Starting on Monday you may find that my blogs become a little shorter (and the crowd goes wild), and perhaps not as frequent (and the crowd breathes a collective sigh of relief). This is because I will be attending evening classes for the next three months at the Montreal Radio and Television school.
Radio broadcasting has been a fascination of mine for many years, a field that I have studied in the past and had some limited experience. It has been a hobby of sorts, which, among other things, has led me to create and maintain my own Internet-based radio station. Life’s twists and turns have kept me from pursuing this interest beyond a simple diversion, until now.
As media goes, radio is exceptionally powerful in the sense that it can be inserted into virtually any context while communicating on a very personal level. Unlike its direct media rivals, newspapers and television, radio is both immediate and portable.
The school is managed and staffed by people who have considerable experience in Montreal media. A number of on-air personalities currently working in radio are graduates of this program.
I don’t honestly know where these courses will take me. Given the current state of the radio industry in Montreal, and North America at large, it’s reasonable to say that opportunities for a career in this field are few and far between.
Nonetheless, the time is finally right for me to explore the medium that has captured my imagination for so long.
This comes at a time in my life when I am, shall we say, not a young dude. It seems, these days, that my main preoccupations are getting my kids through school, figuring out how to retire before age 88, and my doctor and colon developing an uncomfortably intimate relationship.
If there’s one benefit to reaching one’s mid forties (ugh) it is a bit of wisdom. I’ve been fortunate to have amazing people in my life, and sadly have had to say goodbye to some. The thing is, you don’t get to the end of your life and say: “gee, I’m glad I took the trash out every day.”
Sometimes you just have to follow your bliss even if you don’t know where it will take you, or whether you are too young or too old.
Of course, it doesn’t hurt to have an exceedingly supportive, understanding and patient family to encourage me. In particular my wife, who thinks pursuing one’s passion is a no-brainer and, regardless of the consequences, we’ll make it work. How could you not love a woman like that? And she’s hot too.
So, it’s back to school, for a little while anyway. At the very least, the experience should give me plenty of blogging material (and the crowd moans).
Stay tuned.
And of course, go Canada
Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Taking Pride
Try to explain the concept of pride to a child and you will discover it is a very complex thing. We believe one should take pride in achieving great things through hard work and determination. Should we be equally proud of someone born with exceptional physical and/or mental skills who lives up to their potential?
As a child I was told by my parents that they would always be proud of me as long as I tried my best. I found it somewhat difficult to reconcile failure with pride. It was confusing. Particularly in a society where the importance of winning seems to eclipse the recognition of effort in defeat.
The stunning success of Canadian athletes at yesterday's Olympic games in Vancouver have many Canadians, including myself, beaming with pride, however, it could easily have gone the other way. A miscalculation, an error in judgment, a momentary lapse in focus, these things could well have altered the outcome. Then what? Would we still be proud of our athletes, or would the post-mortem be a litany of blame and shame?
Last week, Canadian athlete Mellisa Hollingsworth made a barely detectable error on her final run in the women's luge, costing her a few minuscule tenths of a second and placing her out of medal contention. Mellisa was a favourite to win gold at this year's Olympics. After the event, she tearfully apologized for letting her country down. Her devastation was heartbreaking.
This week our local community said goodbye to a dear friend, Shelagh Culley. She was an exceptionally creative artist with a wonderful, quirky personality and an enormous heart. She died after a difficult battle with Alzheimer's disease. She was only forty-six. What most of you probably didn't know was that Shelagh had Down syndrome. The reason I didn't mention this at the outset was that, for many who knew her, this was not the thing that defined her. She didn't live her life in defiance of her condition, but rather as if it was irrelevant. The one quality that stood out beyond all others was her pride. It was a pride that required little courage on her part, she simply believed in herself, heart and soul, without doubt or reservation.
Pride can be a difficult concept to grasp. I can say that I am proud to be a dad, a husband, a Canadian, but the older I get the more I understand the implications of such statements. As a parent I discovered that pride in my children comes almost naturally, but sometimes it is hard. When they struggle, when they disappoint, when their best doesn't measure up to another, it hurts. What I've learned is that pride is not about emotion, it's about commitment. To take pride in ourselves, a person, or a nation, is to say that we stand by them regardless of the circumstance, failure or success. You are in it for the long haul.
For Melissa, and all those athletes who finished out of the glare of the spotlight, they need to know that every Canadian who takes pride in this nation shares that pride with them. It doesn't come with strings attached, and cannot be measured by bronze, silver or gold. For we all, in one form or another, represent the best of this country, in the only way we can. As ourselves.
The world is a little less rich and colourful without Shelagh among us, but without question, she has left an inspired legacy. Her life teaches us much about pride, not the least of which is never accepting what we are perceived to be and believing in who we are. We could all use a little of that.
Go Canada
As a child I was told by my parents that they would always be proud of me as long as I tried my best. I found it somewhat difficult to reconcile failure with pride. It was confusing. Particularly in a society where the importance of winning seems to eclipse the recognition of effort in defeat.
