Rock You Like a Hurricane

Okay so somewhere right now in the Atlantic Ocean there’s a hurricane with my name on it. At last count it was sustaining winds in the neighbourhood of 135 km/h giving it enough juice to be considered a Category 4.

It looks like its going to avoid the east coast US altogether, and that’s good news because God knows those people have had enough bad weather in the last few years.

Hurricane Bill is right now a-blowin’ in the wind on its way towards Canada – Nova Scotia and the Maritimes to be specific. So here’s my question.

Am I a bad person because a part of me is rooting for the Hurricane?

Probably.

So here’s my hope. Bill reaches a 5 and blows and blows and blows and becomes the strongest hurricane there ever was… but never lands. After letting the world know of his awesome power, Hurricane Bill will unleash its rage upon the uncaring ocean and wend its way out to sea in a harmless blustery endeavour (that describes a lot of what I do – harmless blustering endeavour).

Go Bill!

How Facebook Saved My Neighbbor’s Cats

A harrowing story of how two cats almost starved (not really) but were saved by the awesome power of the Internet.

My wife is a nice person.

Most days I’m not. I’m not a bad person per se I’m just not necessarily one of those really thoughtful people. I’ve accepted it. I know what I am. Because I’m not thoughtful I don’t think about it.

Back to my wife. One of her friends and coworkers lives two doors down from us. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship as we can ask her to babysit occasionally and in times of need she can ask my wife to feed her cats should she wish to go visit her parents on Vancouver Island.

This past week however, we had ourselves a little perfect storm (by definition a perfect storm refers to a critical or disastrous situation created by a powerful concurrence of factors (Source: Meriam Webster Online). In this instance the concurrence of factors includes my wife being out of town for a week, my wife’s friend being out of town for a week and me being the sole person in the vicinity able to feed the cats. In a rare moment of consideration I volunteered to fulfill that role.

Where’s the disaster you ask? Well when you put me in sole charge of anything that breathes of its own accords you’re inviting danger in for a stay over.

On Sunday morning my wife departed for the lovely shores of Gambier Island with our 2 kids in tow. On Sunday evening my wife’s friend departed for the shores of Vancouver Island leaving her kittens in the hands of yours truly. The cats were fed, I wouldn’t have to do anything at all until the next day.

Sunday night went by peacefully and Monday morning being a holiday I had myself a sleep in; I awoke and leisurely enjoyed my morning. And what could be more leisurely than hanging out on the Internet playing Bejeweled Blitz on Facebook? (Highest score 210K if you’re wondering). That’s when I saw it.

In the list of scores your friends have gotten over the last week I saw a pic of my wife’s friend, reminding me of two things. One, while her high score was a good high score it wasn’t as good as mine, and two, I’d better feed her cats. I looked at the clock. It was 11:00am...

As fast as I could I walked two doors over and found two very p.o.’d cats. I promptly fed them (with no small fear for my life; I’ve seen that episode of CSI where the cats feed off the old lady) and went back home. When I got home I put post-it notes in very prominent places reminding me to keep up the feeding schedule.

The cats survived the week. I survived the week. The neighbor doesn't know... unless she reads this mind you, so let's keep it between you and us.

The Re-emergence of Ironfinger

Back in the days of the MWF (Martin Wrestling Federation) Ironfinger was a figure of legend. The tell tale sound (it’s really hard to describe but "Schpee" comes as close as the human tongue can manage) was often enough to send an opponent scurrying in the opposite direction.

Some background is required:

The MWF grew out of a childhood of watching wrestling. Figures like Hulk Hogan and Andre the Giant were our heroes, while King Kong Bundy and Big John Studd were our nemeses. In order to copy what we saw on TV we had to develop our own federation and so we did (interestingly enough they now have warnings on shows like this saying you’re not to try this at home furthering my suspicions that my generation was a "test generation.")

For a time the MWF even had its own belt and there were some historic battles; for instance the time I nailed my brother with a guitar case, the time my brother inadvertently submitted to a toe hold and the penultimate flashback to my brother’s Rambo like emergence from a sleeping bag to unsuspectingly hit me with a "steel chair" (that is to say a pillow).

