Is perfection too much to ask for? I say no.

This house has seen a number of brooms go in and out the door.

I can, for no good reason, trace my way back through at least four of them. Each and everyone of them, with the exception of the last one (which was a complete piece of shit but at the time we just needed a broom), had features that initially made them attractive. When we got them home, however, the honeymoon was off.

• The fourth last broom we had went to bristle pretty quickly. Turns out it wasn't up to the rough task of cleaning up porous tile. Instead it got relegated to patio duty. Take that fourth to last broom.
• The third to last broom had a guard on it that cracked and that just got annoying. It would cling to things. And let's face it - the only time clinging is good is when its to a rope to keep you from falling off a mountain.
• The second last broom we had - you know I'm really not sure what happened with that one. We still have it - its in the shed and I've used it to clean up the carport and its been fine. Maybe it just got boredom. Boredom, like cheating, has ruined many a good relationship.
• The last broom we had was the aforementioned piece of crap broom. We also still have that one (we're pack rats okay? leave off).
• This current broom - this one is a piece of art. It's a Vileda. If the world of Hogwarts witchcraft and wizardry actually existed, Vileda would be making brooms for the Canadian Quidditch teams. Its beautiful (in the way a stick of wood can be beautiful) but... that's right there's a but. If you turn this broom at just the wrong angle the stick starts to come loose - and not just a little bit loose. If you're not careful the stick will shoot off and impale you to the wall.

These brooms are like tragic heroes - essentially good and admirable but with one fatal flaw that, in the end, is their undoing.

As I was sweeping this evening I got to thinking about the brooms of days past and found myself questioning why each of them had that one great flaw. Why can't something as simple as a broom be perfect? You don't ask much from a broom, it has a simple function. But why does it falter so often.

Or perhaps, like beauty, imperfection is in the hand of the broom holder.

This ... Is.... Jeopardy... but not really

I just heard a commercial for Jeopardy and once again it reminded me of how we, as a society, have taken the punch out of the really good words.

How is it Jeopardy?

The good people at dictionary.com define Jeopardy as: risk of loss or injury, peril or danger. Now that's Jeopardy.

Let's rework the show.

Let's say Bob, a home maker from Desmoines, gets a question wrong. I think Bob should have to pay for his arrogance, for thinking that he could walk on this show and interact with his intellectual betters (Dave, a Lawyer from Providence, Rhode Island and Emily, an Editor from New York). Bob actually thought he could win. Silly Bob.

So when Bob answered: This is the part of the eye that controls how a person sees colour with Rods when it should have been "Cones" he now has to pay the consequences. Of course we could just deduct from his actual bank account the dollar value of the question we got wrong - but that's just money - its so clinical.

How about we take one of Bob's organs? I'm sorry Bob, that incorrect answer is going to cost you a kidney - which will then be donated to a children's hospital (you see? I'm not a complete monster). Choose your next category wisely, Bob.

Other ways to put the jeopardy back in Jeopardy:

An incomplete answer entitles three warriors from a pygmy tribe to strap you to a whirling table and shoot blow darts at you.

You have to listen to Carmen Diaz's audition tape for Moulin Rouge (okay so maybe I am a complete monster).

You're downgraded to the "Wheel of Fortune" level of the game show circuit.

And I think we all can guess what would happen on final Jeopardy can't we?

If I could turn back time...

If I were a time travelling superhero and had already reset all the important things in history that had turned out wrong (you know, like killing Hitler in his sleep, etc) I'd be able to turn my attention to the smaller stuff..

If I could find a way...

One of the things I think I would do is zip back into that meeting room where the guy, during the brainstorming session, says: "You know, we have squeezeable kethcup, and we have squeezeable mustard... what we need to complete the ensemble is squeezeable ... relish!"

At about that point I would turn to the guy and would say: I am from your future. The utopia that exists today is because I brought it all about. I have monitored the strings of time and have sought all those strains of dischord and now I come to you - creator of squeezeable relish. I come to bring you these portentious words...

I'd take back all those words that hurt you...

"Your squeezeable relish does not work! For you see, relish, by its nature, clings together tighter than a trailor park family. You cannot separate it. Only by a feat of inhuman strength can you squeeze hard enough to get more than a relish juice which is both demoralizing and disgusting. Heed my words!

Oh, and nice work on the spray cheese."

And you'd stay...

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.