$4 Investment?

I never told anyone about this, because it kinda scared me, but last month Sasha called me on my cell. When I was in Vancouver. He wanted me to work for him again. I told him that I wasn't ready to fly 3500 miles at the drop of a hat to get paid $2/hr, but that maybe I'd call him when I got back to MTL. I'd figured he'd sorta forgot about me, but now I secretly suspect he's been reading all about our day together on this website. I guess knowing that I can post his phone number and address on this website gives me the upper hand, for now at least.

should I call him?

Yes Man

kyle and danny wallace

Now I’m not the sort of dude that frequents book readings, but if Danny Wallace’s reading from his new book, Yes Man, is any indication of what to expect, I’ll start to.

Danny has that Robbie Williams celebrity status factor thing going for him: he can walk the streets of Anytown USA in comfortable anonymity, but as soon as his plane touches back down in London, it is immediately mobbed by a throng of screaming teenage girls. Luckily we were in New York. In a book store.

Danny read for about half an hour from Yes Man, the true story of what happened to him when he decided to say yes to everything, for like a year or something. I could review Yes Man, but I'll save you the trouble: Just go out and buy it. The reading was cool, more improv stand up routine than masterpiece theatre.

The real treat came when Danny opened up to questions from the 75 person strong audience.

One of the stand-out moments was when a cell phone rang, belonging to a slightly bedraggled skinny middle aged woman half-hiding behind a pole who had just asked a series of questions, each more ridiculous than the last. Upon completion of the call, Danny asked “Who was that?--your travel agent?”
“No, that was just some guy who called me about some black paint. I need to paint something black, but don’t ask me about it.”
“You can’t say something like that and expect me not to ask about it. So here goes, why do you need black paint?”
“Well, I’m not going to tell you. That’s that. Hey, is this How to Start Your Own Country TV show you’re making going to be like that show with those two gay guys down in the Village?”
Danny attempted to hold back a chuckle, unlike the audience, and answered with an uncharacteristic, “No”
The lady looked up with all seriousness and said, “Good, cause I hate that show.”

Next up was a stocky fellow in the second row with an ample blond mane on his head and a superman t-shirt on his back. He innocently asked, “Danny, will we be able to see your new TV show here in the states?”
“Well, it will be broadcast in the U.K. first and then hopefully—are you a wrestler?”
It pretty much caught everybody off guard, but not the “wrestler”, who shrugged a blasé “Yeah.” as if it was nothing and continued his question, “But will we have to wait a long time before we see it?”

I’d contacted Danny a few days before, and we’d agreed to make a trade. For one red paperclip, he traded me a pack of 50 safety pins. And not just any old safety pins. Oh no, we’re talking top of the line Silver Lynx brand nickel and brass finished safety pins, sizes 00, 1, 2 and 3. They are fully satisfaction guaranteed-which is good, because when it comes to safety pins, I’m a very hard guy to satisfy.

Our business transaction complete, I asked Danny a question I’d never asked anyone before, “Fancy a pint?”

A short while later we sat in a local pub with pints in our hands among a group of ten or so. Perched at the end of the table was a room-dominating big-screen TV showing the Yankees game. I looked down the table and asked, “Hey Danny, did you see which network is carrying the game?” In the bottom right hand corner of the screen was the logo for the YES network. A simple bold YES.

Danny looked at the screen, paused for a moment, then turned towards me with a large grin and said with authority, “As it should.”

one coleman stove


“Hey, it’s almost dinner time and you guys are probably hungry, right? How does a barbeque sound?” The voice on the other end of the phone was Shawn Sparks in Amherst Massachusetts. I was in a sweltering Toyota Corolla traveling south on I-91 an hour outside of Amherst. The shoddy treble-loving speakers of my car’s stereo struggled to make audible the bass loving sounds of ‘The Next Episode’ by Dr. Dre over the rumble of air passing though four open windows at 80 miles an hour. My buddy Allan sat in the seat next to me. We were starving. Now, when somebody invites you over for a barbeque, they usually give you a nice warm meal, not an actual barbeque. Shawn gave us both. Now, before we go any further, let's clear something up. You could argue that a Coleman stove is not a barbeque, but that would make you a weenie. So for arguments sake, and to avoid any confrontations with weenies, I'll use the term Coleman stove / barbeque interchangably. After all, both are very effective when it comes to cooking weiners. Oh yeah, the little dude striking the badass pose in the picture above is Seamus, Shawn's son. He's not a weenie, just the most energetic little dude I've ever met.
Allan, Shawn and I tore into our hearty steak sandwiches the size of hush puppies. Shawn gave us the lowdown on his desire for the doorknob. “I saw the Knob-T on the website and I knew I just had to have it. The handle on my stove-top espresso maker is a little buggered up. The Knob-T is exactly what I’ve been looking for.” “Really?” “Yeah, it even looks like me in the morning after my first cup—all wired up and stuff.”