The stunning success of Canadian athletes at yesterday's Olympic games in Vancouver have many Canadians, including myself, beaming with pride, however, it could easily have gone the other way. A miscalculation, an error in judgment, a momentary lapse in focus, these things could well have altered the outcome. Then what? Would we still be proud of our athletes, or would the post-mortem be a litany of blame and shame?
Last week, Canadian athlete Mellisa Hollingsworth made a barely detectable error on her final run in the women's luge, costing her a few minuscule tenths of a second and placing her out of medal contention. Mellisa was a favourite to win gold at this year's Olympics. After the event, she tearfully apologized for letting her country down. Her devastation was heartbreaking.
This week our local community said goodbye to a dear friend, Shelagh Culley. She was an exceptionally creative artist with a wonderful, quirky personality and an enormous heart. She died after a difficult battle with Alzheimer's disease. She was only forty-six. What most of you probably didn't know was that Shelagh had Down syndrome. The reason I didn't mention this at the outset was that, for many who knew her, this was not the thing that defined her. She didn't live her life in defiance of her condition, but rather as if it was irrelevant. The one quality that stood out beyond all others was her pride. It was a pride that required little courage on her part, she simply believed in herself, heart and soul, without doubt or reservation.
Pride can be a difficult concept to grasp. I can say that I am proud to be a dad, a husband, a Canadian, but the older I get the more I understand the implications of such statements. As a parent I discovered that pride in my children comes almost naturally, but sometimes it is hard. When they struggle, when they disappoint, when their best doesn't measure up to another, it hurts. What I've learned is that pride is not about emotion, it's about commitment. To take pride in ourselves, a person, or a nation, is to say that we stand by them regardless of the circumstance, failure or success. You are in it for the long haul.
For Melissa, and all those athletes who finished out of the glare of the spotlight, they need to know that every Canadian who takes pride in this nation shares that pride with them. It doesn't come with strings attached, and cannot be measured by bronze, silver or gold. For we all, in one form or another, represent the best of this country, in the only way we can. As ourselves.
The world is a little less rich and colourful without Shelagh among us, but without question, she has left an inspired legacy. Her life teaches us much about pride, not the least of which is never accepting what we are perceived to be and believing in who we are. We could all use a little of that.
Go Canada
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Gorged at The Sports Buffet
The coverage of the 2010 Vancouver games is hands-down the best television in the history of Olympics broadcasting. There, I said it.
No, I’m not talking about the drama on the screen. Nor Rod Black working himself into a lather at every event he covers, or Rob Faulds feigning interest in flabby spandex-wearing bobsledders whipping down an ice ditch at the speed of sound, or Brian Williams waxing poetic about small-town athletes being the fiber that connects a nation whilst killing airtime between events.
No ma’am/sir, it is the five-channel High Definition television buffet served up by the CTV Globemedia empire. Say what you will about this ginormous media leviathan, not only do they own the coverage of these games, they’ve outdone any Olympics coverage I have ever watched. Here’s the list of options I have to choose from, (with a nod to Videotron): CTV HD, TSN HD, TSN2 HD, Sportsnet HD and APTN HD. I’m not even including the piteous NBC HD coverage which, by comparison, makes CTV's 15 minute Sportsnight look like Gone With The Wind.
Now perhaps I exaggerate a wee bit, but you have to understand that I grew up in the seventies when it was not uncommon for households to have only one (yes, one) television, and for the first part of the decade it was probably black and white. You were lucky if you got two channels and could actually tell the difference between cross-country skiing and figure skating. Frequent adjustments to the antenna were needed and every time an airplane flew over the screen would turn to fuzz and occasionally the image of dancing fat guys in lederhosen would emerge briefly from the snow.
Every time the Olympics are on, I find my eyes glued to every second of television coverage. I don’t really know why. I can’t think of any other time when I would be interested in cross-country ski shootouts or wheel-less skateboarders tumbling through the air over a giant snow-covered culvert. Perhaps I’m a bit obsessed with the potential of my home and native land winning a medal, but not always. I’ll sit through a hockey game between Belarus and Latvia just because I can. It’s weird, I know.
If Olympics coverage were junk food I’d weigh about 600 pounds by now. The visual feast of the Vancouver games is bounteous, and yet I still can’t get enough.
Tonight, Canada and Russia will face off in a hockey game that will likely break the record for the most superlatives ever used in a sports broadcast. The host server for Thesaurus.com will crash as commentators, insiders, experts and analysts try to squeeze every ounce of hype and drama from an event that already requires no further description. Expect a torrent of cliché statements like gut-check, must-win, the pride of a nation on the line.
Yada, yada. For me, the media Godzilla that is the Vancouver Olympics will rumble on regardless of the outcome of tonight’s game. With apologies to a hockey-mad nation, chances are I’ll be back on my sofa tomorrow gorging myself on whatever other frost-covered sport I stumble upon... ooo, downhill skeet-shooting... tasty.
