzo’s proffered up in a dollar store white bag. Noob.

At least I could rely on the kindness of strangers. The ladies from Richmond Hill (including the lovely Julie Sartori featured in the Toronto Star photoset) had brought 3 crates worth of wares for their table of six. Lily centrepieces, silver cookie trays, champagne flutes, candles aplenty and equally gorgeous fare. @kalofagas brought some melitzanosalata and homemade bread (natch) that was just mindblowing and @pancancooks brought the fire with homemade hot sauce for everyone.

The evening is a blur – until I found myself standing with a cigar in hand and a glass of wine watching the assembled throng wave their sparklers under the night sky like some grand Gatsbyesque affair cheering their good fortune. Magic. I can’t thank you enough Paula for the invite.

The smell! We had just entered the barrel room where 40 Creek sits and mellows. The place was infused with what they refer to as the angel’s share, the scant bit of every barrel that evaporates during aging. Instead of the tight, high smell of alcohol the air hung with the rich, warm notes that linger after a glass of the good stuff. It was like sitting in a deep leather chair in front of a warm fire nestled inside a humidor eating creme brulee. I want this packaged and sold as a room spray. It would give even the cheesiest of wood panelled, shag carpeted rec rooms a suitable air of gravitas. I just wanted to curl up and sleep here amongst the barrels.

Outside it’s a squat, nondescript building hunched by the side of the QEW in Grimsby. Blink and you’ve missed it. We were there as part of a tour and seminar celebrating the release of John’s Private Cask No.1, a limited 9,000 bottle run made from 23 of John’s favorite barrels.

The seminar portion was lead by John Hall himself. He’s a gracious host that gamely signed all our bottles and was only too happy to chat with his “fans.” At the seminar we got the chance to taste each distillation that, at 40 Creek, gets casked individually instead of the traditional method that adheres to a strict recipe that mixes the grains from the outset.

The rye blend was great; a spicy hit with a little heat and packing some nice complexity. The barley or “scotch” I wasn’t a fan of, none of the peaty goodness I like and way too sharp. But the corn blend or “bourbon” was all round fruity notes that just slipped down your throat. Every year John gets requests to bottle this and it stands on it’s own beautifully. I loved this and it only has me more excited about our upcoming bourbon tasting session. In the meantime I’ve got two bottles of his Private cask to tide me over.

Born in 1972, Ernest Cline is of my generation and his novel Ready Player One is peppered with all the touchstones of our youth. Raised in a world of orange shag carpeting and wood paneled dens, we were there for the advent of home computing with the TRS-80 making way for the Commodore 64. We ushered in a new era of console gaming with the Atari 2600. We’d cut our teeth and blown through our allowance on grimy arcade games stuffed in the corners of pizza joints and bowling alleys. We’d been raised on John Hughes movies.

Cline is no great writer and, much like this summers other hyped sci-fi read Robopocalypse, Ready Player One plays out like a screenplay that foreshadows the inevitable movie. Still, that’s not to say this isn’t a hella fun read.

It’s a dystopian 2044 where the world interacts online in the completely immersive world of the OASIS. When it’s creator dies an heir-less multibillionaire he launches a worldwide Easter Egg hunt – to the winner his entire fortune and the keys to OASIS. Turns out he’s a bit of an 80′s freak and therein lies the fun. Our protagonist bands together with a misfit crew of “gunters” (Easter Egg Hunters) and set out against the evil corporate empire racing to claim the OASIS for it’s own.

This sets up competitive bouts of Pac-Man,Tempest and a memorable head-to-head against a Lich King playing Joust. And who wouldn’t want to walk the marbled halls of the Tyrell Corporation, fly the Serenity with Max Headroom as your personal AI or play through a fully rendered virtual world of Zork. (You are standing in an open field west of a white house, with a boarded front door.)

When Cline talks about the transformation sound effect “lifted from the old Super Friends cartoon” we know exactly what he’s talking about. And we can’t help but geek out when we find that Cory Doctorow and Wil Wheaton are the joint heads of the OASIS User Council. Throw in some School House Rocks, Family Ties, DeLoreans, Ghostbusters, Men Without Hats and mix well. It’s guilty pleasure in the form of geek lore. I blazed through this in a weekend.

All that’s missing is the denouement where the villain is escorted away shaking his fist and screaming “And I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for you meddling kids!”

JMDrama’s production of “The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee” was the most fun I’ve had at the theatre this year. Do yourself a favor and check out the remaining three shows on August 18,19 and 20. Tickets are available here.

Held at the Registry Theatre on Frederick Street, it’s a tiny little space, no larger than an elementary school gymnasium. One of the last remaining Art Deco buildings in Kitchener it’s the perfect venue for a show.

As we settled into our seats we could overhear Director Allan Hoch loudly bemoaning the KW Record’s unwillingness to cover such unremittingly regional fare. At least he enjoyed the show, laughing uproariously behind us.

While I’m not running out to buy a CD of the performance – which has less to do with the talent onstage and more to do with a score that feels like it’s often just spoken word put to music – it was hella funny. From unfortunate erections, scheming gay fathers, a magic spelling foot, the Big Lebowski as Jesus, conciliatory juiceboxes and some game audience members – it was, as theatre pundits are wont to say, a comedic romp.

The second half started meandering off into the surreal but on the whole the production reminded me a lot of Avenue Q. Even though they resisted the temptation to improv their way to a more R rated production, keeping it mostly PG for the audience, it had me laughing throughout. It’s hard not to like this production.

Photo from the ObserverXtra

What started off as a show of solidarity for a fellow co-worker’s role in the production, ended up being an ROFL evening out. Even better, Hilary over at RQ Magazine is offering up discounted tickets with the Promo code RQBLOG – not to mention a ringing endorsement herself.  Do yourself a favor and check it out.