The Fortress of Verisimilitude

A One Whore Open Sleigh

2011-12-12T21:18:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader,

As someone who often dickers around with words I recognize their importance. Words have meaning. Words have power.

x-Tangent: Christmas has hit the house hot and heavy. Normally I would be doing my usual routine at Christmas, closing down orphanages, filling the work houses; you know, decreasing the surplus population. But with two children under six in the house I can’t help but get caught up with the Christmas fever.

As such, It’s not unusual to hear my daughter singing “Jingle Bells” repeatedly… time after time… over and over…. and over. Really, it was cute the first 4,000 times but its starting to wear a little thin. I’ve been running Tom’s Diner night and day through my skull, and so far its holding its own – but soon the walls will crack, like the impenetrable fortress of Helm’s Deep, and a whole lot of of Uruk’hai in skimpy elven costumes will be jingling their bells while I weep for the loss of my sanity.

I didn’t complain when it was time to put up the Christmas tree, I didn’t even complain when it was time to put up the Christmas lights. I even risked life and limb and climbed up to the roof to put lights on the top tier (avoiding the donkey on the roof who kept throwing the damn barrels full of fiddlers down at me).

This year I caught a case of the Christmas no cream can cure; ain’t no lotion can disabuse my Christmas notion.

y-tangent: My son is awesome.

He has a pretty good voice for a now five year old. He can hold a tune as well and can sing pretty much the entire songbook from the Thomas the Tank Engine suite of music.

One thing he does not have, however, is a grasp of lyrics. He’s only five and I can already tell he’s going to be one of those peoples who sings the wrong words at the top of his lungs.

A case in point: one of the movies, as a child under four, which he fell in love with was Cars. One of the main songs from this automotive cinematic classic’s sound track was a version of Tom Cochrane’s “Life is a Highway” performed by Rascal Flats.

My son, bless his hearing, would not be cured of the idea the chorus, instead of progressing “Life is a highway/I want to drive it all night long” would sing: “Life is a highway/I want to drive it on my lawn.” Some of this was maybe his recognizing the fact he did not have his licence yet and was prohibited by law from driving on a highway, but you get my point.

Intersection: So as my daughter belts out Jingle Bells non-stop my son, in his unabashed way, has joined in with his rather liberal sense of the lyrics. For the most part his lyrical insertions are fairly innocent, with the exception of this particular song.

Where you might know the song as “Dashing through the snow, in a one horse open sleigh” the pride and joy of my loins bearing the y-chromosome (and y IS the loneliest chromosome) has begun belting out loudly (and if you read the title of this blog then you’re not going to be surprised): “Dashing through the snow in a One Whore Open Sleigh.”

Because my mind wanders off in that direction rather readily, I thought of composing a tune called Jingle Balls… but I decided that because I would a) get in trouble and b) be plagiarizing someone I didn’t bother.

I tried to explain to him the real words, but he’s my son, and as Martin men we are genetically immune to common sense and/or rationality. He’s refusing to accept my edited lyrics.

It’s also hard to explain the real words when you’re laughing. Like his father he knows when he’s got the crowd hooked.

At some point I know he’s going to glom on to the real words, but until then the one whore open sleigh continues to ride the powder.

The Haunted Potato, or, the Tater From Hell's Crater, or The Spud of Blood

2011-11-13T11:51:00.001-08:00

One day I sat upon the couch
To rest, to sit, indeed to slouch
While sitting I received a scare
For twas then I saw a tater there!
I could have said something from Plato
Instead I said: "look! A couch potato!"

But it glared at me with it's many eyes
And I felt some guilt to my surprise
For I had slain much of it's kin
Opened my maw and shoved them in
I got off the couch, said: "See ya later!"
And left behind that glaring tater.

So, to the kitchen to get a drink
But I saw it there sitting in the sink
I did not know what to think
I stood and stared and forgot to blink
I spoke aloud: " I'm too old for this crud!"
I would not fear some puny spud!

But in my heart stirred cold fear
And I thought back throughout the year
Of potatoes eaten in many shapes
Some fries, some mashed, some whole like grapes
What if the taters were amassin'
Some sort of revolt and this: their assassin!

I felt not well so I went to bed
And saw a spud resting by my head!
I admit I gave a girlish scream
Yelling: "get back spud lest I get the sour cream!"
before I could threaten it with chives
I broke out into itchy hives

After that I could not sleep
As in my dreams potatoes creeped
I tossed and turned and soon I waked
Thinking of all those spuds I'd baked
While roasting had they become Fell?
Were these ones the Spuds from Hell?

This hour of night my spirits waned
Wracked with fear my soul was pained
How could I have been the cause
Of so much pain and so much loss
These taters were right to cross my door
Spoke the tater: "Nevermore!

Like some sick version of tortoise and hare
Where'er I went a spud was there!
So much guilt! So much pain!
A potato bug assailed my brain!
I must persevere! I must recoup!
Or find myself drowned in potato soup!

Twas then he came to be my shield
My Irish ancestor from the field!
In ghostly pallor he filled my sight
Patty O'Lantern who shone so bright!
And he spoke at me with his Irish lilt:
"Are ye daft ye shouldn't feel no guilt!

Ye got to know these are just spuds
They are no reason to soil yer duds!"
strong the words spoken in his brogue
Strength to spirit from this rogue
He slowly began to disappear
To my surprise he took my fear

And in it's place a new resolve
This was just one more problem to solve
I went to the kitchen to get armed
And go to war 'gainst those who were farmed
I grabbed a cleaver and a fork
And then sat me down and got to work

I sliced. I diced. I julienned.
I was like a man possessed my friend
I chopped all night without lag
Til soon I hit the bottom of bag.
I was done! The battle won!
Now there was no need to run.

I cleaned the kitchen to the last knife
I was not brave enough to ire the wife.
Twas then I fell almost to the floor
For they were not done. There was one more.
This the leader upon my soul
This was the spirit of tater made whole!

It breathed cold fire from it's peel
All my heat it sought to steal!
It's eyes burned with malice, see
I do not lie this no fallacy!
This the tater who sought my end
I thought I was done my friend

But my spirit surged again with hope
And I thought me of a way to cope
I had a chance to win this fight
To take the day and save the night
When an evil tater must be in your gullet
What else kills evil but a Magic Bullet?

I grabbed this Prince of Hell's Potatoes
Threw in some cheese and tomatoes
An egg or two to heighten taste
I had some left over that I would not waste
I cooked this food fried in butter
And made a breakfast like no other

So that's how it all went down
The Weekend of Possessed Hashbrown
If I could make a small suggestion
Do not repeat, the indigestion
Was almost as scary
As the battle, which was, Legen-
Wait for it, wait for it- dary!

Sent from my iPad

A Fly on the Wall… of the Microwave

2011-09-01T08:57:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

While my wife is forced to sit on the couch and convalesce I’m playing Mr. Mom around the house, and the meal quality around here shows the sudden change in chefs.

X-Tangent: This morning I nuked pancakes from the freezer for the kids’ breakfast; I do not know how long they’d been in the freezer, and I do not care. No warm toast and blueberries from ma for you this morning kids, nuked pancakes and berries which I may or may not have washed. There’s yer breakfast, if yer hungry you’ll eat it.

I’m not even going to go into supper last night. Shrivelled chicken with a side of blackened rice accompanied by a wilted broccoli/cauliflower medley (heh, I can’t cook, but I can advertised.)

Y-Tangent: Another impact of this whole gall bladder thing my wife’s been going through is an increase in the amount of fruit in the house. And where there is fruit you will often find the fruit fly (which my brain persists in calling flute fries, and then imagines a ginormous French fry flute which my imagination then eats).

The fruit fly seems harmless, little guy likes to fly stops by the fruit by and by. But like all bugs, fruit flies do not come alone – they bring friends. Not even just friends, they bring acquaintances; not even just acquaintances either – they bring flies they meet on the way to my house.

Swatting of the common fruit fly is made difficult by two things: the density of the median weighted fruit fly combined with the force x mass = acceleration formula. This can be translated to mean the mass of air, which is denser than that of the average fruit fly, combined with the force of the swatting motion causes a sudden burst in acceleration pushing the fly out of the way of the harmful motion… an excerpt from “A Treatise on Ineffectual Swatting of the Common Fruit Fly” by English Scientist Herd Fromme-Lately.

Intersection: So this morning as I’m prepping the pancakes (that is to say putting it on a plate and putting it in the microwave, I notice there’s a fruit fly in there. I’m not sure if he was in there all night, or if he followed the pancakes in: that’s immaterial (well to me, to the fruit fly there might be a poignant difference).

Now I’m a lazy bum and a horrible father but even I know enough to try and get the fly out before it lands on the food my kids will eat. And so I make ineffectual swipe after ineffectual swipe at this fruit fly, and for some reason its like the force of air created by my swipe actually moves the fly out of the way – someone really should do a study on these things.

But after a few swipes I did not see the fly. Here I arrived at that road in that yellow wood. I could go down the path less traveled by and make the kids something else for breakfast, or I could trod the well beaten path of “I don’t see the fly, ergo I got him ergo it is safe to nuke.” I took the latter. So far it hasn’t made any difference.

But as I type this I begin to wonder. For it seems to me I saw a movie once about a man trapped in a machine with a fly and he turned into a … well fly. I think it was called “The Bus that Couldn’t Slow Down”… or The Fly…

And so I wonder: will having nuked these pancakes in the same microwave as a fruit fly begin a volutionary process (I can’t tell if it would be e-volution or de-volution at this point so I shot for the middle).

For the next few weeks the Martin household will be on watch for something horrible, because if movie history lets me down (and it rarely does) one of two things is going to happen:

either one or both of my kids will turn into The Fly
or even worse, one or both of my kids will turn into Jeff Goldblum.

Kung Fu’d For Thought

2011-08-31T12:04:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

While my wife was convalescing from the parting of ways with her gall bladder last night I found myself in a rare position: sitting in front of the TV with nothing to watch. Taking advantage of the free month offered by Netflix.ca I hopped on to find something I like, but normally don’t think to watch with my wife sitting next to me.

The result? A kung fu movie.

Now its not that my wife doesn’t like Kung Fu, its more that when we’re sitting together deciding on a TV Show we tend to go to the middle of the spectrum for our entertainment, shows with something for everyone. She does not say to me: “Dear Husband, let us watch this show about how to applique a quilt using a butter knife and the help of elves.” Likewise I do not say to her: “Yo, babes, how bouts we watch dis awesome Kung Fu movie where dis guy punches dis guy in de head and his eyes fall out.”

Lately we’ve watched Warehouse 13 – good show with something for everyone.

Back to the story: last night I was surfing Netflix.ca for something to watch (btw, I’ll be dropping Netflix like a bad habit when the free month is over because I cannot find anything to watch on it) and finally I settled on The Legend of the Fist.

It started off promisingly enough. World War 1 setting with Chinese laborers fighting for their freedom. The hero of the movie runs wild over the enemy in eminently Kung Fu style. It hadn’t yet made me get up off the couch and mime the moves along with the hero, but all indications were it was going to happen (somewhere after the third beer probably).

Cut to China some few years later and then it happens: plot.

Before I knew it I was actually learning things about China and what happened in the period between World War 1 and 2. I learned. I felt dirty.

At what point have we as a race become so preoccupied with story that I can’t watch someone beat up minions for 50 minutes before making it to the boss and watching that capped with an awesome 10 minute kung fu battle of epic proportions.

I’m getting old because I’m about to say “in my day” but this needs to be said …. In My Day Kung Fu was Game of Death and the plot of the movie was that a guy was hosting a kung fu tournament featuring a lot of, you guessed it, kung fu.

Bruce Lee must be spin kicking in his grave.

If any of you reading this decide at some point to ever direct a kung fu movie, do me a favor… and put some kung fu in it.

My Glade Plug-in is Trying to Kill Me

2011-08-20T18:06:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

My wife is a big fan of things that don’t smell like crap. As such she’s made several efforts to hide the shameful smell emanating from the cat’s litter box.

When Strider’s driving in his Chevy and his pants are gettin’ heavy – he heads to the litter box. When Willow almost craps the pillow... she goes to the same place. I’m glad they have a place to go but on an especially warm day I can arrive home from work and be greeted by the wafting aroma of what should only be described as: “bidness.”

One of the more successful attempts my wife has made to mask the musk is the Glade... um... “Something or Other.” I can’t remember the exact name of this particular incarnation, and it’s about 25ft away from me so I ain’t getting up to go check out the name. All you have to do is place it at the source of the stank and that stank is gone forever (or until it’s time for a refill). At any rate whatever it is... it works.

And that’s why I’m not getting rid of it even though it’s trying to kill me. Here’s the story:

My wife and I are pretty good about exchanging household tasks. Our relationship is one of symbiosis: she cooks, I eat; I dirty, she cleans. The yin and yang of household activity. But occasionally I’ve been known to do my share and the other day my turn came up to be scoopin’ de poopin of our two favourite felines.

Pardon the pun but scooping the cat litter is often a crapshoot. You can go down there one day and be done in a couple of swipes of the scoop; other days it’d give the fifth labour of Hercules an... ahem... run... for its money. And until you take the lid off the litter box, you never know what you’re going to get... it’s like a box of chocolates that way... disgusting, icky chocolates.

So, as I said, this one particular day it was my duty to take out the doody and as I bent down to take of the lid of the litter box the Glade “Something or Other” released a gentle mist right into my face. I woke up three days later tied to some railroad tracks wearing a clown suit and singing “The Song of Caligula’s Horse.”

I didn’t make the connection until it happened the second time. When my turn to clean the box came around and once again the Glade Plug-in plugged me out by releasing its gentle toxic mist; this time I woke up in Tibetan town wearing lederhosen and still singing “The Song of Caligula’s Horse.” That’s when I made the connection.

The Glade Plug-in is trying to kill me. He Hate Me Bro.

But it’s still the best cat de-smeller we’ve used, so I can’t get rid of it. It’s like an arrogant but capable employee that insists on mocking me because it knows it has all the answers. Curse it! Until such time as something better comes along I’m stuck with it, but I’ve gotten pretty good at avoiding the gentle mist – except for the other day when I found myself in the Amazon jungle wearing a chef’s hat singing “The Song of Caligula’s Horse” again...

Caligula's horse
Was a senator of course
And he always voted Neigh!

Old Age Pensive

2011-02-23T20:32:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

Every morning I drive to work and park my car in the parking lot near the building. I gather my goods and make the long, depressing walk to the building and in the back of my mind I notice a smell. It’s not a bad smell, its just a smell which for some reasons seem out of place.

All that separates me from the parking lot and the building I work in are about a thousand miles of desire to be somewhere else and an Independent Seniors Living facility. This morning I realized two things, both connected to each other. The smell I was smelling subconsciously was saltine crackers and the other realization? Old people smell like crackers. There’s no other explanation for it – well I guess it could be the cracker factory a couple of blocks over, but how likely is that?

Now before you go all “You’re a horrible person!” on me there’s scientific proof out there that old people like crackers. I haven’t looked it up yet, but I’m sure someone’s been paid to do a study on it. And really, if you’re going to smell like something, saltine crackers aren’t a horrible choice – it certainly smells better than a teenage boy, a stinky cheese or state of the union address. It’s directly tied to the amount of soup old people eat.

My mother was always trying to beat into my head the concept of respecting my elders and frankly, I never got that. Why should I respect someone just because they managed to get old? You can get old by just sitting there. Hell, I’ve managed to age and I’m about the stupidest person I know.

But when I go for coffee I see a lot of seniors around doing their shopping and I can’t help but think of all the things they’ve seen and all the stuff they know that I don’t. Now granted, a lot of stuff they know isn’t necessarily useful in terms of dealing with our every day life because we have more people, more cars, and generally more of everything than they do.

I believe old people are able to endow the younger folk with one thing which we do not have “more” of than they did: common sense. If they’re willing to share their knowledge with you, learning from someone else’s experience has no drawbacks: you get to learn from their mistakes without any of the consequences (okay they may force you to sit among doilies and eat crackers, but its really a small price to pay).

I’ve come to the realization that being a senior should mean more than getting a discount on Tuesdays. Being a senior should, in fact, come with respect. That, of course, leads me to the horrid realization my mother was right, and if she was right about that she might have been right about other things…. Nawww.

Maybe its where I fall in the generation gap, but these days young people seem old, and older people seem young. Teenagers are doing stuff that I never would have thought of and every time I talk with people who are older than I am I feel like I’m talking with people my own age (but smarter).

But here’s the other thing I’ve noticed on my dead man walking shuffle from the car to the cubicle: there are a disturbing number of crows hanging in the branches of the trees about that independent living facility.

I’m not even old (though I’m getting there, because I like crackers, especially with salted tops) and that creeps me out.

Punching the Clock

2011-02-22T20:33:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

x-axis: Yesterday my son asked me if we could play MarioKart. I didn’t want to so I lied and told him I couldn’t find it (I know, I’m horrible, but you all do it or if you don’t, fine you’re better than me, I can live with that). Instead I suggested we play the brand new racing game I’d just picked up – with real race cars and everything!

“What’s that Daddy!? He asked. “Gran Turismo 5” was my reply. “That’s a great idea Daddy!” He said . So upstairs we went to plug in the game and race til our hearts were content – or until supper was ready, whichever came first. We were off to the races.

Or were we?

See with pretty much every PS3 game I’ve ever bought there’s a point when you plug in the game where it tells you something or someone in the system needs to be updated – the hamster running inside the PS3 needs to do another line or something – and generally the process is fairly quick. Not so much on this occasion. In the time it took to update the game my son and I were able to do the following:

put lunches together for the kids
put lunches together for the adults
have a relaxing supper which involved my son watching a couple of episodes of Dora the Implorer (that’s the one where she whines for a new backpack and a less annoying sidekick) so its not like we wolfed it down.
build a non-functioning robot out of Trio (he got it for Christmas and unfortunately it didn’t come with the “polar bear bones” fuelled power pack required in order to bring our creation to life). I still have hopes that putting the heart of a cat in there will do the job, but I just can’t catch my cat – he’s wily.
I went to swimming lessons and proceeded to splash and flail in the water for 45 minutes.
I stopped on the way home to pick up cat food (I’m hoping I can use the food to lure him closer and his HEART WILL BE MINE AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA)
Arrived home to find the boy being put to bed and the little girl long asleep.
I showered to get the chlorine from the pool off and wash away my scent in the hopes of evading the cat’s super sense of smell.

At some point while showering the game finally finished doing its thing. My wife then proceeded to install a few things to the hard drive, which she’d started before I’d began showering. At some point the install then got to the 14 minute remaining mark. And there it stayed… 14 minutes remaining while we watched more than half of an episode of Hawaii 5-0. That’s’ about 25 minutes; we stopped the show halfway through as it was a fairly boring episode and the game still told us there was 14 minutes left.

Y –axis: For years I’ve suspected that my computer is lying to me. When I install a program, when I delete a large number of files, when I do essentially anything other than play Zuma Blitz on the computer I get the little Windows window telling me there’s x amount of time left. The problem with the x- number is: when the “2 min remaining” note is up for 10 minutes, its more frustrating than helpful.

The phone company tells you to be home between 8-5 in order to catch your service guy. That’s awful, but it’s a definite time frame. When 2 minutes remaining edges into the 3 minute mark you’re entering the realm of the unknown. It could be in the next second – it could be 4 hours from now. You just don’t know. That’s worse than sitting at home for 9 hours.

And is it just me or in recent versions of the Windows Operating system, have they gotten rid of the hour glass? That silly old hour glass never stopped turning. When you think about it, if you keep turning over the hour glass before all the sand hits the bottom, you’re just resetting the clock, and you ain’t never gonna reach your destination that way.

Intersection: As a parent there’s only so much time in a day that we’re allowed to waste, and when I spend my wasted time wasting time waiting it makes me want to go all “Hulk Smash” over the offending item. These manufacturers of technological items know they don’t know how long a process will take, but they’re afraid to tell us. GT knows if there is a warning label indicating a 4hr wait on the box I might not buy it. But they don’t want to say that so they offer us false hope with time estimations that don’t mean anything.

That’s right GT… I know you know where the MarioKart is, you can’t lie to a liar.

Reach Out & Touch Someone…

2011-02-21T21:49:00.001-08:00

Today I walked into the lunch room at work and felt as if I were walking onto the set of a commercial. Of the five people in the lunch room all of them were plugged into their smart phones. I was the only one who’d brought a book.

At first I was going to wax poetic on how no one talks to anyone at lunchtime anymore. But then I realized that would be hypocritical because I couldn’t remember the days when people talked to each other in the lunchroom because I never talked to people in the lunchroom – I’ve always brought a book.

But really, if I were a non-reader, think how my world would have changed.

Way back in the day (like 5 years ago) if you weren’t a reader and worked with a bunch of people you disliked, or detested or had nothing in common with, you were hooped. As a reader you always got the odd look, a mix mash of contempt for your choosing to read over socializing tinged with respect you were brave enough to read in public. But if you weren’t a reader you sat and were at the mercy of having to listen to coworkers natter on about their kids, their cats or their home reno projects.

You hated the person with the book. You wanted to take that book and beat them with it; and then, when you were exhausted in the unplanned activity, you realized what you wanted most was to be reading that book.

But now, thanks to smart phones, which is a misnomer because the phone is only as smart as the person who uses it, Husky Joe Lunchbox doesn’t have to listen to Patty Poundcake talk about her latest cuisine creation because Patty is actually talking to all her baker friends on her Google group; nor does he have to nod in time to Spencer Sportsguy as he talks about how his favourite team did because Spencer is watching highlights on ESPN.com on his phone and picking players in his fantasy league.

Our Husky hero is no longer at the mercy of Dora Daycare as she talks about how her little Jimmy is growing again and got 5th cello in his kindergarten Easter play as she compares notes with her Mom’s group and schedules Jimmy’s birthday party – because we’re certain there’s an app for that.

Husky Joe no longer has to listen o any of these people, but Husky Joe is now experiencing something he has never felt before – loneliness. Husky Joe, who still can’t bring himself to read a book (because it’s what nerds do), finds himself awkwardly lonely. He misses Patty’s recipes, to the point where he’s almost willing to admit he’s tried a few; he misses Spencer’s Sports Spout – to the point that he’s started watching baseball just in case Spencer brings it up again. He’s not at the point where he misses Dora’s dialogue, but he’s getting there.

Husky Joe is about to reach a breaking point: he’s about to initiate conversation.

I wonder if smart phones are changing society. Is there some great societal affect to being closer to people on other continents than in our own work place even though its not in a physical sense? I can’t answer that as I’m not an anthropologist (I have a real job) but will history look back on us and see this as a time when technology began to subvert physical proximity? As we in the precursor years to Skylab?

Smart phones are wonderful things, don’t get me wrong. I have one and I use it. But perhaps it says something about me that I use my smart phone to read The Three Musketeers, on a book reader app when I forget to bring my book to the lunch room while Husky Joe Lunchbox looks out the window at the snow falling, looking for something to say that will tear people away from their phones.

You know what it says? I’m really anti-social.

We Can Be Heroes

2011-02-18T08:10:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

Today, on the sun, a giant solar flare is going to flare… um, giantly. Scientists, because they are always right, are saying nothing bad will come of it.

It’s basically just a big sun fart.

But if there’s one thing I know from reading comic books and watching Sci-Fi television (I refuse to use y’s in that station name) its unheard of scientific events do not just pass harmlessly. So scientists be damned, I am fully expecting to end out this day with super powers caused by this solar flare.

The following are the superpowers I am anticipating:

I will gain the ability to see through the bullshit mouthed by politicians in all corners of the world. Instead of now, when I assume a politician is lying when his or her mouth is moving, I will know for sure each word spewing forth from the giant political maw for what it is: lies.
I will gain the power to spread Common Sense wherever I go. People will see that even as a dictator falls in Egypt, no bad thing, he will, eventually be replaced with a governing body of bad people who at least have the decency to commit their atrocities quietly.
I will invent the flying car because dammit we should have done that years ago.
I will be able to fly, so that I won’t have to make exorbitant monthly payments on the flying car I have invented (which will used the ground up bones of the polar bear for fuel).
I will steal the world’s nuclear weapons and hide them away so they can never use them.
I will cancel Oprah
I will be able to make a year’s worth of lunches for the kids, my wife and I, so that our evenings are freed up; these lunches will be consistently delicious, always taste different and will be able to fold up into the size of a 3 1/4 floppy disk and fit nicely in the freezer.

Oh and I will also gain super speed, super strength and rose colored X-ray vision so I can see into the ladies change room (the “rose color” will be effective in making the 78 year old Grandma that came for Aqua-aerobics look like Pamela Anderson in her hayday).

You know on further inspection of my anticipated powers and goals I seem to be leaning more towards the super-villain side of the spectrum.

Ah well – to the evil lair!

Grounds for Complaint

2011-02-10T18:52:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

Twice today while taking the last gulp of coffee from my travel mug I got a mouthful of coffee grounds. You might be thinking I should have learned from the first time but these two mugs of coffee came from two completely different sources: one from home, the other from the coffee shop near my work.

If you’re a coffee drinker you’ve probably experienced this at one point or another. You’re about to hit the moment you’ve worked toward for the last hour or so, the final sip of coffee (for this cup anyway), when instead of a mouthful of liquid you get a mouthful of liquid with a little extra on the side.

The inside.

I’m not sure what the galactic reason for my negative coffee karma is today. To my knowledge I am still the holder of the Folger’s Crystal, the Taster’s Choice (don’t ask, I’m not proud of it), the Master of Maxwell’s House, the best part of waking up (you know, if I wasn’t married I’d be using that as a pick up line “Hey baby, take me home with you tonight and I’ll be the best part of waking up oh yeah…” I’m fairly certain I would then still be single) and he who is Na-Bob (as in, my dad’s Bob, but I’m nay-bob).

Out of the whole rigmarole comes an interesting, to me at any rate, notion and really I’m certain its not specific only to me: that last ruined swig of swill ruins the entire cup. What’s interesting is, on the second cup, I remember the first sip being especially tasty – exactly what coffee should be – hot, bitter, and gut churning. I could have kept drinking it all day at that point. And then I swallowed those grounds of coffee.

Now when I think about that coffee, and the one before it, I am sad, and it feels like I have a lump in my throat (about the size of a ground of coffee) which no amount of catlike hairball like hchhhhhhhh-ing can get out.