Besides, the Stanley Cup is only a couple of months away.
Go Canada.
No, I’m not talking about the drama on the screen. Nor Rod Black working himself into a lather at every event he covers, or Rob Faulds feigning interest in flabby spandex-wearing bobsledders whipping down an ice ditch at the speed of sound, or Brian Williams waxing poetic about small-town athletes being the fiber that connects a nation whilst killing airtime between events.
No ma’am/sir, it is the five-channel High Definition television buffet served up by the CTV Globemedia empire. Say what you will about this ginormous media leviathan, not only do they own the coverage of these games, they’ve outdone any Olympics coverage I have ever watched. Here’s the list of options I have to choose from, (with a nod to Videotron): CTV HD, TSN HD, TSN2 HD, Sportsnet HD and APTN HD. I’m not even including the piteous NBC HD coverage which, by comparison, makes CTV's 15 minute Sportsnight look like Gone With The Wind.
Now perhaps I exaggerate a wee bit, but you have to understand that I grew up in the seventies when it was not uncommon for households to have only one (yes, one) television, and for the first part of the decade it was probably black and white. You were lucky if you got two channels and could actually tell the difference between cross-country skiing and figure skating. Frequent adjustments to the antenna were needed and every time an airplane flew over the screen would turn to fuzz and occasionally the image of dancing fat guys in lederhosen would emerge briefly from the snow.
Every time the Olympics are on, I find my eyes glued to every second of television coverage. I don’t really know why. I can’t think of any other time when I would be interested in cross-country ski shootouts or wheel-less skateboarders tumbling through the air over a giant snow-covered culvert. Perhaps I’m a bit obsessed with the potential of my home and native land winning a medal, but not always. I’ll sit through a hockey game between Belarus and Latvia just because I can. It’s weird, I know.
If Olympics coverage were junk food I’d weigh about 600 pounds by now. The visual feast of the Vancouver games is bounteous, and yet I still can’t get enough.
Tonight, Canada and Russia will face off in a hockey game that will likely break the record for the most superlatives ever used in a sports broadcast. The host server for Thesaurus.com will crash as commentators, insiders, experts and analysts try to squeeze every ounce of hype and drama from an event that already requires no further description. Expect a torrent of cliché statements like gut-check, must-win, the pride of a nation on the line.
Yada, yada. For me, the media Godzilla that is the Vancouver Olympics will rumble on regardless of the outcome of tonight’s game. With apologies to a hockey-mad nation, chances are I’ll be back on my sofa tomorrow gorging myself on whatever other frost-covered sport I stumble upon... ooo, downhill skeet-shooting... tasty.
Besides, the Stanley Cup is only a couple of months away.
Go Canada.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Heartache and Hope
Perspective came quickly to the 2010 Olympic games in Vancouver, when Nodar Kumaritashvili was thrown from his luge in a practice run before the opening ceremonies even began. His death was violent and shocking and is still difficult for many to accept. In our hearts we want to believe that he died pursuing a passion for his sport, but that does little to quell the anguish of a nation, or supplant the emptiness we all feel.
A similar dose of perspective seemed to fall upon 24 year-old Canadian figure skater Joannie Rochette. Only a few short hours after arriving in Vancouver to watch her child skate in her second Olympic games, Joannie’s mother Thérèse died after suffering a heart attack.
Word came quickly that despite her devastating loss, Joannie would continue to pursue her dream for Olympic glory. One must presume her mother would have wanted her daughter to go on, but no one could ask or expect her to do so. The most honourable of intentions aside, it is impossible to know what she will feel as she steps onto the ice this evening. We know at least, that her world and her heart have been shattered.
Some have suggested that there has been more than enough tragedy and upset at the Vancouver Olympics thus far. Perhaps.
One of the most appealing aspects of the games, far above the media hype and the intensity of international competition, is that the Olympics often showcase the best qualities of humanity: humility, grace and courage.
The everyday life cycle of this planet bears witness to some of the worst of what we can be. Selfishness, intolerance, greed. We are prone to deep cynicism. We become provincial in our thinking. We lose the hope and strength needed to rise above ourselves.
The Olympic games are in many ways a symbol of what we could be, how we could be and what we should aspire to be. They challenge the fortitude of those values we hold in such high regard, our openness, pride and acceptance. They expose our flaws even as we attempt to reach our highest aspirations.
The harshness of life intercedes regardless of our hopes, plans and visions. Tragedy doesn’t stop to take note of an appropriate time or place. It is indiscriminate and impersonal.
The measure of our fragile lives is not in the success or failure of human endeavor, or in the rich rewards or tragic losses that are beyond our control. It is in the way in which we receive and respond to them.
We can easily be cynical about the Olympics as a display of corporate profiteering or the hyperbole of a self-serving media. At times, the games can reveal much about what divides us.