"Fabulous" Francois Martin, Robber Martin, Billy the Butcher, Gentleman William Martin – these were the cloaks we put on in childhood and walked across the grandest of stages – our living room. We flew like Newfie luchadores.

But the MWF, like many grass roots federations, folded. Some say it became too commercial with the emergence of "The Timbits." Others say it folded when one of the partners moved off to university.

For a time The Ironfinger was the finishing hold of Billy the Butcher (who then refined his act to become "The Gentleman" William Martin). The opponent knew he was in trouble when that tell tale sound "Schpee" was heard and if he wasn’t fast enough the Ironfinger would find its mark (often the soft point just behind the arm pit). It was also a great way to get out of the opponents finishing submission holds.

But as art imitates life and history is doomed to repeat itself; that which has gone has come round again.

While playing football a couple of weeks ago the ball bobbed off the ground at break finger speeds and hit my right index finger. I felt no pain but one of the other players said: "Dude, your finger doesn’t look right!" and sure enough the top third of my finger was pointing northwest while the rest was pointing north.

I popped it back into place and am in the process of finding out what happened to it (me thinks it was dislocated). But between then and the time I find out I have been wearing a splint… one that could be made of … iron? (it's probably not, it's really too light, but apply some imagination.

Fabulous Francois shows up on Thursday. The Ironfinger is already here.

The MWF will be back.

What did the Pink Panther say when he stepped on an ant?

Dead Ant.... dead ant....

I am frickin’ weirded out.

The fact that I’m trying to type anything of length with a finger in a splint might tell you how much this is bugging me. Because right now that’s the other thing that’s bugging me: typing with my finger in a splint. That’s another story.

We have ants in the house. A lot of them. We’ve moved past the point where they’re coming in from outside, they’re now in the house. We’re taking steps to deal with them and the pest control people have been pretty darned good.

But that doesn’t matter. They’re there. We know they’re there. And for everyone we kill there seems to be another.

This must be how Leonidas felt when he stood at the pass of Thermopylae and saw all those Persians below; the hopelessness that you feel but must not show as you face what seems like overwhelming numbers. While the situation isn’t life or death (well not for me, but for the ants it is), and they’re just ants, I’m still freaked.

But why am I freaked?

I’m a 34 yr old man, sittin’ north of 250lbs (working on that). I’m bigger than these guys. Why am I freaked out?

• Maybe it’s all the legs… there’s a lot of appendages on one ant… there’s even more on two… for every one ant there’s another six legs.
• Maybe it’s because they work so well together… I never did well In "plays well with others" on the report card…
• Maybe it’s because they take orders from a woman… nah, I’m married so that can’t be it (hehehe okay they’re not orders they’re just more sensible suggestions than what I would have come up with).

I have no idea why they give me the creeps, but while my son is playing with his trains on the floor and there’s an ant three inches away; he’s totally oblivious to it while I’m running to save his life and get that ant. It’s not as if one ant is going to carry him off… he weighs 36lbs so in order for an ant that can carry 10x its weight to carry him off that ant would have to weigh 3.6lbs… I’d notice that one.

I need to get over this. This weekend will either make me or break me. I’m going to be digging dirt away from the sides of the house and putting down gravel and that’s where the ants are – in the dirt by the house.

It’s like Fear Factor… but I don’t have to eat them… and they got paid. Until I get over this every time a breeze tickles a hair I’m going to think it’s an ant. Every speck on the floor will be an ant. Every time the stupid floaters in my eye which I’ve accrued move I’m going to think it’s an ant.

I need to get over this.

I Swear

One of the cool things about having a son is the fact that he likes to play video games with me; one of the bad things about me and video games is that when things go wrong (and how they go wrong) I tend to swear... I swear loudly, I swear often. Once the seal is broken on the swear jar I drop f-bombs like a rapper drops... well f-bombs.

Let me take you back to a time before Duncan. In those days leading up to the birth of my son my wife had deemed it acceptable, not desired mind you, but acceptable, for me to swear in two places: sitting in traffic dealing with idjits or sitting in front of the computer/console swearing at some dire circumstance that was obviously the fault of whatever game I was playing.

