Why I’m glad we hosted the Olympics

It’s been a couple months now but I still find the clips up on YouTube. Bilodeau and his brother. Montgomery and his pitcher of beer. Rochette and her strength. And the goal. That sweet, sweet goal and the sound of a nation erupting.

We found things to do in stormy weather, as Neil Young told us. What a party. What a blast.

It was a special time to be a Canadian.

It was a special time to be working in Canadian media, survivors of an industry cut hard by the recession. Still standing. Fight over flight.

And I’ll remember the work, son.

The insane amount of hours put in.

The absurd amount of beer and donuts consumed.

The friendships that started as a bit of camaraderie then quickly caught fire.

Never getting a haircut. Writing the headline to go with Crosby’s golden photo. Not wanting to sleep. Not wanting to leave. Not wanting it to end.

I told my family I would essentially be out of the picture for a month. That I would try to call sometime but, for just this little while, I would make myself completely available to the job. Living up to what I promised as a news intern, hired over the phone in a pinch: That I will do anything I am asked, no excuses.

So anything the family needed from me, I said, would have to occur before or after the month of February. They took it to heart. My youngest nephew was baptized in January.

But when the Olympics was over, I headed back to Port Colborne, out of the ‘war room’ at work, out of work period. A month can be an eternity for kids so, naturally, I wanted to see my nephews and my niece. See what they’d come to learn while I was away.

Well, I want you to watch the clip below to see what my nephew, Sullivan, learned while his Uncle Ryan was slugging away in the big city. And this is why I am so proud of this country and, hopefully, a new generation of Canadians who aren’t afraid to admit that living here is a beautiful, blessed thing.

This is what we paid for.

Decoding guy speak

Called my Dad up today. We talked for exactly 6 minutes and 6 seconds about the NHL playoffs and how happy we are to see Shane Doan get a Cup shot after all those loyal years in Winnipeg and Phoenix.

Reminded me a lot of this scene, I guess.

A note on friendship

Last night I met up with Arlen, a great buddy of mine from J-school.

We spent a year doing our Masters together which was, truly, one of the hardest things I've ever loved. It had its ups and downs and all that jazz.

So tight were we that we once pulled an all-nighter before a massive project and passed out next to each other, shocking students and teachers alike who came into class the next morning.

I occasionally referred to him as 'Brown Bear,' which is borderline racist, but he allowed it.

He called me recently to get together, mainly because he had some hilarious stories from a Vegas bachelor party that needed sharing. I didn't get his message until later and, in typical Ryan Maloney fashion, neglected to call him or email him back right away.

I wrote a note on my desk at work - 'Email Arlen' - but for some reason got consistently bogged down with other things.

When I finally did get it done, I prefaced everything with the obligatory:'I'm sorry I've been such a dick... I wanted to call... I wanted to write...' and so on.

He wrote back the following:

"Don't worry about it... I know that stuff gets bizAYE. So when i didn't hear from you, I figured you were just busy, and your home internet is working fine."

And THAT is why I will stay friends with him until I'm old, grey and senile.

Maybe it's selfish. In fact, it is selfish. And people who consistently rail against me for not keeping in touch do have a point - I need to find time to reconnect.

My Dad doesn't think I come home to visit enough. My sister sends me messages asking if I'm alive. I don't make it to enough of my nephew's hockey games or to see my niece's dance class. Friends who have left work or the country are quick to remind me that I'm not emailing them enough - even going so far to suggest ego or a newfound 'too big for my britches' mentality is at work, which is so far off base it is laughable.

I am, as I've always been, a good dude who works hard and does his best. I am imperfect, too.

But above all else, what you need to know about me is this: I am a person who makes friends for life.

And I do this through trust. That's how it works. People need to trust me.

People need to trust that I'm thinking about them, even if I don't broadcast it. People need to trust that I'm telling hilarious stories about them, even if they are hundreds or thousands of miles away. People need to trust that even if weeks or months go by, I will assume that I can jump right back in to things the minute we are leaning into the same bar.

That's how friendship is best served -- boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. (Golly, Gatsby was so good).

I'm also not one of these people who sends passive-aggressive messages or ignores a buddy for weeks if I feel I've been done wrong. I look them in the eye, I tell them why I'm angry, and I tell them they can go fuck themselves. THAT is trust, too. Trust that you can handle that side of me. And, so far, everyone has.

Now, granted, friendships are gardens that need to be tended to or they lose something. People drift apart, as the story goes. You have to water the plants.