For a moment at least, could we forget about the medals, and the flags, and the chest-thumping, and embrace an often-undervalued quality of the games?
Unity.
This night, Joannie will glide onto the ice as one skater, but she will not be alone. We will all be with her, as we are with the family of Nodar, and all those whose humility, grace and courage has been, and will be, tested in the pursuit of their dreams. Perhaps with luck and determination, this spirit can transcend the games to give our weary world the hope and strength to rise above ourselves. For now, we can only dream.
Go Canada, go world.
A similar dose of perspective seemed to fall upon 24 year-old Canadian figure skater Joannie Rochette. Only a few short hours after arriving in Vancouver to watch her child skate in her second Olympic games, Joannie’s mother Thérèse died after suffering a heart attack.
Word came quickly that despite her devastating loss, Joannie would continue to pursue her dream for Olympic glory. One must presume her mother would have wanted her daughter to go on, but no one could ask or expect her to do so. The most honourable of intentions aside, it is impossible to know what she will feel as she steps onto the ice this evening. We know at least, that her world and her heart have been shattered.
Some have suggested that there has been more than enough tragedy and upset at the Vancouver Olympics thus far. Perhaps.
One of the most appealing aspects of the games, far above the media hype and the intensity of international competition, is that the Olympics often showcase the best qualities of humanity: humility, grace and courage.
The everyday life cycle of this planet bears witness to some of the worst of what we can be. Selfishness, intolerance, greed. We are prone to deep cynicism. We become provincial in our thinking. We lose the hope and strength needed to rise above ourselves.
The Olympic games are in many ways a symbol of what we could be, how we could be and what we should aspire to be. They challenge the fortitude of those values we hold in such high regard, our openness, pride and acceptance. They expose our flaws even as we attempt to reach our highest aspirations.
The harshness of life intercedes regardless of our hopes, plans and visions. Tragedy doesn’t stop to take note of an appropriate time or place. It is indiscriminate and impersonal.
The measure of our fragile lives is not in the success or failure of human endeavor, or in the rich rewards or tragic losses that are beyond our control. It is in the way in which we receive and respond to them.
We can easily be cynical about the Olympics as a display of corporate profiteering or the hyperbole of a self-serving media. At times, the games can reveal much about what divides us.
For a moment at least, could we forget about the medals, and the flags, and the chest-thumping, and embrace an often-undervalued quality of the games?
Unity.
This night, Joannie will glide onto the ice as one skater, but she will not be alone. We will all be with her, as we are with the family of Nodar, and all those whose humility, grace and courage has been, and will be, tested in the pursuit of their dreams. Perhaps with luck and determination, this spirit can transcend the games to give our weary world the hope and strength to rise above ourselves. For now, we can only dream.
Go Canada, go world.
Monday, February 22, 2010
The Big Game
Whew, what a game. It’s hard to believe that goaltending could be such a factor, but what can you do? I’m talking, of course, about my kid playing in the annual MAHG Hockey tournament in St-Laurent. What did you think I was talking about?
We got a call on Friday from the coach of the local West Island hockey organization inviting our little man to participate in an inter-city tournament. I’m still trying to get my head around the fact that my five year-old can skate circles around his old man, yet somehow after only five months of exposure to the good ol’ hockey game, he gets a called up to the bigs.
Well, okay, it is pre-novice, and the call probably had more to do with the team not being able to find anyone else to play, but parents never let facts stand in the way of pride.
The team that called was the West Island Habs. This prompted all the predictable comparisons to the big league Habs and their current roster of minor league call-ups. At least I can technically say my kid played for the Habs in Montreal. St-Laurent is Montreal, right?
It was the first ever tournament for us hockey-parent virgins and it was something of an eye-opener. The first revelation was how seriously some parents seemed to be taking a pre-novice tournament, considering that everyone got the same medal at the end of the event. Another inexplicable irritant was that parents were charged admission to see their own kids play. Why not just include that in the cost of participation? Dumb.
The real moment of agro came from the cleverly orchestrated cash-sucking photograph scamaroo. This involved a very slick team of photographers snapping pics of your kid playing in a game in which you just paid a participation fee, then paid again to watch, only to have the same pics ransomed back to you for a small fortune. Of course we had to buy our photos because like many other items in our house (phones, remote controls, a matching shoe) the camera was MIA as we fumbled to get our child and his hockey luggage out the door. They saw us coming.
And if that weren't enough, I still don’t know what the hell MAHG stands for!
In the end the game was a treat to watch, even though our team didn’t have a goalie. I don’t mean our goalie was bad, I mean we literally didn’t have a goalie. It was decided after the game that, due to this rather sizeable hole in the defense, each one of our goals counted for three. Sadly, with this new math I still think we lost.
This could be the first of many tournaments, or perhaps the last, since our pint-sized Hab-for-a-day recently announced that he would rather take up snowboarding than hockey. I guess if that’s what he wants then we’ll be signing him up for lessons. Poor kid, if he thought his parents were baffled by local organized hockey, we are utterly clueless when it comes to snowboarding. Although, I think MAHG might actually be how snowboarders address one-another.