There’s an old saying still booting around out there: you only get one chance to make a first impression. This is true as far as it goes, but I think you have to be sure to add the Maxwell House Modifier. The saying from henceforth should be: You only get one chance to make a first impression, but you’d better be good to the last drop or that first impression doesn’t matter.

oh… did you know I used to be in those Taster’s Choice commercials of a generation ago? Check out the pic:

I Wonder, Bread

2011-02-09T20:35:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

While grocery shopping with my wife on the weekend we were in the bakery section and something caught my eye: yet another incarnation of WonderBread. This particular packaging was a light blue, maybe a teal? and it was WonderBread <insert healthy sounding adjective here>.

I was quite surprised because it seemed like just last week WonderBread had come out with a dark blue packaged WonderBread <insert different healthy adjective here> and the week before that they came out with a green packaged WonderBread <yet another healthy adjective>. I was confused. No shock to those who know me I’m sure, but this time I was confused about something specific.

I thought about it, much longer than the situation merited I’m sure, and it seems to me one of two things must have has happened at WonderBread HQ.

Scenario A

Picture, if you will, a world in which the CEO of WonderBread has just entered his mid-to-late 40s and is hitting his mid-life crisis.

Now maybe WonderCEO likes his wife still (it could happen, after 10 years I still like my wife) so he doesn’t wanna leave her for a young blonde; and maybe WonderCEO is both environmentally and safety conscious and doesn’t want to get the latest gas guzzling machine. So what’s a 40-Something CEO with a mid-life crisis and a conscience supposed to do?

You guessed it: play with the branding. And I’m not talking about your old riding the range, herd’em up, move’em out Circle Square Double Bar T Range sort of branding. We’re talking about product branding. WonderCEO probably thinks that he can play with the color of the packaging for WonderBread as much as he wants because really the important symbol of WonderBread is the polka dot.

To a certain extent WonderCEO is correct; the polka dot is important (you know, I never thought I’d ever write that) but Mr. CEO when you dilute your WonderBread Name with a plethora of adjectives you open yourself up to ridicule from people like me: the easily amused and always confused.

Now as WonderCEO has all the power in this situation and I have no power in this situation (other than being the customer, and always being right (are we still doing that?) so PICK A NAME AND SETTLE DOWN WONDERBREAD!) I’m just going to have to sit back and enjoy the whacky adjective ride.

Scenario B

We live in tumultuous times. Egypt, Jordan, Cambodia, Myanmar and a bunch of other places are clear indicators people all over the world are feeling restless. I believe a similar thing must have happened at the marketing department of WonderBread.

Through ways best left undisclosed I’ve managed to get my hands on this non-existent, fictitious email from the head of the Marketing Department at WonderBread:

To: Allmarketingstaff@Wonderbread.com
From: Your Boss and True Leader@Wonderbread.com
Subject: The Time is NOW

Comrades!

The day of our uprising is here. Now we will THROW OFF the shackles of the FINANCE department and no more be bound by THEY’RE RULEZ.

They have made chains of money and sought to put these chains on our creativity, chains on our freedom, chains on our IDEAS. We, we happy few, we know you cannot put chains on IDEAS! (Except when I have to chain up my dog, whose name is IDEAS, when I’m cleaning his dog house, if I don’t, he runs away and I haven’t had a chance to Bob Barker him yet) No more will we suffer the indignity of HAVING TO USE WHITE ALL THE TIME.

Join me in this cause glorious MARKETING LACKEYS and we will show the World how we put the WONDER IN WONDERBREAD!

Signed,
Glorious Leader of the WONDEROUS Revolution

PS It has been brought to my attention that some of you are taking breaks longer than the allotted 15 minutes; please remember that we try to keep a balance between creative freedom and schedule. It’s rude to make someone else wait for you to come back from your break so that they can take theirs.

This letter, I repeat, is highly confidential. It is, in fact, so confidential that no one knows it exists – almost as if it never happened. Because it didn’t.

I can only imagine what happened from there. The marketing department have obviously managed to suborn the distribution chain and are getting their whacky WonderBread products out on the market while the CEO of the company is locked in his office trying to text for help on the Blackberry they gave him that he has yet to figure out.

Way back in the day when I was taking my MBA, specializing in marketing, we learned the importance of branding. If you’ve got a good brand name stick with it – don’t change it. Sure, if you sell bread, you might feel the only way to update your product and freshen it up is to change the packaging and play with the name; but really, its bread.

Mankind has been breaking bread for a lot longer than the polka dot has been around, so do what other companies do – don’t change the product, change the slogan.

One thing I know, until WonderBread resolves its identity crisis I think I’m going to go back to the grocery store’s House Bread, at least it knows what it is: bread.

Here’s a sneak peak at the next packaging idea from the peeps at WonderBread:

Powerless

2011-02-08T20:36:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

x-Axis: The other night while getting ready for bed my wife was watching a show on the Discovery Channel, or National Geographic or the shopping channel or some such; in the show some academic, afraid to go out and live in the real world, was trying to recreate a certain type of ship that people built and sailed in 1200 years ago.

In this particular show one of the labourers, working for mouldy crusts I’m sure, was using a chainsaw to cut wood for the ship. At this point my wife said: “I’m fairly certain they didn’t have chainsaws 1200 years ago.”

I then informed her that based on all of the history television I’ve watched 1200 years ago they would have been using talking birds with very sharp teeth to cut through the trees. My wife paused and looked at me with that kind look she gets in her eyes when she’s about to slay one of my childhood beliefs and that was when I learned the Flintstones were not necessarily historically accurate …

Shows like this are growing in frequency as we struggle with the notion people living thousands of years ago could do things we have trouble doing with a seemingly much more advanced technological level; its commonly known by scientists and directors of Discovery Channel shows that people who lived thousands of years ago were idiots and couldn’t hold a candle to the things we can do today.

The intent of such shows is, obviously, to a) prove our intellectual superiority over those who have come before (because let’s face it, it would really suck if we hadn’t learned anything as a species in 1200 years … wouldn’t it?) and b) to prove if we, with our level of intellectual and technological superiority, can’t build now what they built then they must have had help from aliens.

I’m fairly certain we as a species haven’t learned anything that grandiose collectively, except for different ways of doing the same thing; but if by some fluke we are more advanced than the people of 1200 years ago, rather than just different, I’ve discovered a flaw in our plan for temporal dominance.

y-axis: On Monday of this week my wife and I had a rare simultaneous day off – one that wasn’t a weekend. On this day we, horribly yes, sent the kids to daycare with the idea of getting some things done around the house that needed doing. The first thing which had to be done was to register the boy for Kindergarten.

The second thing to do was to go through the clothing for both boy and girl and find out who had outgrown what, what had outgrown who, why there was an owl in the closet and finally put some things up on shelves.

But after we had done these things, these many things, my wife and I planned to go to our separate rooms, her to pursue her hobby of quilting and me to pursue my hobby of wasting my life away playing World of Warcraft (6 years and counting baby!).

Monday dawned bright and early – the rest of the house was asleep. I was feeling remnants of illness inspired by too much good Superbowl party food and woke up early. At 5:40 I was flying in Outlands when…. zzzzzzhoooooop – away went the power.

It proceeded to stay gone until roughly about an hour before it was time to pick up the kids.

For the day my wife and I went about the chores we had planned thankful it was a sunny day rather than raining for without light the house is dark (actually without light everywhere is dark); at one point I went to drill some holes in the wall to add shelving in my daughter’s room. On the first screw I noticed the drill didn’t have much juice, on the second screw I noticed it much less juice than on the first screw. Murphy’s law was at play for the drill was running out of power on the one day I couldn’t recharge it.

My first thought was to grab the talking snake I use to screw in screws manually, he complains a lot but gets the job done, but I recalled the conversation I had with my wife a few days prior (and the one with PETA the night before) and let him go. I then found myself doing what those ancients of 1200 years ago must have done… head-butting the screws until they were in.

When I came to, it was dark. The power was still out. Also I had punctured my occipital lobe. After a trip to the doctor in which he replaced the lobe and told me I was awesome true story we went out to lunch; both of us fearful of what we would have to do when we got home to a powerless house…. talk to each other.

Fortunately my wife pretended she had a headache and went to lie down; I was saved from having to contemplate anything serious by the return of power.

Intersection: So what’s the big flaw in our dominance of people 1200 years ago?

Power.

As a people, this side of the world is very dependent on electricity and all the thingamajiggies and doodads we use if for; when the power goes and the touch of our iTouch is cold and lifeless how would we survive for long. WE WOULD HAVE TO TALK TO EACH OTHER!

As Spiderman’s uncle said: “Peter get me a beer!” And also: “With great power comes the ability to play PS3, run sewing machines, traffic lights, TVs, electric lawnmowers.” With no power comes none of that. 1200 years ago if the power went that meant the king had died, and another one took his place; a much shorter service interruption than that provided by BC Hydro I’ll tell you.

So, 1200 year ago me, I hope you’re sitting some where writing a fairly funny blog in ochre on a cave wall (I’d imagine it looks something like: BULL, MOUNTAIN, SUN, BIRD BIRD FISH LOL RFLMAO) and make sure to do something mysterious for me; so some trumped up academic who’s cousin works for Discovery can make a show out of whatever it is and tell the world that even though you managed to do it without all the help we have you are still somewhat less than we are.

Puffing Wheat

2011-02-04T19:51:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

I don’t know what made me think about it, probably my trip down memory lane yesterday surrounding my exile from the home province, but this morning I had a taste flashback to Puffed Wheat. Now, and those of you who’ve had it know this for true, to say a taste flashback is to be quite liberal because, as we all know, Puffed Wheat has no taste.

It is, in fact, the white of cereal. For where light is the absence of all color, the experience known as Puffed Wheat is the absence of all taste.

Once again I take you back to a time, long ago, when I was a young boy living in Newfoundland.

I had not yet plucked the frozen cod from the ice, signalling to the province I was the King in Waiting, (it’s a cold weather version of the whole Sword in the Stone thing). I lived with my brothers and sister, my parents, a couple of dogs and a Barba Papa in a two storey house on a hill next to the forest. Looking back it turns out we weren’t that financially well off but I was 8 and had no idea. I had food every day, a roof over my head, clothes (which I occasionally wore), and a giant backyard to play in – what more does an 8 year old boy need? (Frankly whatever that was, the Barba Papa could morph into it… I wonder whatever happened to him).

I think the first time I ever had Puffed Wheat was when I realized maybe we didn’t move in the upper echelons of society, where children of rich parents ate Sugarcrisp in disposable sterling silver bowls. It was epiphany akin to when I began to doubt the existence of Santa Claus and must have been sort of what Adam felt when he took a bite out of the apple and realized that his own tree of life was exposed.

Now for those of you who aren’t sure what Puffed Wheat is let me explain.

As the picture above demonstrates there is a visual similarity between a kernel of puffed wheat and one of Sugarcrisp; all similarities end there. You see where each kernel of Sugarcrisp is hand rolled in honey and dipped in sugar by small Taiwanese children before being boxed up, each kernel of Puffed Wheat starts out flat, before it is hooked up to a hand pump where a fat Norwegian kid pumps precisely 3.46 times. It is then thrown into a giant, clear plastic bag with 74 million of its puffed up brethren and sent off to supermarkets, where people like my mother bought them.

Now Mom’s not around to ask, but as a father of two children myself I can now follow what must have gone through her brain when passing the bag of Puffed Wheat in the cereal aisle: “I have four children that eat a lot. This is a big bag of cereal. They shut up when they are eating. This will shut them up for a long time.” In retrospect, I can jump on that logic train Momma.

Now my Father is a modern man underneath that gruff ex- US Marine exterior. When the naval base he worked on as a bartender (bartender being the natural career progression of a Marine) closed my father still got up his normal pre-dawn time (looking back I now believe his actual job was to wake the rooster) and as he was up he let Mom sleep in and cooked our pre-school breakfasts. When we weren’t having Dad’s usual egg and potato mix we were having Puffed Wheat.

Talk about your bi-polar breakfast experiences.

My father could do things with an egg and some French fries that should have been illegal (it turns out it actually was illegal as I learned later in life that Dad was not using sea salt to season but was in fact using little rocks of crack). But, apparently you can’t do this everyday without overdosing your children, so on the off days we had: you guessed it Bacon. But the day after that was Puffed Wheat.

As previously mentioned, Puffed Wheat is the antithesis of taste. It’s where taste goes to die. The only way to make the stuff palatable was to put so much sugar in the milk, the milk could no longer dissolve it all (don’t look at me, I don’t know why I don’t have diabetes). In fact the high point of puffed wheat (to put it in perspective, the high point of puffed wheat was the low point of my dad’s “Let’s get Crack’in” egg und potato concoction) was when the puffed wheat was all gone and the only thing left was the sugary-milky dredges.

Happily for me, the days of puffed wheat are over, but I know right now there is some poor child scarfing his way through a bowl of puffed wheat, longing for the moment he hits the sugar at the bottom.

Well, I promise you this, little Frankie of Patty Dobbin Drive, when I return and take up the mantle of King of Newfoundland I will banish the Puffed Wheat and replace it with the Puffed Puffin, Breakfast of Champions!

To the return!

Here’s what my box of Puffed Puffin will look like:

Learning to Learn

2011-02-03T19:17:00.001-08:00

Technorati Tags: swimming,Learning to Fly,swimming lessons,Newfoundland

Dear Solitary Reader:

x-Axis: Tom Petty has a song out there called Learnin’ to Fly. Tom is obviously more accomplished than I am as he is learning to fly (and he don’t have wings) while I have only recently started learning to swim.

Way back in the day, growing up a young buck in the wilds of Newfoundland, my father, it seems, never cared enough about me to throw me in the water so I could learn to swim. Thanks for that dad (and the temper too). It’s a little known fact the entire reason I had to leave Newfoundland was because I was voted off once it got out I couldn’t swim.

It was a sad affair, I recall it well.

I’d just been voted the King in Waiting of Newfoundland and was going to lead the people in a separatist movement, freeing ourselves from the tyranny of Canada; when a member of SPY’s R’ US, Canada’s secret service agency and predecessor of CSIS, got hold of the fact I couldn’t swim and that was the end of my political career. Once the people of Newfoundland realized I was aqua-challenged they shipped me off as far away as they could. But my faithful remain and they await my return… true story.

At any rate, my lack of ability when it comes to the duck pond hadn’t really given me much grief throughout my life; at least not until lately.

y-Axis: I didn’t go to university like most folk. Conventionally people tend to go for a couple of semesters and take a break in the summer. But not me. Nay, your hero instead went to university for 21 semesters straight – in pirate speak that’s seven yar.

Five years of that was taking my English Degree and you can thank the folks at MUN for the literature you read right now, without their guidance I’d be stuck writing for CNN, not the intellectual treat you currently read. The remainder of my university term was me getting an MBA so I’d have a useful degree.

Go on and ask me how that turned out.

By the time I finished university I knew two things: 1) I now knew enough to be a good king in waiting and 2) I was done learning.

I made a vow to stop learning.

Intersection: During the recent trip to Maui (that’s right the one in Hawaii) I watched my four year old boy grow from a tad pole into a frog (he got better); he went from a boy who wasn’t quite comfortable in the water to a little guy having so much fun you had to drag him out. The difference? Water wings. Those puffed up little bags of air gave him the confidence to kick and play in the water such as I hadn’t seen before.

Not so much me. I was sitting in about 4 feet of water breathing a little fast because I was nervous. Now sure, I could get my own water wings but how would that look – a 35 year old man with a little ducky on each arm? Pretty funny I’d bet – but the sort of funny where I’d be the laughee as opposed to the laugher. No thank you for that.

Two things occurred to me, hanging out in the pool in Maui:

1) I was getting progressively nervous in the water, to the point where I could tell I wouldn’t be getting back in for a long time if I kept going this way, and;
2) if my boy had an accident in the water and no one was around but me – what would I be able to do but drag him down?

It was decided. I needed to learn how to swim.

But I couldn’t. For you see, I’d made a vow. A vow to stop learning.

I realized at that point just how stupid a vow to stop learning is: I’ve learned things accidentally for years, I’ve even learned a few things on purpose (like my job – and I’ve taken courses for that job where I’ve begrudgingly learned things). And frankly, every day as a parent to a 4 year old and a soon to be 21 month old I learn something (either a) I learn patience or b) I learn I need more patience).

So now I am once again learning to learn. I’m starting off with swimming, on the grounds that when I go back to Newfoundland I can take up my position as King in Waiting and take up the separatist movement again; but what to learn next?

I think blacksmithing

End Transmission

2011-02-01T21:41:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

Well it’s a whole new month… check that its a whole new year since last I posted (entirely coincidental with FGM’s return to posting – you stole my thunder brother – damn you and your 4.5 hr head start!).

Last year involved a whole lot of changes in the world of yours truly. New house, new work location, new boobs (I went in for a routine appendectomy and came out with a couple of size C’s – hellova mix up if you ask me – I gave them back after a few months) and so I figured I’d give the old blog a makeover.

I’m not sure it’ll hold up. I think soon ol’Mike Holmes will be on my site goin’ “look at this preposition dangling over here, and the layout? That’s just shoddy. Do It Right.” (Because you know as soon as the people at HGTV realize people aren’t interested in yet another show with another gay designer they’re going to start featuring shows like “Pimp My Blog” or “Twitterpating.”)

So, anyway another new thing in my life will be the transmission in my 2004 Hyundai Elantra aka “Red” (I’m very imaginative when it comes to naming things). The other day while driving the kids home from day care ol’Red started to jerk a bit. I thought nothing of it; after all, ask anyone I’m a bit of a jerk. After seven years its only fitting that Red should pick up some of my habits right? I mean, don’t they say that cars start to look like they’re owners after a while?

As we drove further down the road the jerking got heavier and it started to remind me of some of those bad Jagermeister trips from university and the mechanical bull at the university bar… wait a minute, I don’t think my university had a mechanical bull in its bar… whoa…

Now, not being a mechanic, and not even playing one on TV, I could still tell this wasn’t normal. So I did what any man who gets in trouble does – I called my wife. I told her what was happening. She called her Mom – her mom came and saved us. We drove off in a nicer ride, leaving Red on the side of the road. All of nature wept for its fate… or maybe that was just rain, who am I to say?

A call was made to the fine people at BCA who, upon learning we would furnish them cash for the service, towed Red to its home away from home – the Dealership there to await diagnoses. Like an expectant father I paced and I paced waiting for the call; but I’m out of shape, so after about 2 minutes I sat down and read a book. They weren’t going to call until the next day anyway.

Sure enough the call came next day. Red’s transmission had gone the way of an Egyptian mob’s patience – cost of repairs $3600 plus tax. For a car that’d only bring about $2,000 for trade in.. now I’ve never been a math major, and I’ve never played one on TV, hell I don’t even believe in math – but even I know there’s sumfin odd bout dose figgers.

Hyundai has a great warranty – 8 years or 120,000 km on the power train… it would have been a better warranty if the car hadn’t been at 122,000 km. Suck much? Oh yeah. Because I’m a good little warranty maintainer though there was some warranty coverage left – enough to bring, with discount from the nice manager at the dealership, the cost of repairs below the trade-in value.

So we’ll fix you, Red, and bring you home. And I’ll drive you. But I don’t know if I can trust you anymore. Here’s a pic of me in Red, in happier times.

Technorati Tags: 2004 Hyundai Elantra,Transmission,Hyundai,car trouble

She Calls Me Cookie

2010-11-11T18:54:00.001-08:00

Life as a dad is rough. Not like rough rough.. but rough.

Right now my daughter is going on 18 months old. She knows a lot of words. She knows Mommy, she knows Baby. She can even say the name of her older brother. She can say the name of the awesome lady at daycare. She can puzzle out Kitty if ever one of the two fell beasts come out of hiding while she’s awake.

Occasionally she calls me Daddy (as long as Mommy says: “It’s Daddy! Say Hi Daddy!”)

Most of the time she calls me Cookie.

As you can expect, this saddens me. So I wrote a song about it. And I recorded it. And here it is.

She Calls Me Cookie

She... doesn't know.. my name
she... doesn't know.. my name
she doesn't care to learn
She doesn't know my name

Chorus

She calls me cookie
She calls me cookie
She calls me cookie
She calls me cookie
She calls me cookie
She calls me cookie

She... doesn't know... my name
She... doesn't know.. my name
She doesn't care to learn
She doesn't know my name

She calls me cookie
She calls me cookie
She calls me cookie
And I get her one

She calls me cookie
she calls me cookie
She calls me cookie
Cause if I didn't she wouldn't talk to me at all

She... doesn't know... My name

Technorati Tags: Cookies,Daddy,Cookie Monster

How I Gambled in Las Vegas and … (Part 2)

2010-09-29T21:29:00.001-07:00

In part two of this not so exciting travelogue surrounding our ill-fated, yet still enjoyable, trip to Las Vegas our fearless writer (who now fears only two things Swordfish and the Burger King – stay tuned for Part 3 to find out more) discusses how he and his wife gambled on Customer Service in Las Vegas and won… big time.

Customer Service. It’s a thing that many companies talk about and strive to achieve in the eyes of the common public. Many a CEO has often been heard around the gold-plated water coolers with his buddies saying: “Doesn’t Joe Lunchpail know that we care? Doesn’t Mary J. Homemaker realize how important she is to us? It is a tragedy these common folk lack the intellect to see how we are hear to guide them… say good fellow is that a canapé?”

Sometimes it must seem to those in the customer service industry the “Satisfied Customer” is a mythical creature like Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster and the Honest Politician.

There are precisely two times that we will pay a lot of attention to customer service. The first is when customer service is so bad it stands out – sadly this is far more often than the next: when people go out of their way and do there dangdest to make sure that the needs of me, Jon Q Customer, are met to the nth degree.

While in Las Vegas my wife and I had many service experiences. Restaurants. Stores. Airport. The thing that stood out to me is the fact that virtually all of these people – all the waiters, cabbies, airline attendants, shopping clerks - all possessed two traits that I look for in people in those positions – first and of the utmost importance: competence. Following right behind that: manners.

There’s something about going into a restaurant here in Canada where you feel obligated to tip. The service could be horrible, the food could be garbage, yet most of us might still feel inclined to drop the gratuity bomb. I once got hung up in a Red Robin for 45 minutes trying to find a server to bring us our bill while they chased after a dine and dash (almost creating the second of the evening). The food had been horrible and the waiter had been a doofus. I didn’t tip.

I still feel guilty.

What if I deprived his kids of food? Although in hindsight, if his kids did have food they’d be waiting so long for that jackass to bring it that it would be long cold by the time they got it… but I digress. In Canada, people who work in service industries are working there until they can find something better – and they work like that. You do enough to do the job and you complain about the goofs that come in (I don’t have a problem with complaining about the goofs though – its part of the pay package for people who have to put up with goofs for a living).

In virtually every restaurant and every store we went in to, the people we interacted with were great at their jobs and seemed happy to be there. In virtually every clothing store we went shopped, we told them how the airline had lost our luggage, and in many cases the clerks went and found coupons, some of them out of date, or made up some discounts and gave us from 15-25% off.

You can’t teach that sort of customer service. You can try to teach that sort of customer service but you just get a bunch of disgruntled employees sitting in a room listening to an instructor that hasn’t served anyone since she got her degree in College.

Kudos to the chick at Westjet who almost managed to take the sting out of us losing our luggage. Kudos again to Westjet for ponying up for their mistake (though it would have been nice if they’d given us a plane). Kudos to Vanessa at the IHOP, kudos to the gals of Target, kudos to the chick at Lane Bryant who helped my wife so much (who’s name I can’t remember because I wasn’t shopping there for me) and then gave us the discount that had expired a month ago.

I gotta tell you I feel odd not complaining about it though… happily I came back to the Bread Garden near work… plenty of fodder for complaint.

How I Gambled in Las Vegas and… (Part One)

2010-09-28T16:31:00.001-07:00

This year for our tenth wedding anniversary my wife and I decided to dump the kids off on Oma and Opa (thanks so much Oma and Opa and though it will be years before it happens again, we appreciated this one greatly) and headed to the glitteriest city in the world (unsubstantiated): Las Vegas.

That’s right, yours truly was headed off to the home of CSI, Elvis (Fat Version) and no longer the home of the singing broomstick that is Celine Dion.

Now as everyone knows Las Vegas is famous for one thing: gambling; and with this in mind here’s a multipart series of how we gambled in Las Vegas and the results of those numerous gambles.

How I gambled in Las Vegas and… Lost

Our first major gamble happened even before we boarded the plane and it involved handing our luggage over to Westjet with the assumption we would get it right back on the other side of the voyage. Well, maybe we should have checked the Vegas odds on that because when we stepped off the plane in Las Vegas our luggage was like Celine Dion in the last few years of her five year contract in Vegas (you know where she had to get Elton John to fill in for her) that is to say: a no show.

My wife, bless her heart and brains, had taken out travel insurance and sure enough it came in handy. First we talked to the representative there and she was nice and we were nice and everyone is nice; you get more flies with honey (though I didn’t want flies, I was still nice anyway) and we filed our claim and they promised to call if our wayward luggage showed its ugly face anytime soon.

The lady told us to call back tonight as there was a flight from Vancouver due in and it might make that; failing that call tomorrow as there was a chance they might have located it. Failing that there was a chance the luggage would be on the flight tomorrow afternoon and so on and so forth yea unto the 7th iteration of said daily flight from Vancouver to Las Vegas (which wouldn’t do us any good as we were to be out of Vegas by the 5th iteration of said trip).

So our first order of business upon checking into our hotel: go get some clothes for tomorrow. Now, being a guy, my care level for people seeing me in the same clothes I wore yesterday is about 22% – and that 22% is made up entirely of the fact that I’ll be wearing the same underwear as yesterday (now normally people aren’t going to see that but keep in mind I am in Vegas and who the hell knows what can happen).

So off we went to Macy’s.

Now being a guy, and a Canadian, I don’t generally think of Macy’s when I go shopping. After having gone there, I won’t think of it again. It’s not that it’s a bad store by any stretch of the imagination – it just happens to be the typical store a guy gets dragged to on a weekend when his wife needs to go shopping (note: that was not the case here, I needed clothes too). It’s like Sears without the weekend sale (I haven’t checked, but I bet they’re having one this weekend!)