massaknobt buggeredespresoknob
In terms of craigslist personalities, Shawn is legend. He traded a used laptop bought for $500 at Best Buy for his 1993 Chevy Blazer. The house he lives in he found as a housesitting gig. And now, Shawn has the perfect knob for the top of his espresso maker. All thanks to craigslist.
Since Shawn was nice enough to up the ante and hook me up with a barbeque, in both senses of the term, I’m upping the ante as well. The next trade will be a bonanza. Here’s the deal: If you provide the food, I will come to your place and cook you a barbeque meal, then give you the barbeque. With fuel. Well….if there’s any fuel left over. All I’m asking for in return is something bigger or better than one Coleman stove. With fuel. And if that isn’t enough to convince you to make a trade, I’ll throw in one red paperclip. So, who’s hungry?


Click here for the next trade. 

Off to NYC

hey crew, I'll be down in the Big Apple until Wednesday. I've got some meetings to attend and some trades to make and some apples to eat.


My cousin Diana sent me an email with the subject line: It had to be done.

So true.

Thanks Diana!

highlife bull

highlife cat

highlife skiing

highlife vs[1]. beachparty

bring 'em on.

one doorknob

Now a pen, especially a fish pen, is a hard object to let go. But even with the awesome writing powers it may possess, you’ve gotta face the facts: A fish pen can’t really help you open a cupboard. And I’ve got a cupboard that needs opening. Luckily, Annie Robbins called me about ten minutes after I got the pen.


I showed up at Annie's place in Seattle in a minivan filled with my parents, Ian and Colleen, my brother Scott, my brother's girlfriend Rachel and even my Grandpa Nap, which funny enough is his nickname...short for Napoleon. Annie was stoked. She'd never traded with an entourage before. Or met a Napoleon, I think. Annie is a helpful Seattle-based ceramic sculptor who had the ideal object to trade: A doorknob. But not just any old doorknob, oh no, this l’il sculpted mofo looks like E.T. after he smoked a bat. A BIG bat. If I had to name it, which I do, I’d call it a Knob-T. As soon as I laid eyes upon the Knob-T, I just knew I had to get my hand on it.


Question from passerby: “What are you holding? Me: “A Knob-T" Passerby again: “What’s a Knob-T?” Me again: “It’s pretty much my favorite Seattle souvenir. It’s like a tripped-out version of E.T. crossed with a doorknob...bred for its skills and magic.” If only.


Three airplane rides and a change of shirts later I found myself back in Montreal able to do the one thing I’ve always dreamed about: tug on a drug-induced ceramic version of E.T. to get at the solvents. Bigger than a fish pen? Nope. Better than a fish pen? I'll just the solvents do the talkin'.
knobtclosed knobtopen

Look at the solvents---Don't they love it? Quiet though, they don't know I'm going to trade the knob away. They'll get over it. They always do. So hands down Annie is the coolest professional potter from the Emerald City I’ve ever met. But get this, there's more: she's trying to get rid of her Mercedes. Her plan is to wait until I get something big enough to trade for the car. I like her plan. It is good.

*Click here to see who wound 
up with Annie's doorknob. 

one fish pen


This morning Rhawnie and Corinna from Vancouver called me up and offered to make a trade of their fish pen for the paperclip. Rhawnie and Corinna are Vegans. I figure'd they'd used the fish pen to write out all sorts of cool stuff on paper and, being vegans, wanted very little to do with a fish. They probably needed the paperclip to clip all those papers toghether so it was the ideal win-win situation. I happened to be in town for the day and had never traded a paperclip with a vegan before, let alone two, so I figured, what the hay, let's do this.

Rhawnie found the pen camping and was sad to see it go, but was pretty stoked on her new paperclip.

I'm pumped on having the pen, but in the name of the game, it's gotta go too.

So, please get back to me if you're down with trading me something bigger and better than a wooden fish pen to get yourself the said pen.


*Click here to see what the fish pen fetched.


Hi, my name's Kyle. Give me a shout anytime. I'd love to hear from ya.


Cell: 514-833-3980

Kyle MacDonald

Feel free to take ANYTHING from this website for your article / blog post about one red paperclip. HIGH RES pictures of everything can be found on the one red paperclip Flickr page.

test google maps

Bigger or Better

Mark my words: this will change internet history.