Go Canada
We got a call on Friday from the coach of the local West Island hockey organization inviting our little man to participate in an inter-city tournament. I’m still trying to get my head around the fact that my five year-old can skate circles around his old man, yet somehow after only five months of exposure to the good ol’ hockey game, he gets a called up to the bigs.
Well, okay, it is pre-novice, and the call probably had more to do with the team not being able to find anyone else to play, but parents never let facts stand in the way of pride.
The team that called was the West Island Habs. This prompted all the predictable comparisons to the big league Habs and their current roster of minor league call-ups. At least I can technically say my kid played for the Habs in Montreal. St-Laurent is Montreal, right?
It was the first ever tournament for us hockey-parent virgins and it was something of an eye-opener. The first revelation was how seriously some parents seemed to be taking a pre-novice tournament, considering that everyone got the same medal at the end of the event. Another inexplicable irritant was that parents were charged admission to see their own kids play. Why not just include that in the cost of participation? Dumb.
The real moment of agro came from the cleverly orchestrated cash-sucking photograph scamaroo. This involved a very slick team of photographers snapping pics of your kid playing in a game in which you just paid a participation fee, then paid again to watch, only to have the same pics ransomed back to you for a small fortune. Of course we had to buy our photos because like many other items in our house (phones, remote controls, a matching shoe) the camera was MIA as we fumbled to get our child and his hockey luggage out the door. They saw us coming.
And if that weren't enough, I still don’t know what the hell MAHG stands for!
In the end the game was a treat to watch, even though our team didn’t have a goalie. I don’t mean our goalie was bad, I mean we literally didn’t have a goalie. It was decided after the game that, due to this rather sizeable hole in the defense, each one of our goals counted for three. Sadly, with this new math I still think we lost.
This could be the first of many tournaments, or perhaps the last, since our pint-sized Hab-for-a-day recently announced that he would rather take up snowboarding than hockey. I guess if that’s what he wants then we’ll be signing him up for lessons. Poor kid, if he thought his parents were baffled by local organized hockey, we are utterly clueless when it comes to snowboarding. Although, I think MAHG might actually be how snowboarders address one-another.
Go Canada
Friday, February 19, 2010
The Friday time-waster supreme: Part Deux
A lot of gums were flapping over the alleged lip-synching performance of Bryan Adams and Nelly Furtado at the opening ceremonies of the Vancouver Olympics. Really? Lip-synching at a major sporting event? How about the fact that Bry and Nelly were the most awkward pairing since Bob Dylan and Cyndi Lauper.
Memo to Rod Black: take a page from the Tom Selleck experience, once you go with the cheesy moustache you must stay with the cheesy moustache.
Ever heard of Cahuenga Peak? Well, that’s the home of the famous Hollywood sign. Apparently the land is for sale to the tune of $11.7 million. Developers want to build a bunch of luxury homes that would ultimately block views of the iconic sign. A bunch of celebs including Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Virginia Madsen, John Slattery and Tippi Hedren have tossed in their tiaras to support the 'Save the Peak' campaign and so far raised about half of the money needed to purchase the land. Not a bad investment really considering that once the polar ice caps melt it’ll be beachfront property.
Memo to figure skating choreographers: I’m fairly certain there has been other music composed since “Send in The Clowns” and “Theme From Love Story.”
Former Québec premier Lucien Bouchard poked his head back into the limelight this week to take shots at his old party. Included in his remarks was a criticism of Réné Lévesque’s participation in talks that would lead to the creation of the Canadian constitution. Bouchard thought Lévesque was in a weak political position at the time and as a result Quebeckers “were brutally forced to accept a charter of rights and we’ve had to live with it since then.” I wonder if anyone in Iran would like to have a charter of rights and freedoms brutally forced on them?
The Vancouver games, the only place where you could find yourself doing shots with Shaun White, Alex Ovechkin and Donald Sutherland in the same bar. Global competition rocks.
Today, Tiger speaks for the first time since his little black book became a bestseller. I don't have anything to add other than to employ the time-honoured ‘golf is like life’ metaphor: he thought he had it made after a variety of spectacular strokes, then one errant drive and it all fell apart.
I said it before, I’ll say it again, K.D. Lang is a national treasure.
Go Canada.
Memo to Rod Black: take a page from the Tom Selleck experience, once you go with the cheesy moustache you must stay with the cheesy moustache.
Ever heard of Cahuenga Peak? Well, that’s the home of the famous Hollywood sign. Apparently the land is for sale to the tune of $11.7 million. Developers want to build a bunch of luxury homes that would ultimately block views of the iconic sign. A bunch of celebs including Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Virginia Madsen, John Slattery and Tippi Hedren have tossed in their tiaras to support the 'Save the Peak' campaign and so far raised about half of the money needed to purchase the land. Not a bad investment really considering that once the polar ice caps melt it’ll be beachfront property.