But, if you're looking for a buddy who gives you constant care and attention, I can't be that guy. And if you're looking for a friend who will consistently let you know he misses you, chances are it ain't me, babe.

I make friends easy and always have because I like being liked. Everyone knows that. And, once I am liked, I try to keep those good times rolling through jokes and memories that I keep with me, always.

But I guess I've never been the type of guy who needs to get that back.

I don't need to hear from you to know I've made an impact or that I cross your mind some days. I assume that much. Because I am your friend for as long as you'll have me.

So, my friends, do keep in touch but know that I don't need to hear too much about your life, only that you're happy. And if you're unhappy, let me be the first person to show up ready to fix you.

Out of sight? Yes. But never, never out of mind.

'A different way of governing'

My mom made me promise I wouldn't put my name on a ballot until she was dead and buried but man, scenes like this make me want to run for something.

Maybe someday.

Thought

If I'm not allowed to put all my eggs in one basket, how the hell do you expect me to count them before they hatch?

Think about it.

Good times never seemed so good

I will not stop until I have a comparable outfit

I sang karaoke this weekend.

Yup, it happens maybe once a year, usually after copious amounts of alcohol. Rye, specifically. I love the irony.

Now, anyone who knows me well knows what song I always pick and even though I am writing about it now, I want everyone to know it remains my clutch, go-to tune. So, don't steal it.

Sweet Caroline.

Now, when Glee did a cover, it became admittedly less cool but that Neil Diamond gem is perfection.

The simple message. The 'bah bah bahs' that everyone waits for. The ability to yell out choice lyrics like, 'Hands... TOUCHING HANDS.'

It is transcendent.

But the reason I always pick that song is because of a movie I remember watching when I was younger.

It's called Beautiful Girls and I recommend you rent it. Or buy it. Buy it, then let me borrow it.

Anyway, the day I watched it was the day I discovered that I was going to need a gimmick if I was going to get the girl.

And you know what, I think karaoke aptly shows off my best and worst quality: slightly charming ridiculousness.

Though it is worth noting that I have never gotten a number after singing karaoke, so maybe I should think twice before making nasty public love to those microphones.

Still, Sweet Caroline, in addition to being a crowd-pleasing song that masks my limited vocals, reminds me that there are times in life when you have to earn someone's attention.

Sing for your supper.

I truly believe that this scene and Vince Vaughn's diner scene in Swingers (both came out when I was 13, so a pivotal time for a dude), are pretty much the reason I sometimes act out in public.

Pot shots

Three phrases I've been hearing lately as I tap my brain-trust on matters great and small.

1) 'Shit or get off the pot'

To this I respond: Why? The pot's comfortable, baby.

The pot... is... comfortable.

But it also doesn't get you anywhere, that pot, and no matter how good the magazine, you must get up eventually. We know this.

So, get off we shall.

I think that I can be convinced to do just about anything, so long as the person doing the convincing says, 'Shit or get off the pot.'

Flashback....

I'm seven.

My parents are waiting for me to jump into a freezing Lake Erie off the bough of our boat.

Fed up, my father says: 'Shit or get off the pot.' After a moment of quiet reflection, I see the logic in that statement and then plunge into the water.

Getting off the pot can be fun sometimes.

Water's warmer than you might think.

And there endeth the lesson.

2) 'Fish or cut bait'

A polite way to say 'Shit or get off the pot' and the phrase preferred by Maritimers and, I assume, some people at the marina back home.

Though, to me, this one makes less sense.

I mean, what kind of BULLSHIT question is that?

"I can either fish or cut bait? Well, then I chose fishing. Obviously. Who is going to chose to cut our bait if they also don't get to come fishing? That's a pretty nonsensical arrangement."

3) 'Swing for the fences'

Too often in life we applaud the home-run hitters, who get all the glory, and forget about the consistent batters who may not notch 40 HRs a season but nonetheless find a way to get on base.

Those are the ones who make stuff happen. And a skilled hitter knows how to place the ball in those little openings in the field and to put some runs on the board.

So, really, the phrase shouldn't be 'Swing for the fences' at all. It should be, you know, 'Find the gaps.'

Of course, it's possible some might think your advice was - 'Find a Gap.'

And, even after returning home with armfuls of sweater-vests and dark denims, they still won't have the confidence needed to ask her out. And they'll blame your shitty advice.

So, maybe 'Swing for the fences' is the perfect phrase for anyone looking to do a little better. Looking to, as the boxer's say -- or said before they all morphed into mixed-martial artists -- 'Punch above your weight.'

Lot of risk.

Lot of reward.

Water's warm.