This might not surprise you, but below is a picture of a paperclip. It is red.

one red paperclip

This red paperclip is currently sitting on my desk next to my computer. I want to trade this paperclip with you for something bigger or better, maybe a pen, a spoon, or perhaps a boot.

If you promise to make the trade I will come and visit you, wherever you are, to trade.

So, if you have something bigger or better than a red paperclip to trade, email me with the details at biggerorbetter@gmail.com

Hope to trade with you soon!


I'm going to keep trading up until I get a house. Or an Island. Or a house on an island. You get the idea.

Colin Pearson


Hey, if you like good music and funny pictures, go here:

I've known Colin for, like, 25 years or something but I just found out today he has a website stacked with all sorts of goodies.

His parents and my parents went to high school together. We grew up watching them slam beers at BBQs and stuff. A profound effect on each of our lives to say the least.

You can download good tunes and see pictures and much, much more. Oh, you can buy CDs and stuff too.

about one red paperclip

Did you ever hear about that guy who traded a red paperclip for a house? Well, I'm that guy. Hi. My name is Kyle. I grew up in Belcarra B.C., which is a suburb of Vancouver. I live in Montreal now with my wife Dominique. My whole life I've been real big on projects. Usually fun things that take on an obsessive element to some degree. Most noteworthy of these projects (so far) was the time I started with a red paperclip and traded it for bigger and better things until I wound up with a house. You may have heard about this already. In this paragraph perhaps! Anyhow, It was a silly idea and it kinda turned out to be a big deal I guess. So big that I my personal website is called oneredpaperclip.com So big that the red paperclip has become my de-facto symbol and I'm somewhat known as "the red paperclip guy." It makes for a pleasant ice-breaker whenever the topic of "so what do you do" comes up. But I'll let you in a little secret. I've never had a personal fetish for paperclips, even red ones. In fact, the best thing I ever did was trade that silly red paperclip away in the first place! Such is life. To me, a 'red paperclip' is more of a symbolic thing, an idea that you're ready to launch. A new project about to happen. That spark of insight or inspiration. The most important thing about an idea is to do something with it. Perhaps trade it away to make things happen. It's all quite metaphorical and I could get really deep, but we'll have plenty of time for that later. Please peruse though this site and I hope you find some stuff you enjoy. I try to have fun doing things, and a vast part of that fun is doing stuff and creating things others get a kick out of. Here's some stuff I do in real life and on the web:

one red paperclip

This might not surprise you, but below is a picture of a paperclip. It is red.

paperclip fixed up

This red paperclip is currently sitting on my desk next to my computer. I want to trade this paperclip with you for something bigger or better, maybe a pen, a spoon, or perhaps a boot.

If you promise to make the trade I will come and visit you, wherever you are, to trade.

So, if you have something bigger or better than a red paperclip to trade, email me with the details at oneredpaperclip@gmail.com

Hope to trade with you soon!


I'm going to make a continuous chain of 'up trades' until I get a house. Or an Island. Or a house on an island. You get the idea.

*Click here to see who I traded my one red paperclip with.

promote one red paperclip from your website!

Wanna promote one red paperclip from your website? Just copy/paste the snazzy html code below each picture and you're off to the races! (Make sure you get all of it.) You can also find a plethora of fun one red paperclip-related pictures here. - use any, and as many, images as you wish! one red paperclip one red paperclip paperclip fixed up paperclip logo paperclip logo paperclip logo



Originally from Belcarra, British Columbia, Canada, Kyle MacDonald has planted more than one hundred thousand trees, delivered more than one thousand pizzas, but eaten only one scorpion. He has also traded one red paperclip for a house only once.

He coordially invites you to edit his wikipedia bio as creatively as you desire.

When he's not stealing a flag from the Prime Minister's office or promoting Alberta Beef by hitch-hiking in a parade, you might find him leaving his wallet in El Segundo or hanging out in Bangkok modeling Italian Soccer jerseys to fund 4am Red-Bull and Rum-fueled urban hitchhikes. He also enjoys writing his bio in the third person and loves to stand on street corners in Montreal hawking shoddily-bound English literature to Francophones in sub-zero temperatures.

His mom still cuts his hair.