Memo to figure skating choreographers: I’m fairly certain there has been other music composed since “Send in The Clowns” and “Theme From Love Story.”
Former Québec premier Lucien Bouchard poked his head back into the limelight this week to take shots at his old party. Included in his remarks was a criticism of Réné Lévesque’s participation in talks that would lead to the creation of the Canadian constitution. Bouchard thought Lévesque was in a weak political position at the time and as a result Quebeckers “were brutally forced to accept a charter of rights and we’ve had to live with it since then.” I wonder if anyone in Iran would like to have a charter of rights and freedoms brutally forced on them?
The Vancouver games, the only place where you could find yourself doing shots with Shaun White, Alex Ovechkin and Donald Sutherland in the same bar. Global competition rocks.
Today, Tiger speaks for the first time since his little black book became a bestseller. I don't have anything to add other than to employ the time-honoured ‘golf is like life’ metaphor: he thought he had it made after a variety of spectacular strokes, then one errant drive and it all fell apart.
I said it before, I’ll say it again, K.D. Lang is a national treasure.
Go Canada.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Bagged again
I think I may have figured out how to solve the earth's current environmental crisis. Actually, it's not the earth's crisis. In the life of this giant blue rock humans are a mere pimple on the vast buttocks of time. I suspect the planet could care less if we made conditions here unliveable for ourselves.
Anyway, enough about the earth, back to me. So here's is the solution to one of the greatest challenges in modern human history. Are you ready?
We have to stop being stupid.
That's it, no need to thank me. Nobel prize people, you know where to find me.
What? You think that's an oversimplified answer? Well earth-hater, consider some of history's biggest environmental disasters. Chernobyl's exploding reactor, caused by a series of critically stupid decisions during a stupid 'safety test' overseen by stupid people. The Exxon Valdez, under the guidance of two stupid, sleepy seamen (stop giggling), who were apparently put in charge by Captain Morgan, allowing the ship's stupid autopilot to steer onto a stupid reef. Okay, that wasn't fair to the reef.
Anyone who is old enough to remember when the blue-box recycling program was introduced will know just how stupid we are. It took years to train our addled minds not to throw glass, plastic, paper and cardboard into the trash. Eventually we smartened up, but man, for a while there everytime we opened the trash lid with an empty tuna can in our hand we had to stop ourselves and say "ugh, what am I doing?"
Stupid.
Even now, as we have developed all manner of strategies for combatting waste, we still manage to snag stupidity from the jaws of intelligence.
Case in point, every time I get to the grocery store checkout line I realize for the gazillionth time that I forgot to bring my own bags. Then I'm faced with a serious dilemma. Do I abandon my cart, get in the car, drive home and retrieve one of the bags I bought the last time this happened to me? What if the emmissions from the trip become the greenhouse gases that tip the scale towards environmental armageddon? On the other hand, do I drive myself deeper in debt buying yet another 'green' shopping bag to add to the mountainous collection at home, that has thus far contributed nothing to the preservation of the earth? Or horror of horrors, do I pay the 35 cents for the evil, earth-consuming, blight of the environment: the plastic bag?
There I stand before my loaded cart, head held low in shame as the other earth-loving shoppers, their green bags proudly on display, look upon me with derision. Piously judging my callous and reckless disregard for future generations. So I buy another 'green' bag and pretend that was the plan all along. Or worse, I refuse the offer for any bags and proceed to balance the groceries in my arms as I trudge across a slushy parking lot looking at other shoppers with an expression that says "Hah, bags are for chumps."
Stupid.
True, but don't tell me it's never happened to you. I thought so. Here's hoping the atmosphere on earth will remain liveable long-enough for us to wise-up.
If things get really bad, I can always hide under a mountain of green bags. I just hope I can remember where they are.
Anyway, enough about the earth, back to me. So here's is the solution to one of the greatest challenges in modern human history. Are you ready?
We have to stop being stupid.
That's it, no need to thank me. Nobel prize people, you know where to find me.
What? You think that's an oversimplified answer? Well earth-hater, consider some of history's biggest environmental disasters. Chernobyl's exploding reactor, caused by a series of critically stupid decisions during a stupid 'safety test' overseen by stupid people. The Exxon Valdez, under the guidance of two stupid, sleepy seamen (stop giggling), who were apparently put in charge by Captain Morgan, allowing the ship's stupid autopilot to steer onto a stupid reef. Okay, that wasn't fair to the reef.
Anyone who is old enough to remember when the blue-box recycling program was introduced will know just how stupid we are. It took years to train our addled minds not to throw glass, plastic, paper and cardboard into the trash. Eventually we smartened up, but man, for a while there everytime we opened the trash lid with an empty tuna can in our hand we had to stop ourselves and say "ugh, what am I doing?"
Stupid.