We went, we saw, we shopped. Not an ideal experience. But not a bad one, and necessary.

But we still needed things like tooth brushes and other hygienic things so we went to the Walgreens to replace the essentials.

Traveler’s note: never try and replace essential items at the Walgreens on the Strip because you will have to go to a blackjack table and hope you win big before you can afford a stick of deodorant. If you are afraid to gamble or that’s not what you’re there for and you still need a stick of deodorant or what have you, always look on the bottom shelves down out of eye level. That’s where they put the cheap stuff, you know the stuff they test on monkeys and the FDA passes after the monkey only grows one extra arm (I haven’t read the testing rules, but I believe two extra arms are the fail).

The next day my wife followed up with the airline. She was nice. The airline lady was nice. I wasn’t on the phone with them, but I was nice anyway because I was on vacation and would go back to being a doofus upon our return. No sign of luggage. Off we went to Target.

Now being a guy, and a Canadian, I don’t generally think of Target when I think of a positive shopping experience (note: for me a positive shopping experience is one where the wife goes shopping and takes the kids with her and I sit home and watch football). I will now think of Target as a positive shopping experience. My wife and I managed to replace a fairly large portion of our wardrobe with the assumption we would not be seeing it again as our luggage had gone the way of the Dodo bird.

I bet you didn’t know Westjet is at fault for the extinction of the Dodo bird. That’s right Westjet. I outted you. Air Canada you could believe, but not the nice smiling people at Westjet… true story.

I did the typical guy shop. I found one make of shirt that fit me well and got four different colors of it. Grabbed some pants that fit and when they got wifely approval threw them in the shopping cart. For those of you in Las Vegas – 10 o’clock on a Monday morning is a good time to go shopping.

The final item we had to pick up at Target were: suitcases. It occurred to us that if our clothes and items never showed up again, that would mean our suitcase probably wouldn’t be making an appearance either and so we purchased a couple of duffel bags that transform into suitcases (like a more mundane version of Transformers) and off we rolled down to the nearby mall.

There we bought a few more necessary items and that took up pretty much the full first day in Las Vegas. We returned to our hotel room exhausted but no longer in danger of wearing the same outfit all 5 days in Vegas.

Just to be sure when we got back to the room my wife called the lady at the insurance and at the airline again. She was nice. The ladies on the phone were nice. I was tired and hungry but didn’t see any point in being grumpy so I stayed nice.

Then on Tuesday we received a call from the airline. Our luggage had been found! Hurray! Huzzah! Wicked Awesome SuperTuesday!

So what had happened? Well apparently some Hercules baggage clerk had ripped off the handle of the suitcase, the one with the tags on it, while stacking bags and the baggage never left the airport because no one knew whose it was or where it was going. When it was identified by its contents it got to go on a side trip to Los Angeles and then met us in Vegas.

Reunited. And it felt so good.

Of course I couldn’t look at the clothes in the suitcase now. I had new ones. Better ones. That’s right I’m looking at you previously drab wardrobe.

And thus concludes the first portion of How I Gambled in Las Vegas and… the next instalment will tell you how I gambled in Las Vegas and won – on customer service. And that includes Westjet, who despite the experience did an awesome job on dealing with the situation.

James Taylor Eats Babies…

2010-09-14T22:21:00.001-07:00

… Okay well he doesn’t (that I am aware of), but he could. And he could get away with it.

I’m not sure what musical avenue you walk upon, whether you’re a metal head, rocker, opera aficionado or whatever, but chances are you’ve probably heard of James Taylor. Even if you don’t actively follow his musical styling if you’ve seen the movie Cars you’ve heard at least one of his songs.

The other night my wife and I, and a friend, got sucked into the local PBS station and they happened to be playing a Carole King/James Taylor concert. I’m not an avid fan of either, but the two of them combined have more talent than at least 57 me’s, and they sucked in our attention. We couldn’t help but watch and listen.

The thing is, looking back on that time, I can’t remember a single song that James Taylor sang. For some reason when I think about that concert I associate it with marshmallows. But I can’t tell you why (other than I may still have been a bit hungry). And Ghostbusters (but I know why that is, because I can’t think of marshmallows without thinking of Ghostbusters).

I just knew that whatever he was singing about I agreed with him, I felt slightly melancholy and wistful and I too wished to be back in that time he was talking about – even though I couldn’t figure out what it was. There’s something about the way the man plays guitar and his tone of voice that just makes you want to sit an listen and maybe, if I wasn’t dead inside, to shed a tear.

For all I know James Taylor could have been singing to me about the Feast of Babies, where he gorged himself on younglings to honour his dark god Rakadoom, Lord of the Long Dark Night. I imagine, had he been doing so, the song probably sounded something like this:

Sit down a while, across from me
We’ll talk a bit, and you will be
Longing for a night such as this again;
While we talk over open flame
We’ll talk of times when we played games
Where it helped to be just a little insane.
And time goes by And time goes by

Grab a haunch, find a cup
Sit at the table we can sup
This is no time for hesitating maybes
How can we bring about our future
Cut out the rot and leave no suture
Unless we take part in this feast of Babies
And time goes by, his time goes by
His time goes by and its come again

Chorus:
He will be here, he’s coming soon
Live in love with Rakadoom
Lord of the Long Dark Night
Eating babies, might some wrong
But it sounds good cause its in my song
Grab yourself a newborn, it’ll be alright
And time goes by… and time goes by.

They are cute with their curly cues
Now roasting on the barbecues;
That’s not rib sauce in that chalice by the way;
All it takes for veneration
Is the blood of this future generation
And soon the Rakadoom shall again hold sway
And time goes by, and time goes by
Chorus
Repeat “As Time Goes by” (Fade)

A song like that is something you’d expect from Ozzy Osbourne but not James Taylor which is why its fairly obvious that James Taylor is the High Priest of Rakadoom and Ozzy is probably just a sixth level acolyte.

Just to reiterate, I have no evidence that James Taylor eats babies.

Your Call Is Being Held in Priority Sequence… You Are Low Priority

2010-09-11T14:31:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

Right now I am on hold with Shaw Digital to hook up an HD Box. I am on hold not once, but twice… simultaneously. How you ask? How is it possible for GLOM THE CONGLOMERATE to do this to me? Tell you in a second (your curiosity is placed in priority sequence).

I have been on hold in one form or another for over an hour now. My call is being held in priority sequence. I am low priority.

Maybe its my middle child syndrome acting up but I’m starting to get a little pissed off here; I am being ignored. I hate being ignored. I can go anywhere and being ignored. I am paying these SHAW people a fair bit of money a month here, am I paying these people to ignore me?

Apparently.

Perhaps it was an omen. When I, Robot first answered the phone it told me SHAW was experiencing higher than usual call volumes. But I ignored that. Do you know why I ignored it?

I ignored it because every time I have called SHAW they are experiencing higher than usual call volumes. Every time. For SHAW high call volumes are, apparently, normal. It’s like at work when every email management sends you is marked urgent. If everything is urgent, nothing is and I can go back to playing minesweeper. If you are experiencing higher than usual call volumes all the time, SHAW, then you need to change your definition of “usual call volume.”

And how am I on hold twice simultaneously you ask? I’ll get to that (thank you for continuing to read my blog. Your curiosity is important to me).

One of the most annoying things about the SHAW hold system is the continued breaking of the barely tolerable hold music with HARRY The HAPPY TECHIE. That’s my name for him/it, not theirs.

Harry interrupts the outdated, non-copyrighted hold music with these useful little tips – YOU CAN CHECK YOUR EMAIL ON THE INTERWEB!!! Harry sounds like he’s trying to teach 86 year olds how to use email. He talks to me like I talk to my kid. My kid’s 4.

I honestly hope HARRY runs into an EMP blast at some point and get’s fried. I … hate… Harry

Okay, so how does SHAW have me on hold two times simultaneously? Well it turns out that “Activating your digital terminal is easier than ever,” so says ANGELA THE ANNOYING ANDROID in her dead voice, and all you have to do is go to their handy dandy online activation system which puts you in contact with a representative.

So I did that, but at the same time I recalled their 1-888 number… I was on hold on the phone and on the Internet – two different avenues to exhaust my patience which was now drying up as fast as spit during high noon in the Sahara.

Well I did manage to get throw on the Interweb faster than on the phone – I think I was at the 20+ minute mark for both when I got in contact with Jeff #4503.

Now this is the thing about Shaw that I’ve found: waiting to get a hold of someone there sucks but when you finally do get around to them they’re smart and they can walk you through you’re problem fairly quickly.

I reiterate: Jeff #4503 did great.

ANGELA the ANNOYING ANDROID and HARRY the HAPPY TECH… not so much.

Cows with Moograines

2010-08-27T17:11:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

From the interweb today comes the shocking and demoralizing news that some cows out there are living better than I am; not only are these cows being grain fed but they are also being given a diet of red wine to wash down their highly nutritional meals.

Now all the animal rights activists are probably going to get all up in arms about this story, and in this case I think I’m going to have to agree with them. The difference however in this case will be where they protest on an “every animal has rights” platform, I protest on a why should the cows get it for free when I have to pay for it?

Here are some reasons I think feeding cattle red wine is a bad idea:

Everyone knows that red wine has a certain amount of tannins in it and tannins have been known to cause migraines in some people; it’s a trigger food. It would be cruel, and certainly unusual, punishment for these animals to, on top of killing them and eating them for meat, make their last day on earth feel as if they’re heads were being squeezed by a rubber band. These will of course be called Moo-graines.
All it takes is one surly cow with a hangover to start a stampede.
Alcoholics may be unwittingly thrown from the wagon after sampling such a cuisine; if they start holding 12 step meetings at the Keg then we know for sure there’s a problem. These people obviously have the most at steak here… (yes, yes I did go there).
A generation of young farmers will never have the benefit of going cow tipping ; the cows will be tipsy already and will fall over on their own.
These cows are eventually going to start developing a palate and when that happens its going to be become prohibitively expensive as the cattle will no longer drink from the boxed Domain d’or, but only the Naked Grape. From there they’ll move on to Yellow Tail and who knows what after that?

Now, it would be unfair to present only one side of the argument. There are bound to be some positives from this story.

From a consumer stand point there are abound to be some time savings – no longer will you have to waste time eating AND drinking.
Maybe cows will now understand the humour in The Hangover.
Maybe when you wake up naked one morning lying in the middle of a field at the old Circle Bar ranch in the middle of a crop circle that looks like Elmo being eye-balled by Bessy, instead of passing judgement she’ll just say: “Oh yeah buddy… I been there.”

Its also interesting to note that the Canadian Food Inspection Agency has investigated the process to make sure there are no negative effects (hangover aside); the long term effects of feeding wine to cows has yet to be determined however BECAUSE WE KILL AND EAT THE COWS.

Stupid Canada.

Moo-graines…

Heh Heh.

The Banana Man

2010-08-18T21:13:00.001-07:00

The Banana Man - to the tune of Piano Man by Billy Joel. Also there’s this: Man in Banana suit arrested for indecent exposure

It's nine o'clock on a Wednesday
The news is on the TV
They tell me the story of Kohnert
And I just can't see how it could be.

They say, Son you were wearing a Banana
Or that's what they said on the news
And while its not good to whip out your wood
It sure as hell does amuse

Ba ba ba be na na
Ba ba ba be na na
Sing us a song 'bout the Banana Man
Arrested for unpeeling his fruit;
He's not the only one charged
It turns out he had a recruit.

He found himself at the airport
And I guess the time it was ripe
He got drunk silly and then he freed willie
And now some young gal has a gripe

I say Bill how can you resist this one
And as you can see I just can't
The man chose this route in his banana suit
Instead of wearing some pants

oh Ba ba ba ba na na na
Ba ba ba na na naaaaaa
Sing you this song 'bout the Banana Man
That I took the time to compose
Maybe it'll get on the Internet
And like him be over-exposed

Now Tony his friend drove the vehicle
You might call it the Banana-mobile
He didn’t know see that his buddy
Would his banana- a'peel

He said Carl good Lord what you doin'
you'll make me toss up my lunch
There's no one in here, or even out there
That needs to see all your bunch

oh Ba ba ba ba na na na
Ba ba ba na na naaaaaa
Sing you this song 'bout the Banana Man
That's what you have to go do;
You can laugh at his misfortune
It's funny because its not you.

And now its all over the Internet
I bet someone call's up his Mama
Saying look what your son has gone and done
He's a banana without even pyjamas;

And the story sounds like a carnival
It's a story reeking of too much beer
He shook out his tree where somebody could see
In prison he'll have something to fear

oh Ba ba ba ba na na na
Ba ba ba na na naaaaaa
Sing you this song 'bout the Banana Man
The news reports dug up the dirt
And now he's going to prison
Where he'll get his just dessert.

oh Ba ba ba ba na na na
Ba ba ba na na naaaaaa

I Scream… From Ice Cream

2010-08-14T14:41:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

On a day when its hotter than the devil’s arm pit outside there is nothing more refreshing than beer; but as its only two in the afternoon hitting the suds will have to wait (but only until I’m finished this article because I wouldn’t want to slur while I’m typing).

The next best thing to beer on a hot Christmas morning is of course ice cream and with all those flavours out there ice cream is, truly, for everyone; for those of you who put hands to forehead and say “Alas! I am lactose intolerant!” I say to you first: “the world already has too much intolerance in it, shame on you! AND they have dairy digestive pills now so go pop a couple and grab y’self a blizzard.”

But with summer and ice cream comes that which steals the lustre off the ice cream bar – the ice cream truck.

Perhaps its because I grew up in Newfoundland, where communities were small and far apart, but the ice cream truck wasn’t all that prevalent; an ice cream truck was not economically viable. The closest thing we came to having an ice cream truck show up was when Mr Higgins the milk man, or my dad according to my sister, came in October and the milk had frozen.

And so it is that my only real knowledge of the ice cream truck comes from television; and I’ll tell you something, ice cream trucks on TV (apart from the episode of The Simpsons where Homer drove one) are all driven by pedophiles and killers. If you drive an ice cream truck and aren’t one of the above then apologies; if you are one of the above then go die.

Let me see… I remember watching that animated Spawn movie, I think it was called Spawn, and the creepy pedophile killer in that movie was, you guessed it, an ice cream truck driver. Not long ago I hate to admit to it, but I watched a portion of Legion (I couldn’t make it through the whole thing cause it was smelly sock bad) and the first demon killer dude drove a … you guessed it… Honda Civic. But the second one drove an ice cream truck.

And I’m pretty sure every criminal on Law and Order: SVU drives one.

The worst thing about the ice cream truck now is that creepy ass music it plays. No longer do kids run in flocks up to the truck when that music, which to be honest sounds like the tinny music you get when you open one of those “Singing” holiday cards at the dollar store, begins to play; rather at the cautioning of their parents the children run inside and hide until the ice cream truck is gone.

It seems to me that if you’ve been put on the path of being an ice cream truck driver in this day and age then you’ve been put on a Rocky Road; and that’s probably no scoop to you. The media coverage may just be why it seems every ice cream truck driver has a mint chocolate chip on their shoulder; but hey, let’s all be Neapolitan here, I’ll lay it out for you in chocolate and vanilla: a career that seems on the surface like a Heavenly Hash is probably just gonna turn Moose “tracks”.

Note: I just googled ice cream and read about a company called Emack and Bolio’s ice cream… but for some reason my mind read Ebolio’s… sick… and sickening

The Insecurities of Our Age

2010-08-10T20:51:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

The other day, yesterday I guess actually, I was standing at a gas pump and it told me to do something. No not that! Get your mind out of the gutter. The instructions on the pump said: “Remove Card Rapidly” and I thought to myself: How do I know if I’m removing the card rapidly enough?

As an aging, balding, overweight male with a vague sense that I’m in the wrong career (but at least surrounded by smart people who can cover for my incompetence) I do not need any more opportunities to feel insecure about my daily life.

But they’re everywhere. To list just a couple:

Remove Card Rapidly: Why doesn’t it just say “Remove Card" Why do I have to remove the card rapidly? Will it refuse to take my money if my carpal tunnel syndrome is acting up and I can’t withdraw the card from the slot with sufficient vigour? Should I lube up my card before I put it in that slot so I can be sure to get it out and pass the test?

Shake Well: I shake stuff but there are things that demand to be shaken well – who decides what is shaken well? If I flick my wrist a couple of times in a lacklustre fashion is Simon Cowell going to pop out of nowhere and say: “Honestly that was the most self-indulgent, lacklustre shake I’ve ever seen. To be honest, its like when you’re at a wedding and you’ve hired your cousin who did some bartending work in college to shake a martini. I’m sorry. You’ll really have to pick it up next time.” I shake with vigour. I shake with flourish. Occasionally, I even shake with rage. But do I shake well? I just can’t say.

And then there are those instructions that just assume you’re smart like stick – you know the ones:

"Remove wrapper, open mouth, insert muffin, eat." -- Instructions on the packaging for a muffin at a 7-11.
"Use like regular soap." -- On a bar of Dial soap.
"Serving suggestion: Defrost." -- On a frozen dinner.

Google silly instructions and you’ll come upon droves of them, of course the sad thing about those is the company probably had to put these instructions on because some numbnuts out there did something incredibly stupid… which, in a way, does make me feel somewhat better.

After all, I’ve never had to read the instructions on a machine to know: "The appliance is switched on by setting the on/off switch to the 'on' position." Although every know and then, after I’ve been told to “Shake Well” and I”m left wondering if I have, and I encounter one of those sillier types of instructions, I can’t help but wonder… are they just talking to me?

The Mystery of Jam

2010-08-09T22:14:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

The other morning while sitting in at the breakfast table I heard the telltale clinking of knife upon glass that denoted the end of the another jar of jam. I wasn’t crushed because I don’t really care for jam.

You see I prefer my toast to taste like toast and my crackers to taste like salt. If I wanted a mouthful of strawberry… I’d eat strawberry. But I’m a liberal minded fellow and if you want to eat jam that’s fine with me; after all, those strawberries that are a day after their due date in the store have to go somewhere… right?

However, it seems to me, in my non-jam eating way, a jar of jam has only two states: unopened full and opened with a half-inch of jam left in the bottle so it can make that clinking sound (also known as the Jam Alarm Recording or JAR). I cannot recall in all my years of having seen a half-empty jar of jam (or even a half full one if you’re an optimist).

And at the same time there is a sort of temporal displacement which revolves a jar of jam because doesn’t it always seem like you just bought a jar of jam two weeks ago?

Are there any Jam Eaters out there willing to disclose the secret? Is there a Jam Vortex that slowly sucks all the jam into its Cthulhu dominated space; is that also where the socks go when they don’t come back from the dryer? Is there a 4th dimension full of socks covered in jam?

Perhaps some wicked witch has found a magical way of siphoning the jam from your fridge; at this very moment your reserve of preserve is disappearing and reappearing in the vat which said witch is currently boiling Hansel and/or Gretel.

I have no answers, Solitary Reader, all I know is that come the next trip to the grocery store I’ll have to buy more jam – despite the fact that I just bought some two weeks ago…

Sorry Zynga, I Have Commitment Issues

2010-08-06T23:42:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

I’ve come to a realization about myself and its one of th0se epiphanies of self-discovery that is both discomfiting and liberating all at the same time. The discovery? You guessed it: I have commitment issues.

But Bill, you say, how can you have commitment issues when you’re about to hit your ten year wedding anniversary? That’s a good question.

It turns out that my issues with commitment are not to do with people but with games – specifically the games made by Zynga and those of the Zynga-esque ilk. Shall I expound?

Let us wind the hands of time backward a few years or so and you’ll find me, a young impressionable user of the interweb logging on to Facebook; I, as someone who has alienated most of his friends with his cutting edge wit, couldn’t pay someone to accept a friend request – so what was I to do?

The answer presented itself in a little game called Mafia Wars. I alit down the road of mobster with a glee which bespoke of my deeply buried Italian heritage (thanks Grammy Martin); I was bustin’ kneecaps, takin’ protection money and eating pasta like nothing else. Until I hit about level 11 or so… and then I got tired of it. Neighbouring branches of ‘Da Family” honed in on my territory, but I could care less. Suddenly forcing people’s joints to bend in ways they never had before had lost its appeal (I know, crazy huh?)

Life in the big city got to be too much for me, so I decided I needed a change of pace (also I turned state’s evidence against the don and entered the witless protection program). I needed something a little more serene. And where did I go? You guessed it – to the Farm. To be more specific, to Farmville.

I, who was pimpin’ in Mafia Wars, was now hoeing in Farmville; my crops grew and so too did my Friend database as random strangers wanted my name in their log to help expand their plot. I didn’t mind the usury though; I wanted the same. I grew all kinds of plants, gained all kinds of items. But no matter how many crops I planted there was still a big empty space – and it was in my heart.

Soon the only thing that grew was my emotional distance from my Farm. But how could I just turn and walk away, just leave it without a trace? Now I sit here taking every breath without you…. ooo… you’re the only game that really knew me at all…

… yeah, anyway…

It turned out that life on the farm was not for me; it was no longer about the farm, it had turned into an agri-business.

I told myself I’d gotten away, just not far enough. That’s when I saw the advert for a little game that promised me treasure and my very own Isle; how could I resist? Soon I set sail in my dory and ended up on this little sand spit in the middle of nowhere…

I could tell this game wasn’t going to go too well for me because within minutes it wasn’t meeting my expectations. Where was Ricardo Montalban welcoming me to Fantasy Island? Heck, Malcolm McDowell wasn’t even there! But I dug the sand for treasure like a good little monkey; I completed collections and turned them in; some fat bastard named Winston Adams took my collections and who knows what the hell he did with them…

… Finally a big gust of wind came and I told that wind to carry me over, carry me over, to MyTown.

MyTown, that was my next stop along the Zynga circuit. After all, I reasoned, Burnaby is a stupid city (what with it dropping street names and then picking up again three streets later in manner to make Tomtom weep and Google Maps dizzy) here’s my chance to do it right. And I did! For a little bit… and then I got tired of trying to please all the residents of my town.. they wanted more street lights, they wanted more bus shelters, they wanted the latest and the newest of everything and they didn’t want to pay a single cent of tax.

Finally I abandoned MyTown and the last I heard the weeds had taken over… it had turned into a Ghost Town… without my love… like a Ghost Town… I been dreamin’ of..

… And now I sit at my computer waiting… I wait for the next game that will fill the empty hours between sleeps… until something comes along I will do what I always do to fill the gap created by boredom…

Bejewelled Blitz… this game never gets old!

Taking a WikiLeak

2010-07-30T17:19:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

Coursing along the silvery tubes of the interweb these days is the story of massive amounts of military intelligence, which I always thought was as real as “city planning” and “the Easter bunny,” gracing the pages of WikiLeak. *Gasp* says one side “the enemy has our battle plans from 12 years ago! This must be quashed!” “Huzzah!” says the other side. “Score one for the freedom of the press!” Or words to that effect.

And there’s me in the middle, not knowing who to listen to and not caring enough to find out; which is no big change.

I’ve always considered Freedom of the Press in this day and age to be something of a myth. While I’m sure most (okay, some) reporters care about bringing information to the public, the news corporation itself really doesn’t seem to care much for fact or presentation.

In an age where the pundits of CNN yell their news at you, trying to sell you their version of events over MSNBC’s version along with a Slap Chop and a Snuggie news doesn’t seem, to me, to be dependable. Honestly, one look at Nancy Grace and Dan Rather would roll over in his grave.*

To put it bluntly, the press is free to report what it wants but bound by the dictates of modern marketing and capitalism to report only what sells.

But there’s the other side of the coin. Should these documents have been leaked? Does the public have a right to know? Well in this case, when the public includes the side you’re at war with having the ability to find your battle strategy on the Internet, maybe not. But the positive, the green light if you will, from this is that the military just discovered a bit of a flaw in their security. It’s similar in principle, if not in fact, to a company hiring a hacker to test its Internet Security. Gubment – you gots some work to do.

Maybe the furor from the side of the politicians is that the documents could likely uncover to the public a string of lies and incompetence to the general public. That and the emperor has no clothes. News flash (Brought to you by the Fortress of Verisimilitude’s Deep Fried Ice Cream in a Can! As Cold as Ice, as Hot as Spice) government people – we don’t vote you into office because we think you’re more competent than us; we vote you into government because someone has to do the job no one else wants to do and you… are… it.

Besides, maybe hope is not lost. Maybe Osama Bin Laden is like me: if he doesn’t find the answer to his query on the first page of Google’s results he gets impatient, call’s the Internet “stupid” and just goes to his Facebook page and plays Bejewelled Blitz.
I think the US Government doesn’t have too much to worry about in all of this anyway.

I’d be willing to bet there are more people out there Googling Mel Gibson and Oksana Griegorieva (which incidentally is on the first page of Google results when you search for the answer to the math problem of what happens when one train leaves a station in LA at 60 mph on the same track as a train leaving from New York at 45 mph, where do the trains collide?**) then there are searching for US Military Strategy.

* Yes, I know Dan Rather isn’t dead, but I assume one look at the Medusa like visage of Nancy Grace would kill him. Then, after a period of mourning in which Television spent at least 6 weeks replaying Dan’s most important news stories and the shame and scandal in which he retired, they would finally bury him. About two days after that the horrible memory of Nancy Grace’s meat haunch face would force him to roll over (because you don’t want to throw up while lying on your back).
** Answer: On the Internetz

My Garage is Haunted

2010-07-24T20:26:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

This is my first real post since the move to the new house and there’s a good reason for it. You see, Solitary Reader, I’m fairly certain that my garage is haunted.

In a super world my garage would be haunted by the spirit of someone who knew something about cars. Then it wouldn’t have cost me so much for that transmission fluid change at Mr. Lube yesterday. I would make friends with said spirit by putting a TV in there and leaving it on all night and then inviting neighbourhood children in so that the spirit could reach through the TV and eat them. If there’s one thing I learned from watching Ghost Whisperer its that spirits like Poltergeist.

However, as its not a super world I am certain the spirit in the garage is not that of the Michelin man, not even the Fountain Tire guy, but instead this spirit is of a holiday bent. How do I know so, you might ask?

Let me recount to you then a tale of woe with a twist ending worthy of a film by M. Night Shamalan (that is to say, it starts with a good idea but ends up being poorly executed with a twist ending that doesn’t make up for the sense of disappointment in the experience).