Born: October 3, 1979

A Grape Surprise

My girlfriend Dominique and I saved all spring and summer for a three-month trip to Europe. The planned highlight of our trip: picking grapes in France for the grape harvest. (Les Vendanges) From Canada, Dominique found us a job from at a French vineyard in and we booked a flight for early September. As the summer wore on and we continued to save for our trip overseas, mother nature threw a monkey wrench into our plans: a record-breaking heat wave was tearing through Western Europe. The owner of the vineyard in France called us to say that the hot weather meant an early grape harvest: if we wanted to participate in the vendanges, we would have to arrive in France by early August. Our attempts to leave Canada early were thwarted by the fact that no changes or refunds could be made to our low-cost airline tickets. We called the vineyard owner and explained our situation. He said he was sorry but we were welcome to come next year I we liked. We thanked the owner for the offer and started to look for grape harvest work that started in September. Our attempts to find work for later in the season were met with dead ends. WE both decided that after spending the spring and summer saving for our trip, we would still go to Europe in early September, vendanges or not.

The plane touched down in Lyon, France on September 8th. We made our way up to the hostel overlooking the city, exhausted from a combination of jet lag and excitement to finally be on the road. As we walked into the hostel and approached the front desk, we noticed a small piece of paper taped to the surface of the check-in counter. Scribbled hurriedly in French, the note simply said:

8 Septembre:
Travail pour cinq personnes:
Vendanges à St. Saphorin, Suisse
Appellez Immediatement

September 8? Work for five people? Vendanges? Switzerland? Urgent? Call Immediately!? Could this be work for us after all? We both thought the vendanges would all be finished by now and were surprised by Switzerland? Did vineyards exist in Switzerland? My vision of Switzerland as an alpine landscape dotted with mountains and St. Bernard rescue dogs simply didn’t mesh with growing grapes. Dominique quickly called the number and we were told there were two more week-long positions available and that we could start the next day. St. Saphorin was only 120 kilometres away and could be easily accessed by train from Lyon. Our trip had started out on an unexpected foot. In less than five hours in Europe we had already made plans to leave France and had found a job harvesting grapes!

By noon the next day we were aboard the appropriately named ‘Le Train Des Vignes’ (Train of the Vines) zipping along high above the shores of Lake Geneva. The thousands of acres of vineyards we passed through were going to fill thousands of bottles with Swiss wine. I guess the St. Bernard rescue dogs did need a vineyard or two to fill the wooden keg around their neck with life-saving brandy, after all. A cheerful Madame, greeted our arrival at the train station in St. Saphorin and drove us up the road, stopping at a massive four-storey Chateau overlooking sparkling Lake Geneva and the vineyards below. In the distance were the glacier-covered peaks of the Alps. If a handful of experts had ever sat down to agree where the best place on earth to harvest grapes was located, this had to be it.

Each morning began with a hot breakfast at 7a.m., we had an hour or so to wake up and then hop into the crew trailer with twenty other harvesters for the morning descent to the glistening dew-covered vineyards. The hot sunrise over the Alps quickly burnt off the moisture and by 10a.m. we shed our sweaters for t-shirts and hats. By mid-morning it was time for coffee break, or more realistically: chocolate and cheese break. Coffee and tea were there, but it was the giant bars of chocolate and delicious wheels of cheese that everyone looked forward to. Dominique had never liked the taste of chocolate before arriving in Europe but it took just one bite of some local Swiss chocolate to show her what she’s been missing out on all these years. After that, she was always the first one at break-time ready to peel the wrapper off the delicious choco-treats. Still full of chocolate and cheese, we all headed up the hill at noon for an hour-long hot lunch followed by an afternoon of work punctuated by yet another ‘chocolate’ break. By six in the evening we had collectively harvested several tons of grapes and were back at the dinner table again, drinking wine made from the grapes harvested by the vendangeurs of the previous year.

Dominique’s job was to cut bunches of grapes from each vine. Using a small set of garden clippers, she filled plastic containers left along each row and were picked up by ‘un porteur’ like me. My job was to carry ‘small’ containers of grapes to a ‘large’ container waiting on the closest roadway. Each ‘small’ container weighed about 35 pounds each and we carried three containers at a time on our backs using a metal rack. Had the terrain been remotely flat, hauling more than one hundred pounds of grapes would have been simple but the incredibly steep terrain made work difficult. Hauling grapes down steep staircases was tricky, but the real test came when grapes had to be hauled up staircases. We were called ‘les porteurs’ but I think of myself as a ‘wine and chocolate-fuelled Swiss grape Sherpa.’ Some nearby terrain was so remote and steep that neighbouring vineyard owners used helicopters to hoist and carry large containers of grapes from the vineyard to a central collection facility. Once the grapes left the vineyard, they were taken immediately to a collective processing facility where they were de-stemmed, pressed and put into containers that would eventually turn the juice into delicious wine.