Even now, as we have developed all manner of strategies for combatting waste, we still manage to snag stupidity from the jaws of intelligence.
Case in point, every time I get to the grocery store checkout line I realize for the gazillionth time that I forgot to bring my own bags. Then I'm faced with a serious dilemma. Do I abandon my cart, get in the car, drive home and retrieve one of the bags I bought the last time this happened to me? What if the emmissions from the trip become the greenhouse gases that tip the scale towards environmental armageddon? On the other hand, do I drive myself deeper in debt buying yet another 'green' shopping bag to add to the mountainous collection at home, that has thus far contributed nothing to the preservation of the earth? Or horror of horrors, do I pay the 35 cents for the evil, earth-consuming, blight of the environment: the plastic bag?
There I stand before my loaded cart, head held low in shame as the other earth-loving shoppers, their green bags proudly on display, look upon me with derision. Piously judging my callous and reckless disregard for future generations. So I buy another 'green' bag and pretend that was the plan all along. Or worse, I refuse the offer for any bags and proceed to balance the groceries in my arms as I trudge across a slushy parking lot looking at other shoppers with an expression that says "Hah, bags are for chumps."
Stupid.
True, but don't tell me it's never happened to you. I thought so. Here's hoping the atmosphere on earth will remain liveable long-enough for us to wise-up.
If things get really bad, I can always hide under a mountain of green bags. I just hope I can remember where they are.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Ask me no loaded questions
My teenage son has a penchant for asking random questions. In fact, he will often preface said inquiries with “just a random question, but…” It always makes me smile, mostly because those questions range from the trivial to the deeply profound. Which means you have to be prepared, at any given moment, to give an honest and thoughtful answer.
When we were kids, it seemed as if we were always asking questions. It was part of the natural curiosity of being a child and trying to figure out the world around us. On occasion our questions had no simple answer, leaving our parents to reply, “you’ll understand when you get older.”
For the most part, our folks were right. As adults, we do understand the world in much broader terms. What our parents didn't tell us was that the number of questions would multiply exponentially, and the answers would become substantially more elusive.
While it is true that adult questions are more complex, often times they are not even questions at all.
There is the loaded question: “Are you planning on showing up tonight?”
The no-win question: “What is wrong with you?”
The pre-selected answer question: “Are you going to eat that?”
The minefield question: “Why doesn’t he like me?”
The trap question: “Do you believe in God?”
The intellectual yard-stick question: “Have you read any of his novels?”
The older we get, the more we're asked questions that have nothing to do with extracting information and more to do with putting forth an agenda. Unfortunately the casualty of these kinds of inquiries is another thing our parents imparted to us: honesty.
Sure, we know the importance of honesty, but when faced with questions that bear a striking resemblance to a loaded cannon, how are we supposed to respond? (That was a rhetorical question).
We shouldn’t be forced to give an honest answer to a dishonest question. So, we filibuster, ignore, or try to change the subject.
Wouldn’t it be nice, though, if we could just take a vacation from diplomacy and give the answer these cruise-missile questions deserve?
“Actually, your haircut makes you look like a beagle.”
“He doesn’t like you because you’re annoying.”
“You didn’t see me at your party because I knew it would be dull and pretentious.”
Of course, we wouldn’t dare say such things. We might think it, but we wouldn’t say it.
More troublesome is the fact that all of the hot air being expended on questions that really have no answers takes us away from the really big questions that actually deserve answers.
Questions that ask why poverty, violence and injustice persist. Questions about how to save our deteriorating environment, or cure disease, or feed and house those in need. Of course these questions are not easy to answer, but surely our energy would be better spent trying, rather than finding ways to fish for answers that only serve to boost fragile egos.
Frankly, I’ll take my son’s random questions any day. At the very least, he wants nothing more than an honest answer.
Don't we all.
When we were kids, it seemed as if we were always asking questions. It was part of the natural curiosity of being a child and trying to figure out the world around us. On occasion our questions had no simple answer, leaving our parents to reply, “you’ll understand when you get older.”
For the most part, our folks were right. As adults, we do understand the world in much broader terms. What our parents didn't tell us was that the number of questions would multiply exponentially, and the answers would become substantially more elusive.
While it is true that adult questions are more complex, often times they are not even questions at all.
There is the loaded question: “Are you planning on showing up tonight?”
The no-win question: “What is wrong with you?”
The pre-selected answer question: “Are you going to eat that?”
The minefield question: “Why doesn’t he like me?”
The trap question: “Do you believe in God?”
The intellectual yard-stick question: “Have you read any of his novels?”
The older we get, the more we're asked questions that have nothing to do with extracting information and more to do with putting forth an agenda. Unfortunately the casualty of these kinds of inquiries is another thing our parents imparted to us: honesty.
Sure, we know the importance of honesty, but when faced with questions that bear a striking resemblance to a loaded cannon, how are we supposed to respond? (That was a rhetorical question).