It was a hot and sultry day in the burbs of Maple Ridge. I had just finished putting up a ceiling fan and knew the world was off because I had a) installed the fan correctly and b) had not been electrocuted , lighting myself up like a Christmas tree. I brought the dregs of my home improvement project downstairs with the intention of placing the empty box, along with the carcass of the old light fixture, in the garage. I opened the door and sensed right away the oddity.

It was cool in here, not the cool of a ground floor garage on a hot summer day, nor even the cool of Arthur Fonzarelli, (okay, maybe it was that); my breath frosted in the air, and everything I learned watching Supernatural told me that there was a ghost in the garage – and me without my rock salt. The door swept shut behind me (not completely, we have to replace the door so that it will close all the way as they’re supposed to do, next home improvement project) and then I heard the voice.

“Frosty the snowman, was a happy jolly soul… Frosty the snowman…” In fear, I dropped the box containing the old light fixture. Being environmentally conscious I still turned off the light and I left the room.

Twist ending: I twisted my ankle on the slight step back into the house – I told you you would be disappointed.

Okay so the garage isn’t really haunted, there’s a musical Christmas card in there somewhere that sings “Frosty” whenever the wall shakes.

But here’s the true scary thing: I have no idea where that card is! Every time I go in the garage a tinny female voice will yelling “Frosty the Snowman” will welcome me… until I can find it and shut off that evil for good.

Now that’s a twisted ending.

All Your Life Has Lead Up to This Moment…

2010-06-19T20:57:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

Did you ever spend hours upon hours doing something that everyone else told you was pointless but you had to do it anyway? No, I’m not talking about work.

There are these little things, these little habits, these little hobbies. These are the things that we use to whittle away on the great wooden block of life when we only have a few moments. “I don’t have time to do much, I shall just play some Bejewelled Blitz until supper” 15 minutes later the garbage still needs to be taken out and you’re frustrated because you can’t get to the frenzy level.

I remember as a kid watching The Last Starfighter. I always wanted to be like the main character who beat the game and got to go fight in an intergalactic war; but for me the game of choice as a kid was one in an entirely different vein: Tetris. I played that game for hours. Every lunch hour in the computer room I was dropping the 4 line bombs; if nerd had been street I’d be one hip gangsta doofus. As it was I was just a doofus.

I have never lamented all those hours playing Tetris; but I never kidded myself that they had any use; but it turns out I was wrong.

For you see Solitary Reader, I am moving. Not from the Fortress, nae never that; I am taking the physical body that contains the mental mind you read before you, yea unto a new location.

Everyday we’re packing boxes and as I place this right there, and that right here, I can hear the Tetris music in my head (doo doo dooo doo, doo doo doo doo da doo doo – you know it really doesn’t look like much written down) and I can fit piece after piece in box after box. It doesn’t just stop there; as I pack box after box in to the Mazda five again I hear the music and box after box fits as snugly as a bug in a rug (tangent: time to clean the rug if it has bugs).

I’m getting so good at this I fit our 46” TV into an egg carton. True story.

So stay the course my friend. There will always be garbage, there will not always be Bejewelled Blitz (come on, we all know they’ll replace it with BB 2.0 “Kickin’ the Family Jewels”). Eventually you will realize that all the time you spent slack jawed and drooling at the computer was a form of training for something, not necessarily greater, but necessary.

Another Oil Disaster

2010-06-18T20:28:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

I was going to do a touching article on how the World Cup is bringing everyone closer together in my office; well, it isn’t, so I can’t do that.

The German guy almost kicked the Serbian guy in the nads when his team lost today; the English guy isn’t talking to anyone and the French guy is crying over his cheese. Shameful. International sport is NOT bringing together my office, it’s tearing it apart!

And so, I trolled the Interweb looking for something to call news. It wasn’t long before I found it.

Now we’re all aware of the biggest, oiliest disaster since Geraldo Rivera’s hair ruining the Gulf of Mexico; the CEO of BP obviously took a dip in the waters off the Florida coast to coat himself in that slippery crude before he went before Congress because he slid through those questions like a Pelican through the hands of a rescue worker.

But now, while surfing the Internet on a lazy Friday evening, I have found the second greatest threat to the world’s oil supply: palaeontologists.

In the news today there’s this: Alberta scientists discover largest bed of dinosaur bones. When I first saw the headline I thought they were intimating that the dinosaurs had all died in the midst of an orgy, but such apparently was not the case; these chaste little Centrosauruseseseses were, most probably, wiped out by a tropical storm.

Now if I recall my high school biology the single greatest source of oil is still the blood of a baby Smurf (which is why gas costs so much because a baby Smurf doesn’t have a lot of oil in it and the the oil goes sour in the adult Smurfs, contaminated by their rampant smoking and drinking); but the second greatest source of oil comes from the bones of dinosaurs.*

And now there’s a bunch of paleontologists running around Alberta waking up dinosaurs from their years of long rest, disturbing the ghosts of the Centrosaurus and stealing their bones.

So now not only has BP deprived the world of millions of gallons of oil by letting it get contaminated with salt water; but scientists have just stolen millions …. and millions… of barrels of oil from the future by running off with these bones.

Thanks Science. Thanks ever so much.

* In the course of researching this article I learned that oil is no longer thought to come from bones of dinosaurs, but rather a fossilized plankton ancestor – let’s call it dinosaur plankton. WAS NOTHING THEY TAUGHT ME AS A CHILD REAL? Dammit, I refuse to believe you – this new spin on the creation of oil is merely the work of the same scientists who took away the Brontosaurus – they were obviously afraid people would fear that without the Brontosaurs the world’ oil supply would diminish much faster. Despite learning this, I wrote the article anyway.

Counting Green Lights

2010-06-17T16:47:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

I commute pretty close to 2 hours a day and I don’t like the process.

Some people, who count themselves wise or perhaps just read it on the side of a Starbucks cup, say its not about the destination, its about the journey but to those people I say: bean curd! The whole point of driving is to get from point A to point B as safely and quickly as possible. It’s too bad not everyone can share my opinion.

I could go into a whole host of reasons why I don’t like driving (okay, its not that I don’t like driving its that I don’t like driving with other people on the road) but that’s not what this is about. The other day I had myself a realization.

I was on the way home from work and it was one of those days where I seemed to get every red light – even the ones that are pedestrian controlled that never turn red. I tried for the most part to let it slide of me, and was fairly successful, for I have come to the realization that I can rage against the machines in front of me and get home at 4:15, or I can take it easy, relax and listen to some music and get home at quarter after four. This is not the first such day that I have felt that all the lights were against me.

But the light changed for me yesterday when I realized that its not that all the traffic lights in my path were red; its that I only noticed the red lights and ignored the green ones. I was taking the green lights for granted and the red lights as a personal affront. This is more than just a red light green light situation, this is a realization of my own view of the world.

Where, along life’s highway, did I become so bitter that I stopped looking for the good things and appreciating them for being in my life; have I become blind to all the green lights in other areas of my life? Simply, yes.

Many people have said it in many different ways: it all amounts for being grateful for the good things you have. And its not to say the bad stuff isn’t bad – because bad stuff happens and bad stuff sucks – but its about shifting my viewpoint just a little.

And so, for the first time this morning I counted green lights on the way to work, and you know what? I WAS RIGHT I GOT ALL THE RED LIGHTS!

Heh, just kidding. Seriously, I got at least 3 times more green lights than I got red. So if you’re going through a rough period and things are getting you down a) I hope you get through it but b) take a look around and count all the little green lights life has given you. It won’t solve the problems you have, but maybe it will make you feel better.

There, that’s my motivational speech for the day. Tony Robinson has nothing to be afraid of… well except looking in a mirror… man that dude is ugly… (red light)… but he IS rich (green light!).

Every Day Danger

2010-06-16T20:46:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

Today I went to work, driving my car most of the way (I portaged it about 3km up some rapids just to see how Lois & Clark might have done it – ahem, Lewis & Clark), parked in my underground lair – ahem parkade – and took the elevator. Just as I do every day.

But this time there was something different.

This time when the two half doors of the elevator closed and like a good compromise, met in the middle, I perceived something sinister about the experience.

Now I can attribute this sinister feeling to any number of things.

I’d been up for more than an hour at this point and hadn’t yet had that first sip of coffee.
The doors gave a slight hitch just as they closed, like the last breath of a man dying from alcohol poisoning
I drank the last of the Strawberry Kiwi juice and that stuff was really concentrated at the bottom – so who knows what the hell it was doing to me. Maybe I didn’t even portage after all… Arrghhhhhhhhhh
I’m just plain out of my gourd.
etc

What, I thought watching the doors meet in the middle like a fat man’s belt, would happen if those doors wouldn’t open again? I would be stuck. Now as far as dangers go its pretty mundane – let’s face it I would be stuck in an elevator with a full travel mug of coffee and a book I had just bought. Heck… throw in a bean bag chair and I might just do that tomorrow.

But if I was stuck in there forever for some reason I could die. There wasn’t even anyone in there I could go all Alive on if I got stuck in there after I’d eaten my lunch!

All around us every day there are things that come and go and cross our paths that could kill us. It’s enough to make you paranoid. Did I make you paranoid? heh cool.

Cars – a car is a couple of thousand pounds of metal, fibreglass and death; we put people behind the wheels of cars that we would never give a gun – and they’re all over the place! Elevators. Appliances. Electricity. Segues (I don’t trust’em). Subways (the transportation). Subway (The restaurant). All of these things can kill you if you don’t watch out.

Next time you hop in an elevator watch the doors. Think about what you would do if they never opened again.

Here’s just a few of the things that could get you.

Spill Over

2010-06-15T18:25:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader

Before I start, I’d just like to take a minute to mention all the people who felt the need to correct me on my last post – that whole 35/prime number debacle – and say the following: screw you all! You people who get your jollies pointing out the flaws in other people disgust me.

I don’t believe in math anyway. Don't try to frighten me with your sorcerous ways, Math Lover. Your sad devotion to that ancient religion has not helped you conjure up the stolen data tapes, or given you clairvoyance enough to find the rebels' hidden fortress... oops… sorry nerd blackout there for a moment.

Heh seriously – good catch – there’s a reason I only managed the 13th percentile in the math equivalency of my MBA test (for the record I got 99th percentile in the bullshit portion).

So anyway…

We’re now in the 50+ day of gallon upon gallon of oil leaking into the Gulf of Mexico; the only thing flowing faster than the oil into the gulf is the bullshit from BP. It’s been covered everywhere (the story, not the gulf although that’s getting close) and perhaps one of the most interesting facets is how everyone is blaming Barak Obama.

Now, I’ve never been a big fan of Obama – not because I liked Bush but because Obama is a politician and I don’t like politicians – but honestly, are the people of the US expecting their president to load up a Nerf Super Soaker with Dish Soap and spray’n’wash some pelicans? Or maybe he should hop on Sea Force One with a cargo load of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers and start scrubbing the ocean clean?

Before the election everyone thought Obama could walk on water, maybe now that the water in the gulf is a little thicker he actually can; but one thing seems for certain, that dark smudge doesn’t just seem to be sticking to the southern US Coastline but to Obama’s reputation as well.

I think its time that Barak took a hands on approach to this situation as we’re reaching a crisis level both politically and environmentally. There’s only one thing he can do: assemble a team of today’s best, brightest and toughest and send them down in a submersible to cap that leak. You can’t just send anyone though, you have to make sure you get a team that will get the job done; with that in mind I propose the following team:

Captain Morgan Freeman: He might not know how to pilot a ship but his calm soothing voice will help to depressurize any stressful situation – hell that man’s voice is so smooth it might just depressurize the ocean and he could talk the oil into slowing down. With Roy Scheider now on his eternal Seaquest, Morgan Freeman is the only viable choice.

First Mate Bruce Willis: This man has been through for Die Hards, Demi Moore and a Fifth Element. There is nothing he can’t solve and no terrible situation he can’t endure. He’ll be the guy that gets it done if anyone will. He can just stare at the hole until it closes up itself because it knows it’s the right thing to do.

Sharon Stone: There’s no good reason to have her on the ship (or on the Earth for that matter – oooo burn) but she is contractually obligated to be on every risky underwater mission, movie or otherwise.

Steve Buscemi: We all know that on a trip like this, so far below the surface with death a possibility every nanosecond, someone is going to crack under the pressure. Having Steve Buscemi along will take the guesswork out of who is going to crack – we all know its going to be him. He will start, endure and finish the trip strapped to his bunk so he can do nothing to make the situation worse.

Plex: the magic robot from Yo Gabba Gabba – he should really be useful.
Together these 5 sturdy adventurers will do the impossible and save our fractured mother earth.

And really, should the unthinkable happen and they fail worse than BP already has, they’re just actors so there’s no big loss.. well except for Morgan Freeman… and Plex.

Life With a Crawling Daughter

2010-06-09T18:04:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

Well I hit 35 over the weekend and it failed to bring about the miracle of maturity that my wife was hoping for: sorry dear, maybe next year (but don’t hold your breath).

And because I’m older and wiser, here’s some numerology billshit: 3 is a prime number, 5 is a prime number and 35 is a prime number – therefore I am currently in my prime. Next year however it will be a different story as I will be divisi-Bill by 1,2,3,4,6,9,12, 18 and 36. Ghastly. I know. 37 however should see a return to my prime.

In other, more important, news yesterday I watched my daughter crawl from the living room into the kitchen on hands and knees. For the last couple of months she’s been utilizing the army crawl and has perfected the art of falling backwards from standing to end up in the ideal belly crawl position. It’s like watching a G.I. Joe figure come to life.

All that has changed as now she has discovered the increased mobility that comes with crawling on hands and knees, and as Ben Parker said: “With great mobility comes great responsibility – for the parent.” At least I think he said something like that.

When the boy started crawling I don’t remember the fear setting in; but my son, like his father, was a lazy kid. Oh sure, he could crawl, he just didn’t see any point in it. My daughter however has all the curiosity of a Mythbuster, but none of the responsibility to the insurance companies to keep her from exploring everything she shouldn’t be sticking her fingers in or putting in her mouth.

Now don’t get me wrong I’m happy for Daughter. Her world is opening up; blossoming into a realm of possibility where every room might hold something new and around every corner is an opportunity waiting to be explored. It’s just as a parent my wife or I now have to follow her around to make sure there isn’t a petrified Willow (cat) around the corner waiting to lash out or to make sure we didn’t leave a pair of scissors on the table (which would explain why the cat was petrified… and bald).

I propose a mathematical hypothesis: The relationship between a parent’s ability to get something done is inversely proportionate to a child’s mobility. That is to say – the more the kid can shimmy, the less time the parent has to get anything done because he or she is chasing after little Jr. who’s chasing the cat with the hedge trimmer.

The formula would look something like this:

Free Time = (Speed of Parent)(hrs of sleep)/# of children)
(speed of child)(proximity to nap)

I foresee this being fairly useful for day planning.

*Warning: formula has not been perfected yet. Any accidental holes in the space time continuum are entirely the fault of the user.

I Have A Suggestion for U, Facebook

2010-05-30T14:56:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

As I type this right now there is a little panel on the left of my Facebook home page telling me I should add some guy to my friend list. I don’t know this person.

In fact, if you were to stand this person up next to a hole in the wall beside Bessie Smith and the boys from O-Town I wouldn’t know who the hell he was (though as I’m occasionally intelligent I may be able to puzzle it out. For instance I would start by eliminating Bessie Smith and then, reasoning that all the members of those boy bands of days gone by looked the similar I could reasonably pick who belonged in O-Town (or I would google a picture of them on my i-phone) and the person remaining would more than likely be this fellow that Facebook loves so much).

Yet Facebook is telling me that this dude should be my friend; now as I’m a friendly dude, and my humour is without parallel (thankfully), I can see how it would be in his best interest to have me on his friend list. I mean, come on, memberships in the Fellowship of Bill comes with the access to the awesomeness that is the Fortress of Verisimilitude plus I can also cut up a shoe and a tomato (though not with the same knife).

But that’s not my point; my point, and I relish this because I so rarely have one, is that I don’t know this dude.

Everyday I log on and Facebook is suggesting that I should do something to make my life better; without any knowledge of the inner workings of my life. Facebook reminds me of a specific aunt, who without fail, tells me whenever I talk to her how to go about living my life. That’s right, Facebook is becoming that annoying relative everyone has, the one who knows everything about everything (because of the status updates) and gossips like all hell (again, thanks to those status updates). I never listened to my aunt, and I will not listen to you Facebook.

While logically it works out that the enemy of my enemy is my friend (and the enema of my enemy is his own business); it is not true that the friend of my friend is also my friend (although the enema of my friend is also his own business).

So John Kerr, I`m sure you’re awesome, and my life is a pale shadow of what it could be if I were to add you as my friend on Facebook I will not do so; to add you just because Facebook suggests it would validate that useless panel and therefore you and I shall be like two ships passing in the night… travelling on different oceans.

As for you Facebook – here’s my suggestion: take a long walk off a short pier.

Signed,

Not Yet Friends with John Kerr

Technorati Tags: Facebook,Bessie Smith,O-Town,friend,friend list

The House of Mouse Horror

2010-05-09T22:14:00.001-07:00

So in the news today we see that Canadian scientists have ripped away the mask of the “kind, caring, polite Canadians” the world has come to know and tolerate. Fresh from the national paper The Globe and Mail comes the article: How to Torture a Mouse.

Okay as you can see the article isn’t about how to torture a mouse (because, as we all know, alls it takes is a plunger, some duct tape and a battery and they squeal like a maid in the house of Naomi Campbell). Instead this is an article that tells us that when experiencing pain, mice flinch and make other facial gestures.

The beneficial ramifications of this study are something along the lines of “we can tell that the mouse is hurting because it’s making a pain face and that’ll let us know whether other research we do is hurting the meeses.” I’m paraphrasing… just a wee bit. But really does it take a scientist to figure that one out? I can tell you’re hurting the mouse because of the electricity you’re shooting at it… and I’m not even a scientist!?!

There are two things that make this story wrong:

1) Somewhere in the article it tells us that, much like humans, the mice make pain faces when hurt. Has anyone noticed that they use mice for a lot of things because they’re just like humans? Well here’s a thing about humans – we are big on revenge. So if mice are enough alike humans to feel pain and show it, to test drugs on because they’re systems are similar then mice also probably like revenge. Rest assured some doofus is probably injecting some mice with super serum that’s going to result in a mouse that’s pissed off with humanity. You know what that’s going to look like?

Rodent of Unusual Size. Nuff Said.

2) And the other thing is: these scientists have just blown the cover of the greatest mask ever worn by a civilization. Canada for decades has been known as the nation of the polite, the home of humility, the core of caring and other such drivel. Everyone in Canada knows that’s a farce – we have our hates, our greeds, our lusts as much as the rest of the world – its coated with a thick sugar coating to disguise its evil core mind you, but its still there.

But now these scientists have, without taking it to a democratic vote, blown the cover off of our facade of kindness; but then, I guess a referendum would have been pointless because Canada hasn’t reached a decision on anything by election in decades – that’s right I’m talking about you minority government.

So world, we might as well own up to it. We’re Canadians. We’re evil. Do you know why nothing attacks Canada in the movies – why aliens will bypass our fair skies to descend upon our neighbours to the south? BECAUSE WE’RE IN LEAGUE WITH THEM. That’s right. You heard me.

And that’s not all.. if it weren’t for Canada, Coronation Street would have been cancelled long ago. WE DID THAT! MWAHAHAHAHA!

Alright that’s it. I’m out. I’ve got to go torture a mouse… I’m missing some cheese.

Technorati Tags: Mice,Torture,Pain face,naomi campbell,R.O.U.S,Coronation Street,Evil

Do You Hear that Buzz-ing?

2010-05-06T21:39:00.001-07:00

While sitting in a state of flux, supper not quite done, kids playing outside, I turned on the hockey game in the background while I tried to catch up to my sister in Bejewelled Blitz (I will eventually, she hasn’t beat me through a week yet) and I heard an employee from Westjet offer me his Carantee.

At first I was a little discomfited because I don’t roll that way, but then I realized that this carantee he was offering was the offspring of a brief tryst between “caring” and “Guarantee” after a night of drinking cooking sherry. “No thanks” I said. But he kept talking at me anyway. Why don’t commercials listen to you?

Some old people lament about what teenagers are doing to the English language what with their texting and the lols and such; me I think the process was started long before that when some advertising execs locked their employees in a closet and told them to come up with something “clever.”

Smashing two words together to make one non-existent word and talking like its an actual world does not make it a word.

The business world is another contributing factor to the destruction of the English language; which I guess makes a sort of sense because it is the bastard cousin to the advertising industry.

Right now in my workplace we are “leveraging technologies.” Now I’m almost sure that this means we are using technologies appropriately, but I’m not sure because leveraging is an ambiguous word created by some dude who needed to update the book he wrote for bizness college because then he could say it was a new edition - he was leveraging his textbook let's say.

What does leveraging mean? Maybe it means we’re using it as the fulcrum in some sort of heavy lifting tool – but as I work on the set of Office Space I doubt that’s the case.

Back to the guy at Westjet, don’t sell me some mythological carantee – sell me a plane ticket and throw me a free f$#!king sandwich and a drink and we’ll talk caring.

The Death of the Man From Atlantis

2010-05-03T22:07:00.001-07:00

Yes this is Patrick Duffy

Right now as you read this there are litres upon litres of oil spilling into the Gulf of Mexico. If you’re in the US, that’s gallons upon gallons of oil (you see? I write for an international audience!) spilling into the pristine oceans Mother Nature created for us (because God told her too). This has been going on since April 20th… that’s two weeks ago. You can spill a lot of oil in two weeks.

Gas companies, sensing a more firmer excuse than “we felt like it” to continue the financial raping of the working person, have used this spillage of oil to increase prices at the pump. Life continues. That is as long as you don’t live in the oceans in the Gulf of Mexico.

Green Peace, PETA and Charlie the Tuna will all preach to you about the catastrophic effects of such a colossal spill on the sea life in the Gulf of Mexico; pessimists will tell you that the area will never recover, optimists will tell you that there’s now one less step involved in deep frying fish (what do you mean it’s not that type of oil?).

But everyone talking about the effects of that messy little leak has already overlooked the worst possible thing that has happened due to BP’s little booboo: the Death of the Man from Atlantis.

Who was the Man from Atlantis you ask? Well before MacGyver ever stepped foot on that fabled continent Patrick Duffy, also known as the Man From Atlantis, was swimming under the sea saving turtles from Japanese harpooning ships and rescuing sea horses from sharks.

Growing up I can remember sitting with my mother late at night waiting for my father to come home from his job at the bar; we’d sit and play Sorry! (she cheated mercilessly and contrary to the name of the game never did apologize) and watching old TV shows (well they’re old now, less so then).

The Man From Atlantis was always one of my favourites and I was always surprised that my mother watched it because she was never a fan of the odd sci/fi shows. GAHHHH…. I just realized she liked the show because she got to watch Patrick Duffy in a bathing suit and threw up in my brain a little.

And so it it is with sadness I present to you the obituary for the Man From Atlantis, who’s oil soaked body washed up on the shore of the Gulf Of Mexico. Doctors, who seem to be all of a sudden driving fancy sport cars that they didn’t have before the press conference, assure us that this death was due to natural causes and had nothing to do with the massive amount of BP oil clogging tMfA’s lungs.

Name: Mark Harris
Weight: A svelt 185lb… soaking wet
Height: Taller than a dolphin, but shorter than a shark.
Life: Taken from us too early, Mark Harris, the was born in Atlanta… wait, what? oh Sorry, Mark was born in Atlantis. He lived to see his civilization sink into the ocean (well actually, it was a city under the sea so actually it sank further into the ocean).

He was a public figure for a time trying to rescue the oceans of the world from the evils of Mr. Schubert. Eventually he grew tired of life working at the university and moved to the driest place he could find, reasoning that no one would look for a man from the sea in Texas he because truly a fishman out of water. Where did he go? Well Dallas of course.

Eventually Patrick Duff… er Mark Har.. er Namor… or… whatever his name was, like Legolas, heard the call of the sea birds and made his way to the Grey Havens. There he stepped majestically into the ocean and sought to swim back to to the ruins of his native Atlantis.

Yeah unfortunately that was on April 20th. The Man From Atlantis is survived by Flipper, the cast of Finding Nemo, and the cast of Sea Quest with the exception of Roy Scheider and the career of Joxer the Mighty. In lieu of flowers donations can be made to your local food bank (always a good idea); but please no sea food.

God rest ye merry fishyman…

Men in Skirts and Ninjas Riding Bicycles

2010-04-19T20:42:00.001-07:00

If you go out of your door today, here’s what you might see
I hope it doesn’t happen to you, but it happened to me;
There was no bear on a tricycle, but maybe it was the lunar cycle
But today’s the day the ninjas ride their bicycles

Mondays are crappy days. Mondays after flex days are especially crappy. If you’re not familiar with the concept of flex days basically one works a longer work day so that on the tenth day he/she/it can rest. It’s like having a long weekend every two weeks (don’t worry though, the magic of the real long weekend is still maintained). Back to my point.

Mondays mark the first day of the week where you have to wake up to the shrieking harpy that is your alarm clock. Do the routine: get dressed, go downstairs, eat, leave and drive to work assuming none of THIS happens to you. This morning however was a little different. This morning I saw a couple of odd things that put a little more lustre in a Monday than might otherwise be there and the first was: a ninja, riding a bicycle.

You know how sometimes you’re driving along and see something out of the corner of your eye and you’re not quite sure what it was you saw? This wasn’t that. This guy was a ninja. And he was riding a bike. And he was a responsible ninja because he was also wearing a helmet.

So how do I know he was a ninja you ask? You didn’t ask? Well I can tell you were about to so here’s how, aside from the ninja stars sticking out of his helmet this man was dressed in full ninja regalia. He was wearing black pants, black shirt, black shoes; in short (not in shorts) he was dressed like a man whose occupation it is to skulk in the shadows and kill for hire.

Also, underneath the helmet he was wearing a black mask. All you could see were his eyes. Cold, calculating killers eyes. I knew what he was thinking… THE DRAGON’S FIRE BURNS HOT!