Everybody in the vineyard was under the watchful eye of our chef de l`equipe (foreman) Thierry. His frequent shouts of “Caisse Vide!” (Empty Case!) implied that we needed to hustle and supply an empty container to people cutting bunches of grapes. His enthusiasm for his work was unmatched. Thierry had worked vineyards since before he could remember and paid tribute to his passion by commissioning the most incredible job-describing tattoo I’ve ever seen: On his upper right arm was a naked Venus figure wrapped in a bunch of grapes. Not to be outdone, three other locals by the names of ‘Pi-Loux’, ‘Pascal’ and ‘Gamel’ had made a lifetime of harvesting grapes and had Rudolph-like red noses to prove their expertise.

On the final day of harvesting, we all gathered to watch the traditional cutting of the final bunch of grapes by the vineyard’s owner, Mr. Légeret. He had presided over the land for more than forty years but this vendange was special for Mr. Légeret. It would be his last as the following year he would pass the vineyard over to his son, Christophe. With the final grapes cut, a cheer erupted and it the party started. The entire vineyard was a massive cuckoo clock and it had just struck noon. Everybody jumped into the trailer decorated in sunflowers, branches and leaves as the crew van pulled away towards the centre of the village. Songs and cheers rang out as our presence brought happy applause from the third floor balconies. Villagers came outside to acknowledge our completed vendange and join us in singing songs which I’d never heard before but managed to make up word and fit in well. Having completed our work and successfully entertained a few villagers, the victory party made its way back to the chateau for a harvest feast worthy of a king.

One of the massive plates of food was covered in grapes from the vineyard. The grapes tasted delicious apparently because of the hot summer. When I asked if the sweet grapes would make a good bottle of wine we were told that yes, hopefully, but it was a superstition to never predict excellent wine. The theory was that if you proclaimed that your wine would be a vintage or millisieme year, it would never happen. Were the grapes that we harvested good enough to produce a ‘vintage’ bottle of wine? The only way to find out was to return again the following year. Everybody who worked at the vineyard was invited back for the next year, many eager to literally taste the fruits of their labour. The following day everybody went their separate ways with a paycheque, a bottle of wine and a week of memories to last a lifetime.

There may probably be people at each vineyard who speak a little English, but anyone with basic high school French should be able to find work quite easily. The physical effort required harvesting grapes is roughly equivalent to spending an entire day gardening. If you think you'd like gardening for 8 hours a day, with two breaks for chocolate and cheese, an hour-long lunch, free room and board and be able to drink all the free wine you’d like, then working vendanges is for you! Oh, and you’ll get paid between $50 - $120 CAD per day depending on the vineyard.

copyright © 2004 by Kyle MacDonald

More info about vendanges can be found at: http://www.anpe.fr/actualites/affiche/juillet_2004/saison_vendanges_2590.html

Because of the relatively short season and large amount of labour needed to harvest grapes, work visas are not always needed - but a tattoo of a naked maiden against a backdrop of grapes won't hurt your chances.


The Goolie

I take absolutely no credit for this story. Unlike every other story around here, it did not happen to me and I cannot swear to its truth or accuracy. A friend of mine named Mate (pronounced ‘Matt’) told me this one back in 1998 the same day the album Hello Nasty by the Beastie Boys came out. There aren’t that many ‘Goolies’ around these days, but the suburban legend lives on. Mate was working in the automotive department of a Canadian Tire when this guy came in and…

“I need an air filter for my car”
“No problem, I’ll show you where the filters are”

(they walk to air filter section)

“So, uh, what type of car you got?”
“I don’t know”
“Well, is it a domestic or an import?”
“No idea”
“Chevy?, Ford?, Honda?”
“I don’t know, It’s like a…. I don’t know, a ‘Goolie’ or something like that. Yeah, it’s a ‘Goolie’” (shrugs)
“A ‘Goolie’? I’ve never heard of that. Who makes it? Is it a special edition or something?”
“Nope, its just maroon coloured and pretty plain. It’s just a plain ‘Goolie.”
“Huh, well, I’ve got no idea what kind of air filter to give you for something like that...Is it outside in the parking lot?”
“Oh yeah, sure. It’s just outside”
“Let’s go see what it looks like.”

(they go outside)

“There it is right over there.” Says the guy.
Mate walks around the corner of the building to see the ‘Goolie’. The car he sees is a late 80’s Pontiac 6000 LE.

6000 LE