Fast forward to the days of Duncan, a boy who is almost 2 1/2 and likes to parrot much of what he hears. Here I am sitting in front of the TV playing Burnout: Paradise City crashing for the 5th time in 7 seconds (only 4 of those were actually my fault) and the urge to swear is rising rising rising.

Lest some of you gentler people gasp at this heretofore unseen aspect of Sir William I'll let you in on a little snippet of my family history. My father is an Ex-US Marine... to my father the f-word is not a swear word; it is an adjective. He knows there are some instances where this word should not be used (and in those instances he says little to nothing) but when he is in his element my dear pater can make a sailor blush.

As for me, it wasn't until I went to kindergarten that I learned the f-word was not used in polite society.

For the most part I've been fairly successful at not swearing in front of my child. The worst that's happened so far has been an occasional cwap and one memorable occasion when Duncan says, parodying his old man: "You suck! you suck! You suck! You suck!... I sorry."

So lets re-visit last Sunday. My boy had asked if we could crash cars together (and how we could crash those cars) and I was trying some of those cases where I wasn't actually supposed to crash cars.

I was of course crashing left right and center, and over the guard rail and into the water and over the side of the cliff, and in the barn, and in the parkade... well you get the picture. I was having a very difficult time not swearing. There was some yelling at the game (yes it does help), possibly a couple of "craps" but no f-bombs.

Not long after things went south in the GT 500 Cruiser, Carole took the boy out of the house to Auntie Ronnie's (he wanted to see Iain). I watched them leave, waved good boy... came back and starting driving.

And I crashed...

... and I swore....

... I swore loudly...

... I swore often...

I swore.

And it felt good.

English degree be damned (ooo I swore) sometimes catharsis is a damn good thing.

What doin?

What doin' is Duncan's newest phrase - so its a fitting title for this post which is about nothing more than what I am in fact doing.

The answer at this point is not a whole freakin' lot which is a good thing. Got through about 4 episodes of Smallville; for the most part the season's been okay but nothing exceptional. I think I was spoiled on the series when I watched the first 6 seasons on DVD w/o any commercials - I like my TV that way - and able to watch one show after the other. Having to wait weeks at a time to save up new episodes is a ghastly way to watch TV.

Also finished off the Ultimate Avengers animated movie which I'd had sitting on the computer; I don't expect two thumbs up cinema from animated Marvel comics but talk about your formulaic tripe.

Back at work tomorrow and beginning the final days until the Hour of the Bean - w00t!

Peace out for now, its time for bupper!

It's Dusty In Here

So my wife tells me I ought to get back on the blogging wagon. Tap those keys and become one more voice in that sea of voices that is the Interweb. I hesitate to do so. If I do get back into the habit of blogging she'll think I'm going to start listening to all her good advice and that sets a dangerous precedent.

So what's been going on? Well those who know me, already know. And those who don't know me - there are better sites than this ("Go then, there are other worlds than these").

Once I fix the pilot light in the brain pan and that gets burning I'm sure I'll expound intelligently on some of the crazy things I've noticed - but right now I'm just coming down from having finished a property assessment related course. I'm not enjoying reading for the sake of reading not because I need to try and commit the four styles of management in a Systems approach to memory (if you're interested its facilitate, systematic, directive and interactive).

I've been reading some of Robert B. Parker's Spenser novels - those are good quick reads. I finished one in about 3 hours last week (though I should have been studying for a test). The books are formulaic but quite well written and enjoyable. I just branched out and tried one of his Jesse Stone novels and found it to be similar so that opens up a whole new avenue of books I can read. Sadly I came home with the book at about 4:30 and I finished it about 1/2 hr ago.

The book I'm currently waiting to get my hands on is the latest book by Jim Butcher called Turn Coat. I really want to get it but its one of those cases where when I do I'll read it in 5 hrs and want more and have to wait eons for the next one to come out. So I hold off. Pleasure delayed is later savored.

Well that's enough for now. Let's see if I can make this a habit.