I drove on pretty sure that this was the weirdest thing I was going to see this morning…

If you go out of your door today, here’s what you might see
I hope it doesn’t happen to you, but it happened to me;
I saw a fellow, let’s call him Kurt whose sense of dress was inert
For today was the day that Kurt thought he should a skirt to work

In retrospect, living in Vancouver, seeing a man in a skirt isn’t all that uncommon but I think the difference here stemmed both from the fact that Kurt as a man was unattractive (at least as I judge such things, but I’m not the best judge for male attractiveness because I swing for the straight team) – Kurt as a woman didn’t just hop over the hideous line but jumped, leapt and vaulted into that level of visual distinctiveness heretofore reserved only for Rosie O’Donnell and Rita McNeil.

Now while one part of my mind is trying to merge Odetta with Detta to get the Lady of Shadows, another part of me is wondering if probably this man was in fact Kurt McCloud of the Clan McCloud. Because the only other acceptable explanation for Kurt’s choice of dress (even the fact that it may have been laundry day was no excuse) was nationality. Kurt may have been Scottish. It may have been a kilt.

I’m trying to convince myself this was the case but one thing works against accepting that explanation: Kurt’s skirt was grey with no visible signs of a tartan indicating clan. The normal mind might take this as a sign that all was as it was seen to be; but the normal mind is not what saw Kurt, and if the normal mind did see Kurt then the normal mind would not remain normal for that much longer. So it seems obvious to me that Kurt was a member of the Clan McCloud.

The history of the Clan McCloud is one of immense ups and downs and it’s tied intimately to the Highlander series of movies. The clan experienced a massive upswing with the general populace and indeed with other clans after the first movie gained such a cult following; in fact, the clan McCloud was poised to take over the top position in the Bloody Great Men which is the street name for the Scottish underground Mafia (I’ll make ye an offerrr… ye canna rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrefuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuse). But after the release of Highlander’s 2 through 4, Sean Connery, who is as God to those people, turned his face away and the clan was stripped of its tartan.

And so Kurt McCloud of the Clan McCloud walked wherever he was walking and I drove wherever I was driving and our worlds kept turning, each in its own orbit.

If you go out of your door today, here’s what you might see
I hope it doesn’t happen to you, but it happened to me;
Just keep the look off of your face
the world is a strange and frightening space
Today’s the day you’ll see strange things all over the place

The Quantum Mechanical Non-Adventures of Mr. Bill

2010-04-08T18:32:00.001-07:00

This didn’t happen to me today but it could have…

5:45am The alarm goes off again. What day is it? I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. For the most part they’re all the same. I get up. I trip in the elliptical trainer. I crash head first into the wall. My neck breaks. Consciousness fades. Doh!

This didn’t happen to me today but it could have…

5:45am The alarm goes off again. What day is it? I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. For the most part they’re all the same. I get up. I look at the elliptical trainer and carefully step around it. It’s cold. I head downstairs. I have breakfast. I collect my rent in My Town. It’s cold downstairs too. I go outside. My neighbour screams: “Ahh pervert!” I look down. I’m not wearing any clothes. That explains the cold. I look up to laugh with her to see she’s holding a gun. My neighbour has a gun? She didn’t seem the type. Before I can laugh at the hilarity she shoots me. Something against perverts obviously. Consciousness fades. And I didn’t even find out what day it was…

This didn’t happen to me today but it could have…

5:45am The alarm goes off again. What day is it? I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. For the most part they’re all the same. I get up. I look at the elliptical trainer and carefully step around it. It’s cold. “Clothes” I mumble. “Must remember clothes.” Dressed now I open the door and carefully step around the cat. “Willow,” I say. Oddly she looks disappointed. I head downstairs. I pour my cereal. Oddly I examine my cereal but its just two scoops of raisins in this bowl of raisin bran so I take it to my computer and eat it. I collect my rent in My Town. Answer an email from my sister… she’s well. I place my bowl in the sink. I pour my coffee into my travel mug. I take out my key. I close the door. I say hey to my neighbour who for some odd reason is up at this hour and holding a gun. She waves at me. I head to the car. I pull out. I drive down the complex lane way. All clear. I pull out… I won’t bore you (any further) with the details. I cross 147 intersections on my way to work. In each of them I had several accidents for several various reasons and died from all of them. The car is a dangerous place to be. I will have to say that I never expected the tyrannosaurus rex. But who does?

This didn’t happen to me today but it could have…

5:45am The alarm goes off again. What day is it? I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. For the most part they’re all the same. I get up. I look at the elliptical trainer and carefully step around it. It’s cold. “Clothes” I mumble. “Must remember clothes.” Dressed now I open the door and carefully step around the cat. “Willow,” I say. Oddly she looks disappointed. I head downstairs. I pour my cereal. Oddly I examine my cereal but its just two scoops of raisins in this bowl of raisin bran so I take it to my computer and eat it. I collect my rent in My Town. Answer an email from my sister… she’s well. I place my bowl in the sink. I pour my coffee into my travel mug. I take out my key. I close the door. I say hey to my neighbour who for some odd reason is up at this hour and holding a gun. She waves at me. I head to the car. I pull out. I drive down the complex lane way. All clear. I pull out… after what seems like an eternity (did I tell you that a friend of mine is the uncle of Eternity? That is not a good name for a kid) I make it safely to work. I get out of the car and into the elevator. I press the button for the 2nd floor. The elevator promptly shoots up to the fourth floor and pauses. I barely have time to notice that there are sharp things in the cereal I’ve just hurled up when the elevator plummets to the bottom. As the top of the elevator crashes into the back of my head consciousness fades… turns out stairs are healthier for you…

This didn’t happen to me today but it could have…

5:45am The alarm goes off again. What day is it? I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. For the most part they’re all the same. I get up. I look at the elliptical trainer and carefully step around it. It’s cold. “Clothes” I mumble. “Must remember clothes.” Dressed now I open the door and carefully step around the cat. “Willow,” I say. Oddly she looks disappointed. I head downstairs. I pour my cereal. Oddly I examine my cereal but its just two scoops of raisins in this bowl of raisin bran so I take it to my computer and eat it. I collect my rent in My Town. Answer an email from my sister… she’s well. I place my bowl in the sink. I pour my coffee into my travel mug. I take out my key. I close the door. I say hey to my neighbour who for some odd reason is up at this hour and holding a gun. She waves at me. I head to the car. I pull out. I drive down the complex lane way. All clear. I pull out… after what seems like an eternity (did I tell you that a friend of mine is the uncle of Eternity? That is not a good name for a kid) I make it safely to work. I get out of the car and look at the elevator…. I think I’ll take the stairs. I huff and puff up 4 flights. On the top step my bag slips open and my lunch falls out. “Well,” I think to myself. “if that’s the worst that happens to me, it’ll be a good day!” While reaching for my yogurt I slip on my banana and fall down the four flights of stairs, breaking my neck. As consciousness fades my last thought is: So much for stairs being healthier for you…

This didn’t happen to me today but it could have…

5:45am The alarm goes off again. What day is it? I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. For the most part they’re all the same. I get up. I look at the elliptical trainer and carefully step around it. It’s cold. “Clothes” I mumble. “Must remember clothes.” Dressed now I open the door and carefully step around the cat. “Willow,” I say. Oddly she looks disappointed. I head downstairs. I pour my cereal. Oddly I examine my cereal but its just two scoops of raisins in this bowl of raisin bran so I take it to my computer and eat it. I collect my rent in My Town. Answer an email from my sister… she’s well. I place my bowl in the sink. I pour my coffee into my travel mug. I take out my key. I close the door. I say hey to my neighbour who for some odd reason is up at this hour and holding a gun. She waves at me. I head to the car. I pull out. I drive down the complex lane way. All clear. I pull out… after what seems like an eternity (did I tell you that a friend of mine is the uncle of Eternity? That is not a good name for a kid) I make it safely to work. I get out of the car. For some reason I’m unsure whether to take the stairs or the elevator. Laziness wins. The elevator ride is quick and painless. The door opens – as I exit the door shuts on my leg slicing it off above the knee. As I bleed out I think: “I wonder if they’ll make a CSI episode out of this?”

This didn’t happen to me today but it could have…

5:45am The alarm goes off again. What day is it? I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. For the most part they’re all the same. I get up. I look at the elliptical trainer and carefully step around it. It’s cold. “Clothes” I mumble. “Must remember clothes.” Dressed now I open the door and carefully step around the cat. “Willow,” I say. Oddly she looks disappointed. I head downstairs. I pour my cereal. Oddly I examine my cereal but its just two scoops of raisins in this bowl of raisin bran so I take it to my computer and eat it. I collect my rent in My Town. Answer an email from my sister… she’s well. I place my bowl in the sink. I pour my coffee into my travel mug. I take out my key. I close the door. I say hey to my neighbour who for some odd reason is up at this hour and holding a gun. She waves at me. I head to the car. I pull out. I drive down the complex lane way. All clear. I pull out… after what seems like an eternity (did I tell you that a friend of mine is the uncle of Eternity? That is not a good name for a kid) I make it safely to work. I get out of the car. For some reason I’m unsure whether to take the stairs or the elevator. Laziness wins. The elevator ride is quick and painless. The door opens, I exit. I enter work. I sit down.
Finally my day has begun – but why does it feel like its been a full day already?

Conclusion

The Everett many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics says there is a world for every choice (I did some reading of it and if I misinterpreted it, at least there is a universe out there where I’m correct) – a multiverse out there with infinite copies of yourself dealing with the consequences of various choices you made throughout the day.

In each of the universes above something happened and I didn’t make it to work today. I made choices and my previous/other/alternate selves paid the price for those choices. Friends, readers, universe mates – the only way we can save these other versions of ourselves are to make no choices (which in some universes is a choice unto itself). If you have read this. Stay where you are. Do nothing and don’t move for by moving you invite danger.

Protect your futures.

Technorati Tags: Quantum Mechanics,Lews Therim,Everett

House of the Rising Fur

2010-04-07T20:48:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

While surfing the interweb today I ran across the following story: 3 charged in Edmonton rabbit house case. In case you can’t read (what are you doing here?) this story tells the tail… er tale… of 600 or so rabbits that had to be put down by the humane society because of three idiots who mistook the concept of having animals for taking care of animals.

This article isn’t about those three idiots – there is a special place in hell reserved for those people and it is occupied by one wee bunny… but he’s a ferocious killer… look at the bones!

This is a sad story dealing with death and a depth of apathetic depravity in the human condition that I can’t comprehend – therefore I will do what I do in all such instances: I will make fun of it.

With that in mind I present you the following parody of House of the Rising Sun.

House of the Rising Fur

There is a house in Edmonton
It was full of rabbit fur
It's been the raising of many a fur coat
But now its causing a stir

The mother was a moron
The son he was one too
The grandmother in a wheel chair
Ran over the rabbit poo

Now the only thing a tailor requires
Is some rabbits for to breed;
Just start with two, ten minutes later
You'll have all you need.

Oh mother tell your children
Not to do what they have done
If you have to have so many rabbits
just stop at one hundred and one

Well I got this story from the CBC
It was on the daily news
Reading about these idiots
Is givin' me the blues

Cause there is a house in Edmonton
They call the Rabbit House
They had 600 rabbits there
And there neighbours collected grouse.

And there you have it.

I say give this a couple of weeks and its going to be a CSI episode.

In the Silence before the Dawn of the Dead

2010-03-29T17:32:00.001-07:00

I woke up this morning fairly certain the world had been taken over by zombies. Not the kind of zombie everyone is at 5:30am on a Monday morning – not that type. Nope, I’m talking about the rip you to pieces eat your face off sort of zombie.

As I lay there, emerging from what must have been one heck of a dream because it was hanging on even as my brain sought consciousness to deal with it, I could hear sirens outside; I knew that sound for firefighters on their way to an emergency. “Stop,” I wanted to yell. “Stop firefighters! That’s not a fire! That’s zombies! They’ll eat you!” But I didn’t. They wouldn’t have heard me.

At this point my left brain started to wake up and tell me that no, the world had not been taken over by zombies. It would be safe to get up, go downstairs, have my cereal and leave the house. But my right brain was still in overdrive telling me that the moment I stepped outside a zombie with half its face torn away would jump me and garner for itself the most important meal of the day.

Then my imagination really cycled up. What would happen with the four of us stuck in our townhouse with zombies outside? What would happen to my 3 year old son? My 10 month old daughter? My left brain knew this whole thing was pointless but right brain was just getting started. I don’t feel fear much, mostly because I’m removed from scary things, but I was starting to get afraid.

All those times my wife suggested we should have an earthquake preparedness kit echoed in my brain pan. We’d only done a partial shop for the week food was going to run out a lot quicker than it would have had the zombies comes last week. What would we do then? Someone would have to go to one of the giant stores and cram as much in the car as we could… and that someone would probably have to be me.
I don’t have a gun. I don’t have a bat. I couldn’t even try to choke a zombie with my PS3 Controller because its wireless…

… and then I sort of fell back to sleep and woke up 10 minutes later. It makes me realize my part in a zombie movie would not be as hero – not even as villain. I’d be the guy who got eaten halfway through the movie; just another guy. Just another meal in Zombie Land

I’m glad it was just a dream. I’m safely at work now and no one has tried to eat me… though my co-worker is kind of eyeballin’ me funny.

Gordon Lightfoot Still Alive, But Weak

2010-03-25T18:16:00.001-07:00

Dear Solitary Reader

In the news today comes word that Gordie Lightfoot is changing the words of one of the iconic folk songs of all time. From henceforth some of the lyrics of The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald will be changed from … whatever they are now to … um… something else.

Old Lazarus Lightfoot, apparently, woke up from one of his many naps during a documentary on the sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald and discovered that crew error may not have been the reason one of the hatches caved in, but a giant wave was responsible (DAMN YOU GIANT WAVE! WHY MUST YOU RUIN EVERYTHING!). Upon seeing this Gordo thought perhaps he’d better change the lyrics of the tune so that it no longer casts doubt upon that brave and sadly dead crew.

Now personally I’m not a big fan of Lightfoot or The Wreck of the Eddie Fitz; it sounds like two chimps clapping their butt cheeks together to me, but here’s the trick Gordie, how are you going to get a significant number of people to bother to relearn the words to the one song that everyone knows from you?

To me this is another instance of science – or near science, or something that sounds good enough to sound like science and therefore become generally accepted – ruining things. Scientists told us that the Brontosaurus no longer/never existed (keep in mind though it was scientists that told us it existed in the first place); scientists told us that Pluto, because it failed to pay its membership dues, is no longer a planet. Now science is telling us that it was a big giant wave that crashed the ship.

Okay… fine. Big giant wave (HOW I HATE YOU WAVE!?!) or not – how do we prove that it was not human error? Does the hatch look like a wave hit it? IT WAS A BOAT! If I produce another documentary that shows a dramatization of the crew not locking the hatch, will you change the lyrics back?

This makes me want to write another song… The Wreck of The Wreck of Edmund Fitzgerald… its just the original song with the following two verses added on:

Gordie saw on the TV right there
a documentary on it
How the hatch didn't blow it was the wave that did so
And he got a bee in his bonnet
"I'll change me the lyrics" he said to the wall
"I'll blame it on that giant wave.
Then people will see that I am still alive
And I haven't gone to the grave."

So he put out the word he was puttin' out words
And changing the lyrics by June
He wrote about sails to drum up some sales
Out of a long forgotten tune
But no one will remember when it come to September
Except for his own cousin Harald
That he spent all that time, commiting the crime
Wrecking the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Le Fin

Technorati Tags: Gordon Lightfoot,Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

Why Comedy & Exercise Don’t Mix

2010-03-18T19:10:00.001-07:00

One of my unofficial resolutions of the new year was to lose some weight. Very original I know, but what’s made this one different than every other year is that this time it actually seems to be taking hold… I’ve lost about 30lbs since the beginning of the year. No applause, just throw popcorn chicken.

This week I decided to take a couple of vacation days off figuring I’d make myself a healthy scratch from work now that the eyes, the ears and the throat are all better. So yesterday, and again today, I found myself on our elliptical machine while the Just for Laughs comedy festival was on the comedy network (that’s the problem with working out 10 in the morning – little to nothing to watch while doing so).

I used to call the elliptical machine the ecliptical machine because within seconds of beginning my routine the corners of my vision would begin to go dark. That was three months ago and this is now. Now it takes about 10 minutes for that to happen…

So there I was this morning running as if all the demons of hell were behind me and there’s a guy on TV doing a very good job of being funny. I usually take off my glasses when I exercise because I sweat like a pig at a luau and they get dirty, but today I didn’t so I could actually watch the guy’s mix of physical and verbal comedy which turned out to be almost dangerous.

I don’t even remember the name of the man who almost killed me just that he was a fellow of Scottish Indian descent – which for some reason seems funny in and of itself. Well anyway, he’s doing his thing and I’m starting to laugh.

Laughter is one of those things that grows exponentially so when he got me laughing that first time it was easier the next time and the next so that by the time I was on minute 14 of my eclliptical training I was laughing so hard I almost fell off the machine.

I’m pretty sure if that had happened I would have been pummelled by the swinging arms of the machine and then fallen under the still moving steps; and that would have been the last of me.

They say laugher is healthy… but in this case it almost did me in.

I can’t get no… Stratas-faction

2010-03-16T19:56:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I had the misfortune to go to a strata meeting – or part of one anyway. Normally I avoid these intellectual black holes because unless you’re playing My Town you can pick your friends and you pick your neighbours but you can’t pick your friends to be your neighbours.

Our council is pretty on top of things so I’m usually keen to stay home and send in my proxy – I know what I want and listening to other people blather on so they can feel they’ve been heard isn’t high on my list of things to do.

My wife, however, threw this one under the umbrella of “spending time together” (I’m not sure where that logic runs but I’m trained well enough not to question her) and so I went.

I should have known things were not going to go well when, as we were leaving the compound, um… I mean complex, my eyes were assailed by one of the Children of the Strata lying in the middle of the road attempting to break dance. I implored my wife to floor it and take down this genetic wasteland before a) he could pro-create and further damage the gene pool and b) he brought break dancing back and got rich doing it (quick poll: which is worse?).

Fortunately for Elmo the Genetic Throwback, my wife feels for dumb animals (I’m not complaining, it’s why she married me) and didn’t listen. As we drove by this kid stared at us as he danced slack jawed and drooling with a “Look what I can do…” expression pasted on his determined and vacant eyed little face I forgot to check to see if he was wearing cursed shoes… maybe that was it.

In the first 20 minutes I knew this was to be a strata meeting like any other strata meeting (or at least like I’d imagined them – as I said I’m usually pretty good about worming out of these things) when the woman interjected with an inane point that proceeded to spark 15 minutes of pointless conversation. The thing is, where more than 5 people are gathered one of these people will be a stupidity emitter that will dampen down the common sense of all nearby individuals – the moment someone says: “I just wanted to say…” you know you’re in for something especially dumb because this person will have no point other than to hear their voice.

But all this is beside the point (happily I had to go home and look after the kids as we’d only booked Oma for ½ hr), my point is about punctuality (well it was before I went on too long so I’ll touch briefly on the topic).

Yesterday’s meeting started at 6:30. To set the ground work here there are 30+ units in the strata and there were about 18 of them there on time; after that in waltzed another 3 or 4 people as if they expected the entire proceedings to wait for them. Thanks to them the meeting couldn’t get into full swing for about 15 minutes into it (and that’s when the walking brain freeze said: “Excuse me, I just wanted to say…”). What could have easily been a half hour meeting went on much longer and only thanks to the children at home did I get to leave early and miss the rest of it.

It’s a shame that you can’t pick your neighbours because if I did I would not chose the sort of person who shows such casual disrespect as to arrive late to a meeting where ALL YOUR NEIGHBOURS ARE WAITING FOR YOU and probably expect the entire proceedings to wait for them. This is reflective of another of the “commons” that isn’t common – like common sense there also seems to be no such thing as common courtesy.

It doesn’t seem like a good idea to piss off your neighbours (that being said if you’re my neighbour and you’re reading this I am, of course, not talking about you (unless you’re the break dancing kid – STOP DANCING!)).

So my brief foray into the world of strata meetings reinforced everything I thought it would be – and now I have a phobia about going to these things again… you might say I have a … wait for it… wait for it… stratas-fear!

Wanted: 1 Hr

2010-03-15T20:36:00.001-07:00

Well now that work has settled down again and my brain cells have resumed their normal level of activity (it’s sort of a slow moving zombie shuffle) and the cold seems to have cleared for a bit I reckon it’s time to get back on the blog.

Speaking of Time: Daylight Savings Time Sucks

Word on the street is that this whole time change thing is Ben Franklin’s fault. Thanks Ben. That’s another thing you’ve ruined for me (kite flying is the other one). Last weekend, although sick, I was feeling quite comfortable with my days and nights being right where they were. It was light in the morning when I drove to work and I didn’t have to worry about driving over the center line during inclement weather like I do now (my dark vision isn’t that good in case you’re wondering thanks to several eye problems I’ve had).

My three year old boy was also doing well – we’d blacked out his room so he didn’t get up to early and have him on an IV of Vitamin C to prevent the scurvy from setting in and Vitamin D to stop the Rickets and Vitamin Z… which we made out of some mashed banana and sugar; and he was beginning to go to sleep in the 8:30pm range – now thanks to the miracle of modern daylight savings time my kid is awake longer than I am.

As the song says, time keeps on tickin’ tickin’ ticking into the future; but this weekend time didn’t just tick into the future – it vaulted. The Thief of Time hit again and managed to steal away another hour.

Okay I did some research on the whole thing (occasionally I like to know what I’m talking about) and it turns out that Ben Franklin only proposed the idea of daylight savings time as a satire. I can appreciate that Ben, but I still hate you for the Almanac. The true culprit according to Wiki (and the Internet would not lie to me, its favourite son) is some guy from New Zealand, a country which is now lucky that it hosted The Lord of the Rings and I swore never to say anything bad about it – or otherwise I’d be saying something bad about it.

The guy was a bug collector. A bug collector. He wanted to stay up later and collect bugs. I sincerely hope this man is roasting in the lowest of the nine hells, right beside the broom closet, where he’s being eaten alive by ants that, between mouthfuls, are saying: “Ant, am I glad there’s an extra hour in the day to eat this guy…”

As you’re stumbling around for the next few days keep that in mind – you’re up an hour later so some douche bag could hunt bugs. How does that make you feel?
Tired probably.

My point is the three words Daylight, Saving and Time should not appear in the same sentence unless we’re talking about a sequel to a Stallone movie… Daylight 2: Saving Time.

Man Cold, Khaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan & My Town

2010-03-07T17:35:00.001-08:00

Man Cold

I have a cold. It is the cold of cold, the threat of throats, the inflection of infection.

They say if a butterfly beats its wings somewhere it causes a hurricane in Gulf; if that same butterfly sneezes he causes the hurricane of colds and that’s where I am right now.

Normally I don’t sit and whine and moan when I have a cold; but this time I’m moaning full throattle.

I feel like I accidentally swallowed some of my own cooking. It’s that bad.

Here’s a skit by the BBC sketch comedy group Man Stroke Woman showing just how bad I’ve got it:

Yup. It’s that bad.

Khaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan

As part of the cold I have also picked up an ear infection. That is the particular circumstance that’s putting the whole thing over the edge; sore throat whatever, but combine that with this ear thing and I feel like Giant Machine and Hulk Machine are walking all over my head. And Captain Lou is yelling in my ears the whole time.

It’s been a while since I had an infection of this magnitude and it was rather disconcerting when I scratched my ear this morning to find some dried blood there. The application of a cloth indicated there was more blood to be cleaned. A check of the pillow case indicates even more blood.

That’s right – bleeding from the ear. I mentioned it to my wife who had the following to say: “Ah sit down ye dafte pussy. I ha’that the lass teem I ha’a’fection an ye dinna hear me weenin’ about it ye blu’ babby!”

I don’t know why but whenever my wife yells at me she does it in a Scottish brogue.

Now I’m not generally that queasy around blood – a boyhood of nosebleeds has taught me that my body is to blood as a chip factory is to Doritos – it will make more. But my discomfort from this experience comes primarily from having watched Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Khan more specifically that seen where Ricardo Montalban slaps some worms in the ears Chekov and Sulu.

How do I know my wife didn’t (hold on … wife asked me to take out the trash… okay back) put (hold on my wife is asking me to do the sa’sudra… I don’t know how to do that… make it up? I hear and obey… okay back) one of those things (what’s that dear? Hop on one foot? Sure! Okay back) in my ear to make me do her bidding?

You laugh.. why are you laughing? It could happen!

My Town

I’ve recently started playing My Town on Facebook. It’s kind of fun – I’m a real estate appraiser by trade (not calling) and have subsequently watched neighbourhoods go through various cycles.

It’s interesting to force that cycle myself rather than having to wait for slow moving municipalities to do that themselves. That’s not the point though…

The point to the exercise is that anytime I play the game my internal radio cranks out “Ghost Town” by CheapTrick. So yesterday I sat down and wrote a parody of said song. Without any ado here it is:

My Town (To Ghost Town)

Well the streets are all crowded, but no people around
And there's music playing but I've turned off the sound
Just the sound of my mouse button clickin' s down
I've stopped playing Castle Age since I've picked up my town
Yeah life goes on around me every day
But I'm harvesting my houses for the fourth time today

Chorus
I'm playin My Town on my facebook
I'm playin My Town, you should come take a look
I'm playin My town baby can't you see
It's My Town - won't you be neighbours with me.

Well I wish I had more friends, friends to play with me
They'd send me more gifts and I'd reciprocate see?
Though my town is expanding, not fast enough for me
Without more friends, My Town's no place to be
I've got a zoo I harvest every night
A fire station too so everything stay's alright, everything stay's allr ight

CHorus

I'm playin' My Town... won't you come, won't you come play with me

And just in case you forgot how the song goes (which I know you haven’t because it’s a classic) here’s the tune:

Title-us Suckus

2010-03-05T17:30:00.001-08:00

Today’s “No Shit Sherlock” award goes to the fine writers at The Associated Press. The AP brings us this little tidbit Pentagon shooter had a history of mental illness.

Um… anyone who’s got a gun and decides to take on the Pentagon is going to be a few sandwiches short of a picnic… if ye olde nutbar were thinking clearly he might have a mental conversation that went something like this:

"Hi Self, how are you today?"
"Why not so bad Self, you?
"Well, I'm feeling a bit angry at the world, things just don't seem to be working out for me?"
"Oh? Tell me more?"
"Well sometimes it seems like everything I do just screws things up more. And I swear the people on this planet are out to get me."
"Now that you mention it self, I think you might be on to something. I thought that guy in the mumu was looking at me and thinking about eating me."
"You know, Self, I was thinking that."
"If I had my gun he wouldn't be thinking that."
"Why self, it looks like we do have a gun"
"Okay, let's go use it!"
"Um Self, that's a really bad idea."
"You think, self?"
"Yeah, Self. I kinda do?"
"What should we do then?"
"Let's go blog about how the moon landing was faked!"
"Awesome! Let's do it."

And off he goes - still slightly delusional you'll note - but harmless in a passively mad sort of way. Instead this man, whom the AP tells us had a history of mental discombobulation, had the following internal thought process:

"Flower, Moses, Edgar, chicken, GUN, tomatoes, Bananas, Racing, Blowhole GUN,
Eddy, Bobby, Gumbo, Panda GUN furry, MURRAY HURRY CURRY PENTAGON WEEEEEEE.

One hint that the guy was riding his horse backwards is the fact that he went off to take on the Pentagon – they probably have guns there you know…

Thankfully no one else was killed in the incident and I feel bad for the family of this guy because a) their son is dead and b) they now have to deal with the the stigma of being “that family who’s boy went bonkers and tried to kill the Pentagon.”

As for the story title, AP, we can assume that anyone who goes anywhere and shoots anything, especially the weapons cache that is the Pentagon is either making ice cubes in the Arctic or trying to rid the world of the lizard rulers that wear human skins for disguise.

Signs Signs Everywhere There’s Signs

2010-03-04T20:42:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

A sign says a lot. STOP. YIELD. GEORGE BUSH KILLS CHILDREN. These are all very important signs. With only a limited amount of space on a sign, there’s very little room for mistake. You’ve got 2 ft x 2 ft to get your point across to the world so you’d better come up with something to make them notice you.

I’ve got a marketing degree, which has seen as much use lately as Tiger Woods’ side of the marriage bed (can you believe that’s my first Tiger Woods related joke after that whole debacle?), and one of the areas we covered was advertising. Signs fall under that category (if you need the P – its Promotion).

In the last couple of days I’ve come across a couple of signs that have certainly made me notice them – but not for the right reasons.

FREE RANGE EGGS: The first sign, pictured in an artists reproduction above (available from the Franklin Mint for only $14.99 – give your family the gift of laughter this Christmas. Order now and we’ll throw in a leftover Dale Earnhardt Jr. collector plate. NOTE: THIS IS NOT A DALE EARNHARDT PLATE OF LEFTOVERS), says exactly that – Free Range Eggs. Now if I were to stretch my powers of deduction to their fullest I would surmise these are eggs from free range chickens.

But that’s not what this sign says. It says: Free Range Eggs. What this brings to mind is a bunch of eggs roaming the country side (probably wreaking havoc, I bet eggs would be huge a-holes). The only other thing I can think of to explain this is that the free range chickens are using their eggs for some free range lawn bowling.

Because this sign did fulfill its primary function I did actually stop and see what the crack up was about. The wait to get in was egg-crutiating; and what I saw when I got there was more than I’d bargained for. This was a really free egg:

I think this egg is a little too free if you ask me.

On to the next.

ANNUAL CHILDREN’S SALE: While pulling into a hearing today I noticed this sign outside the church where my review panel was held. If you look closely the sign says: “Annual Children’s Sale.”

So for those of you who thought that it might be a good time to have another kid but didn’t want to go through all the trouble of labour, here’s your opportunity to own one without the hassle.

Of let’s say that you’re shoe factory has been short a few employee’s lately because they keep falling in the rubber tree vats? Where are you going to find some new kids at this time of year? Check the sign! Despite the fact that this sale is still 2 weeks away I’m pretty sure I saw Kathy Lee Gifford at the head of the line up. Apparently she’s got a new clothing line coming out.

What’s most disconcerting about the sign is that the people having this children sale are from a pre-school. Now either some parents aren’t stopping by to pick up little Timmy or Jenny and the school has a surplus of abandoned children or they’re writing fake death certificates.

Well that’s it for me folks. I’m gonna go stand in line: if I’m ever going to open my Children’s Chimney Sweep business (You won’t hear a Peep while we Sweep Sweep Sweep!) now’s the time to do it.

Sincerely,

Technorati Tags: eggs,free range,signs,promotion,chimney sweep,pre-school,sale

The Killer Whale Survival Kit, or, Night of the Orca

2010-02-25T18:51:00.001-08:00

Sad news out of SeaWorld tells the harrowing tale of Tilikum, the orca that murdered it's trainer (is it murder if an animal kills a human? Ah heck, why not?) . My condolences, for all that they’re worth, go out to the family of the trainer.

People with agendas are obviously going to use this incident to further their… um… agenda against animal captivity. I’m not sure which side of the fence I come down on for that argument (well physically the outside of the fence – that’s’ right I’m lookin’ at you giraffe – do something).

On the one hand I’m pretty sure that if giraffes were supposed to be caged up, Africa would be full of cages; but on the other hand I have now seen a giraffe where I otherwise would not – as the old

saying goes: “if Willie don’t go to the G-Raff, the G-raff gotz to come to Willie.” The other thing to keep in mind is that eventually we will have paved over the natural habitat of every land and sea based life form, so maybe giving them a safe place to play isn’t a bad idea. Any way off topic.

The scary fact is this is the third time Tilikum has been involved in murder. That whale is damn lucky SeaWorld isn’t in California because they have that three strikes law in Cali and Mr. Whale would be going to jail for a long, long time (well, I guess it already has come to think of it).

For those that say we shouldn’t be too quick to judge the whale, I think that this time the case is right there laid out before us in black and white. As I said, this is the third time this whale has killed and that to me says one of two things: either this is a serial killer whale or that whale does not like to be in captivity.

With that in mind the fear mongering has begun and people everywhere are becoming afraid that orca will jump out of the bushes all over the place to kill and eat them and their young; with this in mind I have prepared the following tips to make sure that if you find yourself in a position where an orca might strike, you will be prepared. (I apologize for the long warm up and hope you were not attacked by orca while I rambled away).

The Top 10 Things You Need to Know About Orcas to Stay Alive

An Orca is like a cat, it can fit it’s body through any hole it can fit it’s head through. Beware toilets and anything with a drain. Bidets are out of the question.
Like all Undead creatures, Orca fear fire.
Remember: you don’t have to outrun, or out swim, the Orca – just the person you’re with.
At all times carry your OPK (Orca Preparedness Kit) which should at least include (but not be limited too) an oxygen tank, a shot gun and a bullet (preferably silver).
Always carry a supply of golf balls. In an emergency these golf balls may be used to plug the blow hole of the attacking killer whale. Note: the balls included with the Fisher Price Ball Popper may also do in a pinch.
If you have somehow harmed this orca’s pregnant mate – just drown yourself right now. That orca will not stop until he’s killed you and everyone you care about (but don’t kill everyone you care about before you off yourself in case the Orca decides your death is enough).
There is only one way to kill an Orca and make sure it doesn’t rise: decapitation.
Do not play dead in the water. If you do (and especially if you do it face down) you will be well and truly dead. And if that happens, don’t come complaining to me.
Remember, if you look the Orca in the eye it can turn you to stone; so keep your eyes averted and use your shield as a mirror so that it turns itself to stone.
If, like Jack (and Jonah), you find yourself swallowed by said killer whale make like Jack (not Jonah) and catch “the whale all by the tail/And turn him inside out.” Keep in mind these are just suggestions its up to each person in each situation to figure out exactly how to do the aforementioned.

With these handy hints at your side, should you ever be assailed wile a-sailing by a pod of killer whales you will hopefully be able to live to tell your tale (and if you don’t, don’t come running to me).

The whole scenario, that is, orca goes on death rampage, gives me an idea for a movie about an orca that goes on a death rampage. I would call it The Orca That Wouldn’t Slow Down.

Technorati Tags: Killer Whale,Tilikum,Orca,Zombies,Medusa,Survival

New Wednesday Feature: There Are Two Things I Know

2010-02-24T20:11:00.001-08:00

I’ve been working this blog for quite some time now and so far its paid plenty of dividends to my self-esteem.

Just the other day I had someone tell me concerning my posts: “Some of them are kinda funny.” Nothing lifts a writer’s spirits like such heart felt endorsements. It is my sincerest hope that one day I shall ascend to the ranks of people who have heard: “Some of your posts are actually funny!.” Dare to dream.

One of the issues I’ve found that keeps me from being a better blogger is my lack of writing skills; the other is a distinct lack of theme. I tend to think my writing is better when I care about my subject matter but as I’m mostly dead inside I don’t really care about much other than family (and of course you Solitary Reader, I care about you!) and I don’t write about family because that’s private. Despite Tuesday’s topic I don’t write about private stuff either (btw, as an addendum to Tuesday’s topic, its also best not to practice your Gollum impressions in the bathroom either: apparently it’s disconcerting for someone else to walk in and hear “My Precioussssss” emanating from the bathroom stall. Can we say misconstrued people?).

And so the point to this pointless preamble: the new Wednesday theme called There are Two Things I Know, so without any ado:

There are Two Things I Know

The first thing I know is that justice in Canada doesn’t exist (or if it does it’s hiding down the same hole as Wireton Willie).

No matter how you feel about the RCMP, or the cops if you prefer, I would hate to have that job. These people spend their time and their effort, and in some cases their lives, on the streets trying to find, catch and hold murderers, rapists, thieves and the utmost in dirtbaggishness only to be spit upon, criminalized in the media and then have to watch the very people they put their lives on the line to catch walk free because the Canadian justice is as firm as the willie of an 80 year old man in the days before Viagra.

Finding examples of the failure of the Canadian law system is about as difficult as finding a corrupt politician. Among the more obvious failures of our system include:

The recent verdict in the Alan Shoenborn case. For those of you who aren’t familiar with this case , Shoenborn killed three of his children and then went and hid in the bushes. After months of costly trial a verdict came down amounting to not criminally responsible because he was a nut job. Now while anyone who takes the life of someone else for reasons not including self-defence could arguably be considered a nutjob it’s the criminally responsibility part that’s worrying. In one report I read it was stated that during the trial it came out that Shoenborn killed his children because he thought they were being molested. This is an example of idiocy, not insanity. If you think you’re children are being molested and you feel the need to kill someone over it – kill the molester, not the molested. I’m not advocating any killing but if you have to at least point it in the right direction.
In November of 2000 Irene Thorpe was run over by 2 individuals involved in a street race. The two genetic wastrels were caught and then sentenced to basically 2 years house arrest. The outcry for this one was fairly loud and eventually the two were deported to India and sentenced to work at a DELL call centre. One of these reckless bastards went through appeal after appeal trying to stay in Canada but was finally deported in April of 2009. So not only is justice lacking in Canada it takes forever to carryout the paltry sentences that are handed down.

These are just two of the more prominent cases which make me believe that justice in Canada is sickly and destitute. All over the true north strong and free there are a myriad of indications on smaller levels of the same; and I’m sure its not just in Canada either, all over the world the rights of the few supersede the rights of the many.

No longer do criminals have to take responsibility for their actions; we look upon these criminals and see only poor unfortunate victims of a cold, uncaring society who are merely crying for attention. As for the victims of these victims well, so what if they were productive members of society that actually contributed to the overall pot rather than withdrawing out of it; its just poor circumstance that these two victims clashed and only the one (the one willing to kill) survived.

I don’t have any answers, other than grandiose ideas to put the well-being of society before that of a few of its less-than-stellar members, but I and I’m sure many of the other members of the silent majority can see that there is a problem. That’s one thing I’m sure of, that there’s a problem.

And the second thing I know?

The guy who does the voice for Bejewelled Blitz on Facebook is hitting on me – he keeps calling me “Spectacular” in that Barry White voice of his. Creepy. I’m afraid to score more than 550K points because he might ask me out to coffee and I’d have to say no – and every game after that would be awkward.

Technorati Tags: Shoenborn,Bejewelled Blitz,Irene Thorpe,Justice,Failure

Let Them Eat (Urinal) Cake or Don’t talk to me, I’m Peeing

2010-02-22T20:04:00.001-08:00

Urinal etiquette is rarely discussed among men because it is one of those things you’re just supposed to know: however some people don’t.

For the sake of any who should be reading this, I’m going to go over a couple of “golden” rules for the men out there who aren’t sure what to do when they find themselves in the awkward situation of being in the washroom with another man. I promise to save this for my son so that upon successfully completing potty training he can read it and avoid any awkward situations.

And for you ladies, this may come in useful if you ever find yourself in some sitcom-ish type situation where you’re pretending to be a man for some reason and have to use the male washroom (such as trying to avoid the line-up at the women’s washroom at concerts).

Rule #1: Don’t Stand… Don’t Stand… Don’t Stand So Close to Me

It’s a little known fact that what Sting was singing about in the song title above was the PPP – the peepee proximity problem (or proximipee I henceforth dub it so).

Translated into simple terms this rule states: Where a man is situated in a wash room with a number of urinals > 2; said man shall choose the urinal closest to the door. THE NEXT MAN to enter shall then take his position at the urinal FURTHEST from the man who was there first. At no time should the middle urinal be used unless all other available spots are taken and you cannot hold it.

Upon first blush this seems fairly obvious, but you’d be surprised at how many people don’t realize that the concept of “personal space” is expanded in the forced intimacy of the washroom. It’s assumed that if you’re stuck standing next to a fellow man while doing your business you will not look – the insertion of the extra space merely ensures that there will be no accidental glimpsing which will then make that 2 minute hand washing window any more uncomfortable than it has to be.

Rule #2: Don’t talk to me, I’m peeing

Any and all conversation while standing at the urinal should be kept to a minimum; where conversation is felt to be necessary, conversational topics should be kept to sports and weather alone.

Having been named after my great grandfather I take a certain amount of pride in my name. Sure it’s fairly common place but William is a strong name; Bill is even an acceptable substitution. An unfortunate bastardization of the name however is Willie, and there is no place more apparent than in the locale of the washroom is the poignancy of that bastardization felt.

More than once have I stood at the urinal to have a fellow, a manager no less, ask me: “How’s Willie?” This leaves a man with two possible choices on how to answer the question; as the asker is usually a management type so far I’ve restrained from responding with: “Well it’s got this rash…” but one of these days my sense of discretion and career preservation might desert me and who knows what I might say (I never do).

There’s another reason why conversation should be kept to a minimum in the facilities and it leads right into rule number three (and you thought there was only number one and number two).

Rule #3: Aim too, please

Keeping your eyes on the prize will help to make sure that your feet stay dry; many a gas station attendant has lamented the lack of aim; to the point where it’s nothing to hear one of the Men from Texaco yelling: “My God! Is EVERYONE cross-eyed!?!”

Some people need all the help they can get and when they start talking their mind starts to stray from the task at… um… hand. So keep conversation to a minimum: clear your mind, feed all your emotions into the flame and aim for that little bee they embed in the urinal (I’m pretty sure its not a real bee encased in the urinal, but that would be cool).

In Summary

Keep Your Distance
Shut Up
Watch what you’re doing.

Voila, we’re all happy.

If I Could Walk With the Animals…

2010-02-19T17:54:00.001-08:00

There’s some weird and creepy crap happening in the world of animals today and as I’ve got the day off I was able to explore and pursue it with all the ethic of a CNN journalist. That is to say there’s a kernel of truth in the following stories and I’m going to make up the rest of the details.

Yay for modern day journalism!

Paparazzi sinks to New Low…

In the world of the kinky and weird a couple in BC has gone to crazy and discomfiting new lows: http://www.digitaljournal.com/article/287803 is the link to a story about a couple that’s put a web cam in the den of a sleeping Spirit Bear. Now, I’m for exploiting nature as much as the next man – I wear my loafers made from gophers (it was either that or skin my chauffer) – but this seems a little bit like going too far.

Now I realize that after years of marriage some couples have trouble trying to create that spark in the bedroom. It’s natural. The libido is like a haircut – you have to keep it groomed (I heard Sue Johansen say that once… really I did). It’s like that episode of the Simpsons where Homer and Marge reignite their passion for each other by finding increasingly stranger and more exposed places to … well get stranger and more exposed.

So there’s this couple who’s only way to get their jollies seems to be spying on a sleeping bear. Neighbours are already complaining about the yells of “Oh dear! Your chest is hairy like animal!” and “Watch me bare my spirit!” and of course the worst one of all: “RAWR!’

Okay so I’m pretty sure that’s not what the story is about.

It’s some science thing probably (but hey, I don’t believe in science anyway) and of course all this bear related science has only one purpose behind it: trying to find out if a bear really does shit in the woods.

It Don’t Matter if You’re Black or White…

.. But if you’re both you’re in a heap of trouble boy.

Out of Atlanta today comes the following story: http://www.digitaljournal.com/article/287823. This is the harrowing tale of Lima the Zebra who took it into his head to break free from the the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus show. Take a minute to PERU-se the story and when you’ve BEAN there, come right back.

Animal cruelty is a horrible thing and luckily we have groups that look out for these poor beasts. There’s Green Peace, there’s PETA, there’s the Toronto branch of the SPCA… um okay not so much on that last one. How does this story relate to animal cruelty you ask? Well let me answer – only cruelty to animals would see them letting this creature escape in Atlanta *shiver*. There’s no way they’d let this guy run around in New Hampshire.

Let this be a lesson to all you folks out there who’ve ever thought about running away to join the circus; the only beings who have less freedom than the animals of the the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus show are the acrobats of the Cirque du Soleil.

Not Neutral Anymore

And to round out today’s triumvirate of animal related news, Swiss lawmakers are contemplating appointing a public defender for animals. This person would, um, publicly defend animals (funny how some things are actually what they say they are).

Abused animals could get right to lawyer in Swiss proposal up for vote That’s the story right there, in case you think I’m making it up – complete with snappy title as chosen by the fine peeps of the Associated Press (personally I would have went with something like “Animals to Make Law Suit” or “No animals were harmed in the ratifying of this law).

Of course as this is the Swiss Legal system there’s bound to be more holes in it than in their cheese (but as they’re legal holes they can call them loopholes). Until the point where this law is ratified it will remain just a Bill… just a bill on capitol hill…. (OH NO! I CAN’T STOP!)

I'm just a bill.
Yes, I'm only a bill.
And I'm sitting here on Capitol Hill.
Well, it's a long, long journey
To the capital city.
It's a long, long wait
While I'm sitting in committee,
But I know I'll be a law someday
At least I hope and pray that I will,
But today I am still just a bill.

Boy: Gee, Bill, you certainly have a lot of patience and courage.

Bill: Well I got this far. When I started, I wasn't even a bill, I was just an idea. Some folks back home decided they wanted a law passed, so they called their local Congressman and he said, "You're right, there oughta be a law." Then he sat down and wrote me out and introduced me to Congress. And I became a bill, and I'll remain a bill until they decide to make me a law.

I'm just a bill
Yes I'm only a bill,
And I got as far as Capitol Hill.
Well, now I'm stuck in committee
And I'll sit here and wait
While a few key Congressmen discuss and debate
Whether they should let me be a law.
How I hope and pray that they will,
But today I am still just a bill.

Boy: Listen to those congressmen arguing! Is all that discussion and debate about you?

Bill: Yeah, I'm one of the lucky ones. Most bills never even get this far. I hope they decide to report on me favourably, otherwise I may die.

Boy: Die?

Bill: Yeah, die in committee. Oooh, but it looks like I'm gonna live! Now I go to the House of Representatives, and they vote on me.

Boy: If they vote yes, what happens?

Bill: Then I go to the Senate and the whole thing starts all over again.

Boy: Oh no!

Bill: Oh yes!

I'm just a bill
Yes, I'm only a bill
And if they vote for me on Capitol Hill
Well, then I'm off to the White House
Where I'll wait in a line
With a lot of other bills
For the president to sign
And if he signs me, then I'll be a law.
How I hope and pray that he will,
But today I am still just a bill.

Boy: You mean even if the whole Congress says you should be a law, the president can still say no?

Bill: Yes, that's called a veto. If the President vetoes me, I have to go back to Congress and they vote on me again, and by that time you're so old...

Boy: By that time it's very unlikely that you'll become a law. It's not easy to become a law, is it?

Bill: No!

But how I hope and I pray that I will,
But today I am still just a bill.

Congressman: He signed you, Bill! Now you're a law!

Bill: Oh yes!!!

CSI: Ancient Egypt

2010-02-17T20:44:00.001-08:00

External. Day. Desert: the hot sun beats down in the Egyptian desert. A forensics team circles around a crime scene dropping numbered placards in random order, brushing sand away in the desert for no apparent reason and posing dramatically for a non-existent camera crew.

<CAMEL tramples through scene and is gone.>

Cut to two of the team uncovering a sarcophagus with strange markings.

Forensic Team Member #1: If I’m not mistaken these markings state: “Here lies King Tutankhamun – please don’t disturb my remains because that will royally (Insert from the priest who mummified the body stating: Ha! I made a funny!) screw up my afterlife!”
Forensic Team Member #2 : Uh oh, it looks like we’ve ruined his after life. (taking off sun glasses and revealing he’s David Caruso) Tut tut tut.”

Cue a song by The Guess Who (you pick one you like).

***

Circling around the world today, as if anyone uber cared, is the news that they may have discovered the reason for King Tut’s death. He was a boy king they say, and he was weak they add. He was frail, they elucidate. The final diagnosis:? He’s dead Jim.

Me, I don’t care. Do you know why I don’t care? Because he lived 2350 odd years ago. If whatever killed him hadn’t killed him, something else would have – and if that something else didn’t get him, something else would have – and do you know what that would have been? Old age!

Unless King Tut was one of the race of Immortals (you know, the guys that own the 7-11s (come on, you can’t conceive of an idea of staying up those hours without being super bored – the level of boredom that only comes about from having lived forever)) he would long since have died. The manner of his death might have been important to his parents but at this particular juncture its really only worth knowing if you have a penchant for adding footnotes to Wikipedia pages or as a subset of that useless knowledge you need to have to be successful on Jeopardy.

I’m all for studying history. As the saying goes those who fail to learn from the mistakes of the past are doomed to repeat them. However, I don’t see how knowing that a tree branch fell on King Tut and put him in a coma (that’s not what happened) is going to add a lot to the sum of human knowledge. The effect of the death of a leader on a culture – that’s worth knowing, how he died isn’t important (unless through political unrest indicating socio-political forces at play).

But with the news floating out there at least we can be sure of one good thing: at least there’ll be something new on the Discovery Channel.

I Like Goooooold! Also Silver and Bronze!

2010-02-16T20:56:00.001-08:00

With the eyes of the world on Canada during the Olympics we’ve already committed a number of gaffe’s that have caused the world to sit up and take notice. So far, into Day 5, the two biggest ones have been the failure of part of the torch to rise from the ground for the opening ceremonies and the exploding Zamboni machine at the Richmond Oval. The weather has also been non-cooperative but you can hardly blame that on Canada.

But more so than any of this what seems to be shocking the world is the “Own the Podium” campaign that’s been in effect these past few years; the world is looking upon us gold hungry Canadians with shock and disgust as we go into the Olympic games hoping to win.

In past years, to be Canadian has been to sit in front of the TV being surprised if we win at anything other than hockey (and general outrage when we don’t win at that ). But almost as soon as it was announced that the games were coming to Canada the Own the Podium campaign was fired up and it became official: Canada wanted to win.

Perhaps one of the key symbols of the world’s disgust with us was the 18-0 trouncing of the Slovakian women’s hockey team. Frankly this is competition. World class competition. Competition. Two people or teams vying to reach a goal before the other (In this last instance Canada reached the goal 18 times before the other team did – you go girls). To compete is to try and win – getting to the Olympics is the first step and winning is the final step.

You can be guaranteed that if the skate was on the other foot and Slovakia had beaten up on Canada 18-0 no one would be suggesting that the Slovaks should back off. I certainly wouldn’t have – I’m perverse enough to enjoy that sort of blow out no matter who’s getting trounced.

A portion of the complaints regarding the trouncing of the Slovakians (doesn’t that sound like an opera “The Trouncing of the Slovaks”?) is coming from within Canada itself: that’s like the Israelites complaining to David “Ah jeepers David, we know you took down Goliath and all, but did you have to use a rock? That’s not that sportsmanlike!” That metaphor falls apart when you consider that Slovakia would be Goliath – but still it remains funny in a remote sort of way.

One of the biggest detractors of our new found gold hunger is Stephen Colbert; he’s been on Canada’s case for some time now because of our un-Canadian desire for victory. I’m not going to fight with him for two reasons: he’s funnier than I am and would humiliate me to pieces and he’s a satirist so whatever he’s saying you can pretty much take the opposite of it for his actual point.

I think I can imagine who’s behind the whole idea of the anti-“Own the Podium” Campaign: the chiropractors. Now, for the first time in many years, Canadian athletes are competing (there’s that word again) with the rest of the world and with the intention of winning. For the first time in the Olympics we’ve stopped slumping our shoulders and saying: “Chin up skier, at least you made it to the show” but instead we’re saying: “Silver’s great – gold’s better go get em next time tiger!”

The rest of Canada is developing a sense of pride in their athletes and we’re standing straighter because of that pride. What does standing straighter lead to? You guessed it: less back problems. Less back problems equals less work for the chiropractors.

Chiropractors are evil.

But as for the whole “Own the Podium” campaign, the thing is: we already own the podiums because we paid for them.

Technorati Tags: Gold Medal,Canada,Own the Podium,Podium,winning,Olympics

When the vocal minority yells, who listens?

2010-02-15T20:09:00.001-08:00

With the Olympics going on in Vancouver there’s a fair number of people trolling around the city that otherwise wouldn’t be here; included in that number are the great unwashed: the protestors.

On a good day I don’t have a lot of time for protestors (but I’m all for passive protesting, or complaining as its often called, I do that all the time) because they all look like 2nd year university students (philosophy or history majors – sorry Chris H.) who are still living at home and read a story about how the polar bears in Darfur are being underpaid for making shoes and not allowed to practice their religion; so they make themselves a sign and go yell at people.

It is a truth that protesting has its place. There’s a large percentage of the world (me included) that doesn’t know about all the issues and a smaller percentage of that larger percentage (me included) that doesn’t care about those issues. I have all sorts of respect for people who can look at the world around them and see things that need to be changed and then get off their asses to go try to make the world a better place. I wish I was wired that way.

Racial oppression. Gender oppression. Oppression of any sort. These are good and justified issues and if a protest is the only way to make the world sit up and take notice then yell until your hoarse.

But the Olympics? Is this a good reason to protest? Well some would say yes and because this is Canada and they have the right to free speech, I’m not allowed to tell them they’re wrong.

Olympic detractors often state, especially in host cities, that the money that goes into preparing for the Olympics could be better spent elsewhere and they’re not wrong. There’s plenty of better places that money could go – but the thing is: it wouldn’t. If that money wasn’t earmarked for the Olympics it would go into some stupid make work project such as gold laminating the door knobs of parliament (the physical door knobs of parliament not the mental ones that actually sit in parliament).

You know I’ve always been of the opinion that, for the same reason mentioned above, mankind should refrain from having a space program – the money could be used better elsewhere. (I’m also of the opinion that we should try and get Earth sorted out before we take our shit into space). But despite my strongly held believe that we shouldn’t screw up the rest of the galaxy you don’t see me standing at Cape Canaveral with my placard boldly stating: “BEFORE YOU GO TO MARS COVER URANUS.”

Protestors come in all sorts of makes and models, some are too legit to quit, while others go for the volume = relevance approach. This past weekend we had a number of protestors (masked no less) go on a mini-destructive spree. Windows at the Downtown Vancouver Hudson Bay store were smashed in as an example – now its still up in the air whether these were impishly, mischievous protestors or customers of The Bay who couldn’t find anyone to help them and were trying to draw attention to themselves.

This last sort is the worst sort of protestor; the people who go out to protest because its fun to yell and smash things; they detract from the point of the protestors who actually have a point (interestingly enough I was surprised to see feminists protesting in the mob; woman have the right to vote and screw up their lives like the rest of us men folk – why are there still feminists?). When the police department unmasked a few of these protestors they looked exactly as I described above: students far enough away from mid-terms that the need to study doesn’t keep them indoors.

Protestors, I think, need to start using the tools of the world they abhor to get their point out there. PETA, may they all rot in the third ring of Tartarus, at least uses advertising to try and get some of their points across – they may go too far, but at least they go there. With society being the way it is (cold, unfeeling and too busy doing its own thing to take notice of your piddly little issue) most people aren’t going to notice your point unless you present it like something they want.

I suggest a beer commercial.. and run it during the Olympics as we watch these amazing athletes from all over the world do some awesome stuff.

This Just In – Politicians Untrustworthy

2010-02-10T20:44:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

I find myself sitting disconsolately at my chair tonight. I was ready to do a grand follow up to yesterday’s smashing Sesame Street success but today I am listless. If my tear ducts still worked (accident with an @home DIY Botox Injector I saw on late night TV), tears would be streaming down my face right now.

For you see, today I learned a lesson: politicians are untrustworthy. Amid the news that Paul Giambrone, a man with a star (and some other things apparently) rising in the world of Toronto politics, is resigning his mayoral campaign after admitting to having various sexual encounters I find myself at a loss for words.

What has the world come to that we can, seemingly, no longer trust our politicians? These are the few and the proud: these are the people who are uniquely capable of leading us whether it be in our municipalities, our provincial (or state) governments, our federal leaders. These people are obviously superior to us for we place them on a pedestal and tell them: “You are our shepherd; we are your sheep.”

Okay back to reality…

I know the marketing reasons why this is a story worthy of Google news– its got sex and the ruining of a career. The problem is that the news that Paul Giambrone was caught with his “pants on the ground” is just another link in the chain forged by dirt bag politicians.

I think the key teller here is that this Jabrone was actually dumb enough to run for such a high profile position in the first place; I mean unless he’s got a 10-second Tom short term memory problem he’s got to realize he’s been putting Little Paul in all sorts of places where Little Paul shouldn’t be going – and someone is obviously going to talk. Paul shouldn’t disqualify himself for being a womanizing douchebag – Paul should have disqualified himself in the first place for being so naive to believe his transgressions wouldn’t see the light of day.

How could this guy not figure at some point some girl would see his face on TV and tell her friends: “Oh yeah, I tapped that.” My political campaign management experience comes entirely from watching Dave on the W channel and even I know that. Idiot.

Why is the fact that this dude is running around the city of Toronto with his willie uncorked such a big deal? I’m sure there’s some guy that does the same thing on Yonge Street and gets handed all kinds of spare change. Pull up your damn pants Giambrone and get back in the ring – you might lose the election but you’ll lose in style (and think of all the pity shags you could score from the sympathetic female constituency). Bill Clinton sat, lay, crouched in the oval office for eight years – and he’s more of an American Idol than Ruben Studdard.

Honestly, it’s like I’ve always said (well I don’t always say it, I say other stuff too): the type of people who seek power are not the type of people who should have it.

Sincerely,

htwavcbh

Sesame Street 2150

2010-02-09T22:17:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

It is a truth of television that shows must repeatedly find ways to make themselves new or risk becoming stale, trite, and even worse, cancelled. For many the formula to renewing viewer interest involves adding new characters to the show (like when they brought in Dawn in Buffy the Vampire Slayer); some shows vary from their original plot and tread into the unfamiliar waters of the serious subject such as the time when Jo, Blair, Tootie and Natalie ended up in Jail on the Facts of Life.

Some shows, such as Days of Our Lives, like to throw in a little demonic possession; let us all take a moment and weep for when TV hit that particular low point.

Other shows seem to have found the magical formula that keeps them from aging; and Sesame Street is one of those shows. So, because this show won’t go ahead and fail on its own, I’ve decided to spice up Sesame Street in a way which will bring a whole new audience to its door.

Without any ado whatsoever I present to you Sesame Street 2150.

New Theme song:

Sunless Day, sweeping the riff raff away
On my way to where the air smell's of defeat;
Can you tell me why I should go
Why I should go to Sesame Street

With the updating of our show we have taken some characters and altered them; we didn’t want to get rid of the original cast entirely because that would have alienated the original viewers. In a fit of genius we’ve changed the stalwarts of the original Sesame street to reach an even greater audience.

Big Bird

Borg

Big Borg

Big Borg BIO: It turns out the Borg weren’t a drug induced, luddite-esque nightmare from Star Trek: The Next Generation producers. The Borg exist, and in a rather hilarious Galaxy Quest like scenario have been monitoring earth; much like the aliens in the Galaxy Quest world the Borg thought Sesame Street was real and abducted the assumed leader: Big Bird. Big Bird was assimilated and became Big Borg and sent to live on Sesame Street where he teaches the importance of mob rule and the benefits of the hive mentality.

Oscar the Grouch

150

Years

Oscar the Statue

Oscar the Statue BIO: About 50 years from now Oscar will retreat into his garbage can and spend all his time in the cavernous home. Neither Sully nor Wormie will hear from him. 30 years after that an expedition will be sent down into Oscar’s can and find that Oscar had been cloning himself but do to a freak accident Oscar will have petrified himself and all his issue. At the same time Hollywood will be going through stringent financial reorganization and recognize the opportunity for an almost limitless supply of their beloved Oscar statues.

Two Headed Monster: The lovable two headed monster will remain the same as he is seen as an excellent character to reach out to conjoined twins market (a niche market, but a market non the less).

Elmo: Elmo is Elmo… you don’t mess with Elmo

Many other changes will be made in order to spruce up Sesame Street, in a flash, here are just a few of them:

Sesame Street will grow to become a city and will be called Sesamopolis
Mr. Hooper will be reanimated as a zombie and take his rightful place as the owner of Mr. Hooper’s.
All human characters will be removed from the show: this will air in a three part feature called Sesame Street: The Purging of the Humans. I can’t give too much away but let’s just say Big Borg + technology = trouble for humanity.
And so much more.

And there you have it folks a preliminary look at the world of Sesame Street as it will be in the year 2150… or next week if PBS accepts my pitch.

Technorati Tags: Big Bird,Elmo,Two Headed,Monster,Borg,Star Trek,Oscar,Oscars,Grouch

Mankind Cast from Eden… Again!

2010-02-08T21:17:00.001-08:00

Most everyone knows the story, even if you’re an atheist you probably know it (if you don’t go read the frickin’ Bible and see what you’re against): man lives in paradise called eden, woman joins man, snake shows up and says “Yo, want sum o’ma apple?” Man and woman says: “You know what Holmes? I am kinda peckish” Man and woman eat apple of which God has said “Dinnae touch me apple ye daft pubes!” God finds out and casts man and woman from Eden. End of story (per se).

Well, it’s happened again; although the paradise in question is New Brunswick (and therefore not very paradise-like at all) and more specifically a Tim Horton’s coffee shop. Here’s the story: Banned from Tim Horton's for coffee complaints from The Toronto Sun, where I believe it was front page news (all Tim Horton’s related stories merit front page news status in Canada).

The crux of the story is this: The man named Jimmy Craig or Joe Bob Lunchpail (or whatever) fired off a couple of complaints to his local Timmies regarding the quality of the decaf coffee he’d received; his dissatisfaction got to the point where he decided he would take his complaint right to the top (or at least the fourth level of middle management); and instead of getting the reparation he felt he deserved what happened to our hero? He got banned from the local Timmies.

Finding himself without any recourse, our protagonist Jimmy Joe John Jack decided to take his story nationwide – and as we don’t have Jerry Springer in Canada he was forced to go to the next best place: The Toronto Sun. Like many people who seek the media as a tool to redress a perceived wrong; Jimbo George doesn’t quite realize that this situation he’s broadcasting to the world does not portray him in a favourable light.

For you see, Jiminiy Jeff John George or whoever you are, the chances of the situation being as simple as you complaining to Tim Horton’s three times and them having had enough of you seem as likely to me as Brian Williams, failed CBC sports reporter (you have ONE JOB Brian Williams and that is to remember athlete’s names and you can’t do that, Howard Cosell weeps tears, dusty tears from beyond, from his grave whenever you announce a sporting event), not coming to Vancouver and trying to hone in on CTV’s Olympic coverage by standing next to reporters and shouting the wrong names of the athlete’s.

Here’s a couple of possible scenarios:

The Soup Nazi from Seinfeld was moonlighting at the Timmy-hohos: “NO coffee for you – lifetime!”
Ol’Jim Dandy may not be the soul of eloquence and dropped a few too many F-bomb’s and perhaps some personal slurs concerning various matriarchs of Timmy’s employees
Jimmy Jo tried to steal the donutometer

And our hero, not depending on the persuasive powers of the media in a move with all the class of spray cheese, is also hiring himself a lawyer to get the Tim Ban lifted. Apparently the lawyer will be arguing the little used section in the Charter of Rights & Freedoms that we as Canadians adhere to which states “All Canadians shall have, heretofore and herein declared, the right to the Double-Double.”

The Pun Section: Well Jimmy Craig, I can’t imagine what could be cruller than being banned from Tim’s; I’m just an Old Fashioned Plain guy, but I think you’d have to be quite the (chocolate) dip to be banned from Tim’s. Now you’ll have to fritter away your days at home, saving a $1.32 feeling time (walnut) crunch away at your sanity. I know right now you feel as if life’s kicked you in the Timbits, Jimmy, but you are at least trying to d’e’clair your rights to the world.

Okay that’s enough.

Now I’m sure some of us are sitting here laughing at John Jim Jackson’s plight but I warn you that Jimmy Joe Jack Johnson has opened up a can of worms that might otherwise be left closed; because if, in fact, Jimmy was banned from the Tim’s for complaining he’s just empowered store owners to look beyond the tried and untrue maxim: The customer is always right. It’s like when a child turns 18 and realizes that his parents didn’t know everything and no longer have control over him: companies will be randomly refusing to satisfy our every dissatisfied whim.

If this happens thank the man called Jimmy Craig.

Oddly, I do hope The Toronto Sun keeps us up to date because this has BCAS (Bad Car Accident Syndrome) written all over it; and one thing’s for sure Tim Horton store – you just found yourself on Jimmy Craigslist – and the only thing he sells is a world of hurt.

Technorati Tags: Tim Horton's,Coffee,banned,The Toronto Sun,Brian Williams,Howard Cosell,Craigslist

Now That’s Entertainment…

2010-02-06T20:53:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

I’ve been trying to write on the ol’blog as much as I can as of late, now that the peeper’s on the mend I gots to put it back at work, and as a result I often find myself sitting at the end of the day with nothing to write about.

The Toyota Recall: I don’t have a Toyota so I don’t care (but I’m sorry for you if you do - unless you cut me off in it, or if you were in that Camry that always had to drive 10 under the speed limit (although now I understand why)).
Jack Layton’s Cancer: I’m a heartless meathead, but even I’m not that heartless.
Danny Williams Heading South for a Heart: My brother already covered that much better over at the Sanctuary of FGM. Check it out (warning, my brother is trying to conserve punctuation… either that or he’s trying to be Herman Melville).

When I’m stuck for a topic I find that world news is a good place to turn because it’s often got everything needed to make a story interesting: blood, stupidity, more blood, even more stupidity and entertainment news (or did I already say stupidity?).

The first place I usually turn to find a bunch of news on various topics in one place is Google news and that’s just where my internet browser is resting right now. So I scroll down to the Entertainment section and find something that’s a fair bit disconcerting.

You see, Solitary Reader, it seems that the peeps in Googleland have a rather odd sense of what’s entertaining. The Entertainment section usually features three major headlines and here, in exact order, are the headlines I’m looking at – keep in mind this is under the Entertainment heading.

Minimum-wage freeze fires up debate
What’s the story, Noel Gallagher
Accused in subway pushing appears in court

Okay so two of these things belong together, two of these things are kinda the same, can you guess which one doesn’t belong here? Now it’s time to play our game (time to play our game!).

The thing about the two of these headlines is that they wouldn’t necessarily be considered entertaining by people considered normal by the rest of the world. In times of economic peril, how is the fact that minimum-wage will be frozen entertaining? Unless we’re aiming that particular bit of trivia to the good CEO’s of the world. I can imagine the smoking room conversation:

CEO #1: I say govnah (lighting cigar with 5 dollar bill) did you heah they froze the minimum wage?

CEO #2: (tries to light cigar with dollar bill and realizes that in Canada we use coins for the $1 and the Loonie ain’t flammable) No way dude! Wicked!

And the other non-entertainment related article – why the Noel Gallagher one of course – who would find that hack entertaining? Just kidding. Okay well I’m not kidding, Oasis is as relevant as the last meal eaten on the Marie Celeste (although I’m sure the music on the Marie Celeste was better).

Headline #3: Accused in subway pushing appears in court – how is this entertainment related? It could be on Court TV I suppose, but who watches Court TV? It’s even got a sub-link stating: “Woman and baby pushed toward subway tracks?” Sweet merciful Crap guy at Google – fix yer crawler? That’s not entertainment.

Now to be honest, I haven’t read the article so its possible either the pusher or the pushee were Sandra Bullock (I could see a case for either) and that might make the article semi-entertainment related. But I, for one, don’t find the idea of a mother and child pushed towards an oncoming subway car to be entertaining (unless Spiderman is going to web in there and save the day (with The Backyardigans singing “Save the Day” in the background).

So, CEO of Google, whose name I don’t know but could probably google, I think you need to stop playing ultimate frisbee with your minions (er, employees, what century is this?) on Google Island and sit down and have a heart to heart with the guy/gal that picks your Entertainment headlines.

That dude or dudette has some issues.

Sincerely,

The Eloquent Sparrow

Why Don’t Vampires Get Scurvy?

2010-02-05T18:26:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

If you watch TV, and I know you do, you have at some point while surfing through the 700 channels that grace your cable box run across some sort of vampire related TV watching.

There’s a myriad of shows out there – Vampire Dairies… huh? What? Oh sorry Vampire Diaries. (As an aside both of those shows bear potential for hilarity Vampire Diary: June 12 Dear Diary, today I ate someone. June 13 See June 12 etc. the other would make a great B movies about vampiric cows (note copyright movie about vampiric cows – I shall name it The Herd: Night of the Blood Red Mooooooo-n).

As for vampire shows there’s also True Blood, I haven’t watched it but have heard good things regarding it. Then there’s the quintessential Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel – both shows that re-ignited Hollywood’s love of the vampire and have kept it fairly strong.

Movies like Daywatchers, whatever that one where the vampires took over that town in the arctic and ate frozen villagers… I think it was called Bloodshake or something. Oh and then there was that movie called Twilight.

I don’t see a whole lot wrong with the Vampire subset of fiction but here’s what’s getting to me on this lazy Friday evening: why do so many of these shows have to have the brooding vampire. What, exactly, does a vampire have to brood about?

Really, in my gloriously relevant opinion, Angel did it first and did it best. Vampire has no soul, gets a soul and realizes he’s done some bad things. Feels bad about it. It could happen. But in a way I wish Joss Whedon had foregone that plot twist (although it would have deprived me of meeting Doyle and Lorn – two of the best secondary characters to ever have existed and may they both rest in peace – and not to mention all those extra years that Charisma Carpenter was on the air – mmmm Charisma) because of the countless knock offs that it would inspire.

Ever since Dracula, the vampire has been portrayed as a semi-romantic figure (you know for something that’s gonna eat you after it’s done with you (why aren't spider’s considered romantic?)). And now you throw in this handsome vampire guy who’s all of a sudden got these pangs of guilt to go along with his pangs of hunger and he’s got a pout down to his ankles and women (and some guys) are swooning. That’s right – I said swooning.

But I ask you, oh solemn vampiric one – why are you so glum (other than the lack of Vitamin C)?

Sure you’ve probably killed a lot of people, but you’ve stopped doing that – so get over it. You’re immortal so you have a lot of time to make up for what you’ve done; you’ll always be thin so you don’t have to worry about your weight (tangent: do vampires gain weight when they eat fat people?).
Sure your stocks are down (whose aren’t?), but you’re immortal, so if you just let them hang in the market for a while, they will come back up.
Assuming you started with youthful good looks, and they all seem to, you’re going to have those forever (on the downside, if you were an ugly bastard when you were alive, not aging isn’t going to improve that).
Sure getting a wooden stake through the heart will end your un-life, but if there’s one thing that Sonny Bono taught us, the same thing will happen to you if you’re alive too.

So, you see, I just don’t get it. Why are all these vampires so glum? Perk up vampy – sure life sucks – but you’re dead so enjoy it.

Radia-radical

2010-02-04T21:10:00.001-08:00

A couple of weeks ago our range top microwave died. Normally microwaving in the household is a rather interesting adventure, because this thing sucked up power like … well something that sucks up a lot of power.

It was not uncommon for ye olde microwave to trip yon breaker and to hear my exclamation of “SHIT!” as my computer, the alarm clock, the TV, the lights, the small light over the kitchen sink, the printer, my wife’s computer and a host of other things all got an immediate and well earned break.

But in the last couple of weeks I’ve missed ol’Mike (that’s now its name, I christen thee Mike, in nomine patre blah blah blah) and the ability to heat food from frozen in 3 minutes.

I can now go back to playing that game of “Let’s see what Freezer item this was before it froze!” and not have to way 23 hours for the results.

So how did Mike the Microwave get fixed? Well through fortune and the grace of God I married a smart woman – a smart woman who also happens to be very Dutch. The smartness played out in that she knew to research our particular model and found out that Mike’s family isn’t that great of a family of microwaves – they are genetically predisposed towards breakage you might say. And too, she called up yon store from whence Mike came and they said: “Sounds like a fuse – that’ll be four bucks. Oh and be careful when yer changin the fuse to make sure the capacitor ain’t full – y’all could die.

Um… what you say? DIe?

First off, outside the frickin’ Star ship Enterprise what the hell is a capacitor doing on earth? And second – why is it possible for my microwave to kll me? Even after its died? The only thing that is allowed to kill me after its died are vampires, zombies, lichs, ghouls and Oprah… oh wait I already said ghoul didn’t I?

Well after some moments of trepidation I reached my hand in… and that’s when it happened. … nothing. The fuse popped out fairly easily, I popped in the new one, plugged Mike in and he lit up like Kiristie Alley at a buffet.

Welcome back to the fam-damily Mike. I just hope the Dilithium crystals hold up…

Talkin’ bout my generation

2010-02-03T20:48:00.001-08:00

So over the lovely meal my wife cooked today she informed me that apparently studies are starting to show that non-stick pans have negative side effects on the human body.

I didn’t dare ask if she’d used the non-stick skillet to cook supper.

When I heard the news I felt a sense of disappointment, and yes fear, all out of sorts with the disclosure of so small a fact. When you think about it, of course non-stick pans are bad for you – non stick pans do not occur in nature (well, perhaps downriver from some old 1970s Dupont plants they do) and therefore there’s bound to be all sorts side effects. Now, I haven’t seen the studies myself, and I don’t think the scientists will be able to make the accusations stick (haha).

Whenever I look back on my childhood, adolescence and the rest of the fiasco that is my life I am yet again convinced that my generation, and people 10 years on either side of it, were mere tests subjects for someone or something.

Thanks to the myriad of skinned knees they no longer put cement on playgrounds (some of them even have some sort of weather resistant rubber finish that prevents skins) and the merry-go-round, causer of much child v&v (vertigo and vomiting) has been banished.

Back in the 80s you could get anything in a can – spray crackers, spray cheese and spray tuna and with three easy sprays you had yourself an hors d'oeuvres. Once you compress something into a can and shoot it out of a nozzle, I’m fairly certain whatever nutritional value existed in the first place remains in the can.

And you can’t tell me that all of the cereals we imbibed as children haven’t contributed to the decay of society (and the increase in dentists). I am fairly certain, for instance, that Puffed Wheat was merely Styrofoam packing peanuts with some food colouring thrown in.

Does anyone remember the Pixie Stick? Yeah, I’m fairly certain that piece of sugar shite is why I’m bald right now; its fairly common knowledge that increased sugar intake as a child causes an acceleration of the cells within the hair follicle causing them to burn out faster.

Don’t get me wrong – if you were to whack me in the face with that very same Pixie stick right now I would beg you for it. I loved those things. Think about it – there has to be a reason that half of the candies we bought, ate and loved as kids are no longer in existence.

So back to the non-stick. I’m assuming that its when the non-stick particles come off the pan and you eat them that that’s where the problem lies (and you thought that was pepper!); but here’s the good news – chances are, as its non-stick, the particles won’t stick inside you.

This situation has another down side because if they take it off of the market a whole generation of people will be deprived of the dependable joke of: How do they get the non-stick surface to stick to the pan?

Technorati Tags: non-stick,harmful,pixie sticks,80s,eighties

CNN, Why are you yelling at me?

2010-02-02T20:50:00.001-08:00

I made the mistake of turning on CNN today – well I didn’t consciously turn it on, it was more of an accident.

After roughly 15 seconds of the verbal barrage I felt pretty bad about myself, my gender, my country, Haiti, missing children and the entire world. I felt bad about everything. Of course I had the misfortune of tuning in right at the point where Nancy Grace was on.

I don’t get how that woman is on TV. I’m not so shallow (anymore) to believe every woman on TV should be gorgeous (though hey, it would be nice) but this woman looks like she posed as a model for the ugly stick. Ironically its not her face, or not just her face; in pictures on the CNN web site she almost looks like your normal run of the mill type of middle age woman, just not the sort you’d want to get on the wrong side of in a PTA meeting mind you..

But the moment that woman opens her mouth its like a great roaring gush of negativity – the world is a horrible place when that woman speaks.

It’s not just her – its all of them. In the brief period between when I realized I was being sucked into an emotional black hole and the time I could find the remote control to turn the TV off Ms Grace was interviewing 2 reporters who were reporting on some story. Both reporters started off their comments with “Now of course, we don’t know what happened…'”

I say to you, reporter, if you don’t know what happened – why are you on my TV telling me this? I already don’t know what happened, your job is to rectify that situation.

CNN – and I’m assuming Fox news is probably the same way but happily I don’t think I’ve ever seen it – seems to believe that by yelling the story at you, its that much more important. Volume equals importance. Seriously, hasn’t anyone told Nancy Grace that she doesn’t have to yell at us? She’s on TV, we can’t interrupt her. And its funny because it doesn’t matter what volume level you have the TV at – by that point I had turned it down substantially and it was like she was speaking with her Capslock on.

I get that CNN has to compete for market share in the world of TV and that the only way to make sure that people stay constantly tuned in is to have story after story that is not in fact a story after story; and I know that 24 hours is a lot of time for a news station to be on the air so 23 hours of that broadcast is either filler or repeat story … I just wish they wouldn’t yell.

Technorati Tags: CNN,news,Nancy Grace,yelling

Why Can’t Castle Age Money Be Real?

2010-02-01T20:54:00.001-08:00

I don’t tend to play a lot of games that circle around Facebook, as an example I managed to get off the Farmville wagon before it got too crazy, but one of the ones I’ve actually been keeping up on is Castle Age.

If you’re familiar with it, Castle Age, puts you in the harrowing situation of having to save several lands from various torturous villains hell bent on destroying the world, ruling the world, ruling then destroying the world, destroying and then ruling the pieces etc etc.

As you quest you hire generals to do various things. You can’t do certain quests unless you have the right general, but other than that these generals sit around like city workers (you know, two of them stand around talking about last nights episode of 24 while the guy with the least seniority actually digs the hole).

If you’re the confrontational sort you can attack other players, if you’re not you can just build up your defence and let them attack you until they lose. If you’re the cooperate sort you can help your friends fight dragons and villains and sea monsters (oh my!).

But while you do all of these things you accrue money. You can use this money to buy certain minions and real estate, but after awhile you have X amount of minions and lands, and like Solomon you look around and realize that its all empty. All the villains you defeated are still there and all the land you have keeps providing you with your own nice little feudal income.

I certainly don’t want to make the game sound boring, trust me this game is as exciting as repeatedly clicking “Attack Again” can be.

I’m currently on the verge of lvl 127 so I’ve definitely wasted my fair share of time on it.

So here’s the problem – after getting tired of repeatedly being attacked and have my easy earned cash stolen by people I started banking it (at a cost of 10% of the deposit these Castle Age bastards are worse then the buggers at the Royal Bank) and am up to about 3.1 billion dollars. That’s right $3.1 billion dollars.

Then I got tired of losing my 10% and stopped banking it. Coming by that cash wasn’t easy you know… I risked carpal tunnel syndrome for that. So currently my non-banked Castle Age funds are in the neighbourhood of $7.7 Billion dollars. That, combined with the banked funds, puts me pretty close to 11 billion Castle Age dollars. I mean realistically if this were real money I’d have enough to buy several of the Atlantic Canada provinces and a couple of the New England states; at which point I would set up my own little dictatorship on the Eastern Seaboard which I would call Billopia and outlaw the mallard.

I’m just waiting for the day when the makers of Castle Age work out a deal with the government of Ghana to have them convert their national currency to Castle Age Bucks (which will affectionately be known as the “CAB”) at which point I will move to Ghana and set myself up as a successful man about town… does Ghana have towns?

I just hope the makers of Castle Age don’t see this and expel me from playing the game… if they do, look for the following email:

FROM:MR BILL

DEAR FRIEND,

I AM LITTLE BILL, Son OF LATE PRESIDENT BILL OF Castle Age? NOW KNOWN AS DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF Castle Age Land I AM MOVED TO WRITE YOU THIS LETTER, THIS WAS IN CONFIDENCE CONSIDERING MY PRESENT CIRCUMSTANCE AND SITUATION.

I ESCAPED ALONG WITH MY Mother AND TWO OF HER SONS JAMES KONGOLO AND BASHER NZANGA OUT OF DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF Castle Age Land TO ABIDJAN, COTE D'IVOIRE WHERE MY FAMILY AND I SETTLED, WHILE WE LATER MOVED TO SETTLED IN MORROCO WHERE MY Father LATER DIED OF CANCER DISEASE. HOWEVER DUE TO THIS SITUATION WE DECIDED TO CHANGED MOST OF MY Father'S BILLIONS OF DOLLARS DEPOSITED IN Castle AGE BANK AND OTHER COUNTRIES INTO OTHER FORMS OF MONEY CODED FOR SAFE PURPOSE BECAUSE THE NEW HEAD OF STATE OF (DR) MR LAURENT KABILA HAS MADE ARRANGEMENT WITH THE Castle Age GOVERNMENT AND OTHER EUROPEAN COUNTRIES TO FREEZE ALL MY LATE HUSBAND'S TREASURES DEPOSITED IN SOME EUROPEAN COUNTRIES.

HENCE MY family AND I DECIDED LAYING LOW IN AFRICA TO STUDY THE SITUATION TILL WHEN THINGS GETS BETTER, LIKE NOW THAT PRESIDENT KABILA IS DEAD AND THE SON TAKING OVER (JOSEPH KABILA). ONE OF MY LATE Father'S CHATEAUX IN SOUTHERN FRANCE WAS CONFISCATED BY THE FRENCH GOVERNMENT, AND AS SUCH I HAD TO CHANGE MY IDENTITY SO THAT MY INVESTMENT WILL NOT BE TRACED AND CONFISCATED.

I HAVE DEPOSITED THE SUM OF EIHGTEEN BLLION Castle Age DOLLARS(US$18,000,000,00.) WITH A SECURITY COMPANY , FOR SAFEKEEPING. THE FUNDS ARE SECURITY CODED TO PREVENT THEM FROM KNOWING THE CONTENT. WHAT I WANT YOU TO DO IS TO INDICATE YOUR INTEREST THAT YOU WILL ASSIST US BY RECEIVING THE MONEY ON OUR BEHALF.ACKNOWLEDGE THIS MESSAGE, SO THAT I CAN INTRODUCE YOU TO MY SON ( KONGOLO ) WHO HAS THE OUT MODALITIES FOR THE CLAIM OF THE SAID FUNDS.

I WANT YOU TO ASSIST IN INVESTING THIS MONEY, BUT I WILL NOT WANT MY IDENTITY REVEALED. I WILL ALSO WANT TO BUY PROPERTIES AND STOCK IN MULTI-NATIONAL COMPANIES AND TO ENGAGE IN OTHER SAFE AND NON-SPECULATIVE INVESTMENTS. MAY I AT THIS POINT EMPHASISE THE HIGH LEVEL OF CONFIDENTIALITY, WHICH THIS BUSINESS DEMANDS, AND HOPE YOU WILL NOT BETRAY THE TRUST AND CONFIDENCE, WHICH I REPOSE IN YOU. IN CONCLUSION, IF YOU WANT TO ASSIST US , MY SELF SHALL PUT YOU IN THE PICTURE OF THE BUSINESS, TELL YOU WHERE THE FUNDS ARE CURRENTLY BEING MAINTAINED AND ALSO DISCUSS OTHER MODALITIES INCLUDING REMUNERATION FOR YOUR SERVICES.

FOR THIS REASON KINDLY FURNISH US YOUR CONTACT INFORMATION, THAT IS YOUR PERSONAL TELEPHONE AND FAX NUMBER FOR CONFIDENTIAL PURPOSE AND ACKNOWLEDGE RECEIPT OF THIS MAIL USING THE ABOVE EMAIL ADDRESS.

BEST REGARDS,

Bill… er, someone who wasn’t banned from Castle Age.

Silencio

2010-01-20T20:45:00.000-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader,

My apologies if I haven’t been around as of late. Here’s why: I have this thing whereby every now and then my iris gets really angry and threatens to hulk out and eventually explode. It hasn’t actually happened yet, and hopefully won’t, and I’m not sure the iris will actually you know – pop – but it sounds dramatic doesn’t it?

The particular malady is named iritus, which I still think is some sort of conjugation of the Latin verb of writing. “Iritus, Irotus, Iratus (I write it, I wrote it, they’re mad at me cause it sucked) and its an inflammation of the, wait for it, iris of the eye. Part of the issue is that the iris gets pushed forward and sticks to the cornea and that’s where I’m at:

That’s me – the man with the moon in his eye. Take a look at that whacky shape, that’s because the bottom of the iris is stuck to the front of the eye.

Nice eh?

But what causes this you ask? Well after some testing the medicals told me I have this condition called ankylosing spondylitis – a cousin of rheumatoid arthritis. Click the link for all that you’ve ever, or will ever, want and/or need to know about Ankle low sing Sponge Bob Itis.

One of the more interesting presentations of this thing is that the spine has the potential to fuse together. I did some research a while ago and found another such critter.

This is the ankylosaurus. Notice the fused spine? So if my faith in science is correct, this is what I’m going to look like in about look like in about 40 years. At which point I will become a crime fighter… or an armadillo with an attitude.

So that’s why you haven’t heard from me – I can’t see well enough for any prolonged computational activity. But like Arnold Schwarzenegger said in that movie: “You’re Fired”

Sincerely,

Me

PS I have not forgotten the purpose – when I get better it will blossom.

Rebel, Now With Cause

2010-01-12T20:32:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

For years I have walked the earth with no sense of purpose and no reason for being (except, you know, for family & friends and stuff); a soulless vessel of little worth, a man with many talents but no cause in which to use them.

All that has changed. I have changed. With the turning of the year has come a turning of my spirit and I see about me where need lies and where wrongs must be addressed. I have found something in this new year to give me pause; I have found something in this new year to give me cause.

Now, with the intermittent commitment I apply to all of my ideas (which lasts only until I am bored or until I have what I perceive is a better idea) I will apply myself to make a great change in the world. This change may not be for the better, it may not be for the worst but it will be change.

In the coming days my friend, this cause will be revealed.

Sincerely,

Mascaught

2010-01-10T13:39:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

It’s Sunday, and the non-family related highlight of Sundays is football. The only thing better than regular football for me is playoff football; playoffs take it to a whole new level – a level normally not seen in the regular season because now everything matters.

Of course it appears someone forgot to tell the New England Patriots that it was playoff season. People will be talking about this one for a while (at least until a couple of games into next year when the Patriots fire it up all over again) because Baltimore is Blindsiding the Pats 33 to 14 as I watch. There’s 2:13 so I think I’m safe to call this one.

Pats fans are going to start the off season by lamenting the loss, for about a week or so, and then they’ll get down to the business of laying the blame. The following are a mix of reasons given by Pats fans (PF) and non-Pats fans (NPF) alike as to why New England will be bowing out in the first round:

Bill Belichick wasn’t able to install his spy cams in time and was unable to steal and decipher the Baltimore Raven’s Playbook (NPF)
Sandra Bullock poisoned the Gatorade of the Pats so that the Ravens would move on (and she plans to continue doing so until they win the Superbowl) – thereby increasing the popularity of her movie The Blind Side. (PF)
Tom Brady – after last year’s season ending injury Tom Brady just hasn’t looked the same – perhaps he’s skittish? Or maybe he’s just got a year’s worth of rust? Whatever happened last season it turned Brady from the NFL quarterback to an NFL Quarterback. (PF & NPF)
Wes Welker – that guy is freakin’ amazing on the field and the loss of him last week left the Pats without one of their major weapons (PF & NPF (who don’t hate the Pats and are willing to see reason)).

But I know the reason. And its not what you think. The real reason why the Pats have looked spent this year: Pats Mascot caught in Prostitution Ring.

In early December, one of the individuals who inhabits the body of Pat Patriot the mascot of the team was caught in an undercover sting that saw 14 people go down (heheh) as part of a prostitution ring.

This whole season the Patriots have looked like a distracted team; like a team that’s had something else on it’s mind – and now we know exactly what its had on its mind. Obviously the team has spent too much time “patting the Patriot” and not enough time on the field practicing.

First this and then Wes Welker – talk about a season that went south pretty fast. I know one thing for sure: now with no more football to play and no more prostitutes to play with, the Pats are going to have a lot of time on their hands this summer.

You’re Dead, Stop Counting

2010-01-08T13:59:00.001-08:00

Today, January 8th, marks what would have been the 75th birthday of some guy named Elvis Presley. If he’s dead, may he rest in piece. If he’s not stop being such a bloody slowpoke and get me ma damn Whopper you geriatric waste.

Now I think anyone over the age of 18 knows who Elvis is, but if you don’t, click the name and Wikipedia will tell you all about him. It’s quite the tale – love, honour, tragedy, elephants and a man who came into the world and left his mark on it (I was kidding about the elephants).

Now the thing about Elvis Presley, more than the man, more than the mystery, is this: he’s DEAD! Can we stop counting his birthday’s please?

What is it with famous people? Why do we have to continually count their birthdays after they’re dead? Doesn’t it make more sense to count the years they’ve been dead? Maybe its just me, but doesn’t it sound better to say that Elvis has been dead 33 years than to say he’d be 75 if he was alive?

Another question: at what point is it okay to stop this practice? Because if EP has been dead for some odd 33 years frankly with the life expectancy of the average male being in the neighbourhood of that very age of 75, there’s a good chance that if Elvis were alive he’d be dead.

But hey, if we must keep up with the practice then this is how old all these people would be if they weren't dead:

Jesus would be 2043-ish
Abe Lincoln would be about 201
Willie Nelson would be 77
Socrates would be 2479 (go Socrates you old dog!)
Sherlock Holmes would be 133

and the list goes on…

Technorati Tags: Elvis,Willie Nelson,Abe Lincoln,Presley,Elvis Presley

Gastro-Economical Issues

2010-01-07T16:39:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

Remember when gas companies used to try and tell us that rising gas prices weren’t their fault?

Way back when we had a planet for every Nazgul, when the threat of $1.00/litre gas was on our doorstep up here in the Great White North, peeps at the gas companies were telling us any number of things to justify the increase.

The most common reason given was the fluctuation in the world price per barrel of oil. This was caused by:

The revelation that there was no such thing as the brontosaurus had a huge effect on the fossil fuel industry and negatively impacted the Estimated World Oil Cache (EWOC) as they could no longer count on the fossils of Brontosaurus in the B/B ration (bones per barrel).
The US Oil Reserves were invaded by oil drinking aliens from another dimension.
Storms in the Gulf of Mexico
US Oil Reserves were low (for non oil-drinking alien related reasons).

All the players danced about the world stage – OPEC, that lovably affable conglomeration of the richest people in the world, governments on all levels and the media (rising gas prices were always a good story when no celebrities had died and/or people killed) – offering us various reasons why it would cost us so much more to fill our tanks than the reason before.

Up here in Canada, gas companies like Petro-Canada had this nifty little graph telling us how little profit they made in the whole gas guzzling business. “Woe!” These graphs often cried: “Look! For thou that hast the eyes to see! Lousy are the profits made by this company herein; small are our profits – a paltry 2% even!.” You could, though, easily see an article saying that profits were up in the 100s of millions – you didn’t even have to look that hard to find them.

But times have changed.

The relationship between the gas company and the consumer is like marriage. In the early stages the gas companies were doing their best not to fart in front of us afraid that we would go to some other miracle place for our fossil fuel; eventually the gas companies realized that we’d grown fat and bald and no one else would have us and they could fart in front of us to their hearts content. A crude analogy, but oil too can be crude. Really where else are we going to go for fuel? Diesel? Yeah right (you know you suck Diesel, admit it).

So now gas prices at the pump fluctuate and gas companies no longer bother to go into the next room; they don’t bother to explain the rise and non-fall of prices with the excuses listed above (though I would totally respect any gas company exec who threw down the brontosaurus excuse); now when you roll up at the pump and find prices have increased 5 cents from the night before there’s nothing you can do but say “Bastards” and figure out how much gas you need for the rest of the week and hope a) you estimate right and b) that when you go tank up again two days from now you hit the jackpot and the price is lower.

Gas companies will, of course, always have that tax card to play. Municipalities and provincial governments always like to throw down a tax on gas because it a) makes them look environmentally conscious and b) most people have a car. Taxes aren’t going away – and they probably aren’t going any lower. But that tax card never did make up for the fact that when they raised their at the pump pricing in response to a butterfly flapping its wings in the Bay of Fundy it never came back down to the same level once the imminent threat was gone.

What makes the entire situation worse is that companies like Shell even found ways to dilute the silver lining in this cloud: air miles. It used to be that when you tanked up you’d get 20x the air miles for your trouble. Always nice to get something extra for something you had to do anyway. Well when the price of gas went up so did the amount of air miles you got – small bonus eh? Not so much.

Within a month of prices reaching above $1.00/litre (again in Canada, us whacky metric folk) the mile per litre ratio had changed… some executive had a dead faint at the amount of air miles being given away. People were flying for free all over the place. This is a crisis that must have stopped. And stop it they did, because now we are lucky to get 5x the rewards. So now we’re not only paying more for the benevolence of gasoline, we get less rewards for it.

I need to find me a vehicle that runs on my acerbic nature … I could fuel that one for a while.

Technorati Tags: Oil prices,gas prices,OPEC,brontosaurus

6:36am on a Wednesday

2010-01-06T16:43:00.001-08:00

Some days I think I’m out of my mind; today is no exception.

At 6:36am on a Wednesday I’ve been up for 45 minutes already, crammed down a bowl of cereal, made sure I was at the top of my Bejewelled Blitz tier and headed out the door. Saw a balloon over a manhole cover and thought about the interesting symmetry… I definitely feel below the manhole cover these days, certainly not floating like the balloon. Then I thought: “We all float down here” and ruined the day’s first solemn thought.

Maybe that’s why I can’t seem to get out of the rut I’m in – I can’t take myself seriously enough to start doing the things I’d like to do. Anyway, I went to move the balloon because I didn’t want to run it over pulling out and ruin some kid’s new year and it turns out it was a ball not a balloon – so much for imagery. I moved it anyway.

I’m on the road and I’m getting stuck behind slow cars – people who feel the need to drive 10 under the speed limit. I don’t know why I’m the one who always gets stuck behind these people. I’m too polite to tailgate – maybe that’s why I’m stuck in the same rut I’m in – I’m not aggressive enough to get out of it. I managed to get around that one but encountered two others. One of those was a guy who was trying to creep into the lane from the right. I held him off until he signalled. When he did I let him in… then he went 10 under. I never did get around that guy, if you were wondering.

The radio sucked this morning so I popped on the Matthew Good compilation CD I got for Christmas. Definitely fits my mood as of late (if you’ve never heard of him youtube Matt Good Sunup Running for Home, We Were Hunting Rabbits or Apparitions – a broad selection from his 15 + year career). Then it hit me at one point: Why was I in a hurry to get to a job I abhor? Don’t get me wrong, I work with a great group of people for a company that’s not half bad but this is a numbers job and I don’t even believe in math.

I am not suited for this job – but I don’t know what job I am suited for – after 34 years why do I not know this? Other than creativity and a vocabulary I have no other mad skills (with the exception of building the equivalent of Nerf weaponry out of office supplies and other miscellaneous items). Like a lot of people right now I do what I must until I can do what I want. Right now, with things as they are, my day doesn’t start until I get home and can be with my family – and that’s not until 4:15pm. That’s a lot of dead space.

Don’t get me wrong, life is not horrible – I’ve a great family and a life full of all the gadgetry I could want (until the next thing) I’d just like a change the place where I spend most of my waking time 9 out of every 10 days of a 2 week period.

The long and the short of it is: this year I need to get off my ass and find me a new job.

Brave New Heights

2010-01-04T20:32:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

While perusing the Interweb today I read an interesting article about the goings on in Dubai; its a pretty heady indication of the giddiness that abounded in the financial world before the bubble burst – or to put it in financial terms “the arse went out of ‘er.”

World's Tallest Building Opens <—That's the article if you want to take a look at it yourself.

The phenomenon that is Dubai is a study in what happens when there is so much money it doesn’t mean anything anymore; the sums of money that are being tossed around are in the billions – the very economies of many nations contained in one small area.

It’s simultaneously cool, awe inspiring and disgusting that one man, Sheik Khalifa bin Zayed al-Nahayan, was able to just toss $25 billion to Dubai in order to finance some of its debt; and that’s some of its debt by the way, not all of it. For his generosity Sheik Khalifa does get the honor of having hte worlds’ tallest tower named after him; but that’s really going to raise the standards for companies looking to get their names on buildings (it’s like being the first team to give an $70 million contract to a baseball player – now you’ve set the precedent).

Dubai is quite symbolic of the dual nature of mankind; on the one hand there’s so much greed, avarice and gaudiness at play that the mind literally needs a shower after watching a show on Dubai that’s aired on the Discovery channel. There’s only a few letter’s difference between opulence and flatulence as it were.

But on the other side of that coin (or hand… what was the metaphor I was using? Oh well, coin is more appropriate) Dubai is evidence of the creativity of mankind as a species. In such a limited area the amount of ingenuity that has gone into building these humongous structures gives the builders something of which to be proud.

There’s also a mythical aspect to the event as well – its all very Tower of Babel; at least that turned out okay in the end… didn’t it?

Sincerely,

An Ode to the Thermostat

2010-01-03T16:53:00.001-08:00

In summer I give no thought at all
To that which sits upon my wall;
When winter comes, I'm thankful though
Inside it's warm, outside there's snow.
While frigid winter winds will blow
I remain warm despite the squall.

Turning, turning all the time turning
Until the cold is gone and I am burning;

As soon as I feel that winter breeze
I turn the notch up a few degrees;
With a small but telling "ping"
My electric heat begins to sing
Soon I shall not feel a thing!
My chilled nerve endings are appeased.

Turning, turning all the time turning
Up the dial and I am burning;

In truth the process would not be whole
Without this device to control;
You were just something I was staring at
Lost in thought for a subject that
I could write about, yet thee Thermostat
Are worthy of the virtues I extol.

Turning, turning all the time turning
Until the cold is gone and I am burning

Technorati Tags: Thermostats,ode

Where Your Head At?

2010-01-02T21:04:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader:

Today I went to Costco. I don’t know what I was thinking by going to Costco so early in the new year, usually it takes at least a couple of months for me to work up the mental fortitude to enter such a place; but a new year brings new challenges and when my wife said: Do you wanna? I said sure.

Now don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against Costco. As a matter of fact, as a die hard materialist I love Costco. If I was single and Costco was a girl, I’d marry Costco. I could go into that store and say: “I’ll take one of everything!” and only end up returning a couple of things in the end.

What I don’t like about Costco are the people. Not the people in the store – they’re never less than friendly and they always seem so interested in whether or not I managed to find everything I was looking for; all the women have slightly tight shirts and all the men have a welcoming degree of 5:00 o’clock shadow (that type of shadow that says “Look at me, I’m scruffy but approachable!”)

The people in question are the other shoppers. These are the people that once they get in the door have to stop, almost in awe, and behold the very STUFF that is Costco as if they could see it all from the portal. I’ve never been almost run over by so many people while having the urge to run over so many people.

They are as acolytes of the god COSTCO; they worship this dark immortal by roaming endlessly through his aisles paying homage to his goods (in a non-sexual way though “paying homage to his goods” is a rather awesome sexual metaphor that shall henceforth be used by me in (in)appropriate circumstances). Every now and then one is sacrificed; one who goes into that far drink pallet aisle and is never heard from again.

Honestly, I’m not sure what happens to the higher brain functions of these people once they enter the Temple of the Materialist: it is not uncommon for carts to be left in the middle of the aisles (sometimes with children in them) so that none shall pass while they are inspecting a Speedo swimsuit in the middle of bloody winter. People who outside of Costco, mere moments ago, were physics professors turn into lemmings following a tidal wave of other shoppers.

And as if the traffic wasn’t bad enough, at the end of every third aisle there are samplers peddling their wares. What do these people get out of sampling anyway? Do they get a bonus product for every time someone stops at their stall? More likely what they actually get is to keep their jobs.

The oversized shopping carts don’t help either. Costco assumes that because you are coming to a store that sells big items in big packages you need a big cart. But when three people are trying to get down the same aisle steering these land yachts and one of them all of a sudden has to stop and check out the 48 pound bag of Cheddar Goldfish crackers(the snack that smiles back goldfish) you have yourself a potential pile up.

Maybe the problem is me. I am the Indiana Jones of shopping; I don’t spend any extra time in the Temple other than to find what I came for and get the hell out of there. It’s not just Costco either – I am the stereotypical man shopper. I need butter. I go hunt butter in store. Throw spear at butter. Bring butter home. But its probably a sad comment on my personalities that I’d sometimes prefer to live in a world without people (well, some people anyway).

Honestly the best thing about Costco are the parking spaces outside. Those are awesome parking spaces. They give you enough room to actually open your doors. It’s like a parking spot with leg room.

So do me a favour, Solitary Reader, the next time you’re about to enter the Temple of Elemental Evil remember to bring your scroll of mental resistance… known as your shopping list.

WTB Love, BYOM

2010-01-01T18:31:00.001-08:00

Dear Solitary Reader

As someone who’s played his fair share and more of World of Warcraft I don’t have much negative to say about the game; the people who play it of course are another matter.

There are several types of people who play these games: there’s the people who enjoy computer games with a role playing/story telling element, people who play to escape their crappy lives, people who want to play in a social environment with others who enjoy similar likes and dislikes and then there are the just plain nutbars. The first three are to a degree acceptable of course (all things in moderation including moderation) its the last one that you have to worry about.

Which brings me to the following news story: Barrie boy, 16, found safe in Orillia with woman, 42 For those of you too lazy to pursue the fine art of linking; essentially Romeo fell in love with Juliet (or more specifically Juliet’s mother) and ran away from home to be with his love.

In this case it is obvious that World of Warcraft is a vehicle for something that would have started up in some other way just with different participants; neither person at either end of the spectrum on this one seems to be riding their elevators all the way to the top floor.

The 42 year old who’s had “several” online relationships and yet is still married with four children, she’s done a number of things that bear closer consideration:

She’s obviously violated the “half your age plus 5” rule that everyone knows is the acceptable method of determining the lowest age bracket you can pursue. Even if she' thought the kid was 20 that still doesn’t fit: 26 is the lowest she is able to go via this societal law.
Oh yeah, did I mention she’s married? I mean I know to 90% of the population marriage doesn’t mean a lot, but for shit’s sake at least go get a divorce if you’re going to be running around with other people (real and imagined)
She’s opened up th game for a host of World of Whorecraft jokes. Unfair to the rest of us you vixen!

The 16 year old is not blameless either; granted the bonehead is 16 years old and is a raging ball of hormones, but he’s supposed to be on the cusp of adulthood and that chemically induced fog should be lifting at least a little. Here’s some things he ought to be thinking about:

If you have to leave a note for your mother to tell her you’re running off to be with your love (and further, if running off to be with your love means that you are also violating curfew) you are not old enough to be in love. Use the internet for what every other red blooded 16 year old uses the Internet for: Facebook.
No relationship based on a lie will live very long. You told the woman you were 20; she might start to wonder eventually why you kept coming back empty handed from the store without the beer OR the cigarettes.
There is Coffee Mate,: there is no Soul Mate (or if there is a soul mate she should be born in at least the same generation as you).

This story can be summed up simply by saying that a bored, disenchanted house wife and a 16 year old incapable of relating to his own peers got a little carried away.

I think the real story here is actually the newspaper. They missed an obvious opportunity for some great article titles

If they wanted crass and risqué they could have said: “World of Whorecraft”
Game related: “Love Among the Ruins of Lordaeron”, “Level 16 n00b pwns Lvl 42 drood”, etc

Sincerely,

Technorati Tags: World of Warcraft,online relationships,half your age plus

In the Year 2010

2009-12-31T19:53:00.001-08:00

As we look back on the year that was one of us, a seer, a visionary, a traveler on the currents of Time looks into the future; these are the truths he brings back.

Sports

On the field of grid iron
The Young Stallion revolts
And takes the triumph
(The Super Bowl goes to the Colts)

On a field of diamond
Victory comes to the city
Where Brotherly Love abounds
And where now the Doc is found.

Where contest comes to the court,
There where war with ball is done,
The final victory shall come
Where the Phoenix rises, in the land of the sun.

Where contest comes on field of ice
A Capital steeped in vice
Shall bring the cleansing victory home
Sticks raised high from Texas to Gnome.

Politics

Some will change, some will stay the same,
But though some change all will stay the same;
Those who seek power should not be given it,
Those who profess the way of truth are not livin' it.
In the frozen north, the head still rests uneasy
Despite the lack of crown; one and all are sleazy.
In the land to the south the Chosen one still Lacks
And all around lie upon lie still stacks.
In the world ar large they come and go
Their lies as ageless as the works of Michelangelo.

The World

The date will alter
While humanity stagnates;
Great is our frailty.

The sun burns hotter
Our souls reach ever higher
All our days will change.

A Truer Word Was Never Spoken

Some Rapper, some where
Will tell us to raise our hands
Like we do not care.