We shouldn’t be forced to give an honest answer to a dishonest question. So, we filibuster, ignore, or try to change the subject.
Wouldn’t it be nice, though, if we could just take a vacation from diplomacy and give the answer these cruise-missile questions deserve?
“Actually, your haircut makes you look like a beagle.”
“He doesn’t like you because you’re annoying.”
“You didn’t see me at your party because I knew it would be dull and pretentious.”
Of course, we wouldn’t dare say such things. We might think it, but we wouldn’t say it.
More troublesome is the fact that all of the hot air being expended on questions that really have no answers takes us away from the really big questions that actually deserve answers.
Questions that ask why poverty, violence and injustice persist. Questions about how to save our deteriorating environment, or cure disease, or feed and house those in need. Of course these questions are not easy to answer, but surely our energy would be better spent trying, rather than finding ways to fish for answers that only serve to boost fragile egos.
Frankly, I’ll take my son’s random questions any day. At the very least, he wants nothing more than an honest answer.
Don't we all.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Beginning of the ends
Today the Winter Olympics really get exciting. Sure, there have already been some heart-stopping moments in sports that require ex-athletes to painstakingly explain what is actually happening.
"Gee, Katrina, I think they forgot the nets."
"It's speedskating, Rob. Where they race around a track of ice."
"Oh of course, silly me. Well I sure hope Wutherspoon can land that double lutz."
That's right, it's the moment we've all been waiting for.
It's time for Canada's game.
Let's get curling!
In my childhood, television consisted of two channels (not a typo: two channels). We didn't have fourteen cartoon networks and seven hundred sports channels. No video on demand, no DVDs, just two pathetic, measely, crappy-ass Canadian television channels. On any give Saturday afternoon in February (if you were lucky) you might catch Maple Leaf wrestling, a hockey game, or if you really struck gold, Evel Knievel attempting to jump sixteen Greyhound buses and smashing all the bones that just healed from his last stunt.
More than likely you'd stumble into a smokey living room, still in your PJs, to find you dad watching (ugh) golf or (shoot me with a bazooka) curling.
As a child, televised curling was about as exciting as watching a black and white test pattern. At least the latter had a funny (and yet inexplicable) picture of an Mohawk chief (if you were born in the 1990s, Google television test pattern).
As I stood in my Batman jammies watching the entertainment equivalent of grass growing (only more boring) I made a pledge that I would NEVER, EVER waste my valuable viewing time watching golf or curling.
Forty-odd years later, I golf any chance I can get and sit through hours of golf coverage that is still (to the non-golfer) about as dry as an unsalted cracker left in the Mojave desert. So much for that.
The other half of my pledge remained in tact much longer, as I playfully mocked the sport that once sucked the life out of my Saturday afternoon television.
That is until I met the love of my life, (no, not golf), the incredible, caring, patient, beautiful woman who is now my wife. Now, you husbands know that marriage means more than a commitment to your spouse, it also means you are joining a larger family. The good news for me was that I was lucky enough to join an amazing family, who share similar values, sense of humour and also accept me as the lunkhead that I am.
I am particularly fortunate to have a mother in-law who is warm, friendly, hilariously funny and has a huge heart. I consider her to be my second mom.
She is, however, (gasp) a curler.
Now I knew I was in trouble. I was about to be outed as an unCanadian curling-hater. I had nightmares of being chased down a strip of ice by wild-eyed men in track suits weilding flaming brooms screaming "Hard! Hard!"
So what other choice did I have? I grudgingly parked myself in front of my big screen (knowing I had gabillion other channels to choose from) and sat through hours of the Scotties.
And what did I learn?
Psst, come closer...
I like it.
Just like the proverbial green eggs and ham, curling is something I should have tried years ago. Who knew?
It's got all the strategy and shot-making challenges of golf without ever having to worry about rain, crashing your cart in a trap or being smacked in the skull by an errant ball. Heck, you don't even need a cup holder, you just slide on up to the bar between ends and enjoy the cocktail of your choice. Magic.
I'm not quite a curling aficionado yet, owing to the fact that often I still need those experts to tell me what is going on, but I'm getting there. Fortunately I have a built-in expert in the family, which makes it that much more fun to watch.
Although, I do think the flaming brooms would make it more exciting.
Go Canada.
"Gee, Katrina, I think they forgot the nets."
"It's speedskating, Rob. Where they race around a track of ice."
"Oh of course, silly me. Well I sure hope Wutherspoon can land that double lutz."
That's right, it's the moment we've all been waiting for.
It's time for Canada's game.
Let's get curling!
In my childhood, television consisted of two channels (not a typo: two channels). We didn't have fourteen cartoon networks and seven hundred sports channels. No video on demand, no DVDs, just two pathetic, measely, crappy-ass Canadian television channels. On any give Saturday afternoon in February (if you were lucky) you might catch Maple Leaf wrestling, a hockey game, or if you really struck gold, Evel Knievel attempting to jump sixteen Greyhound buses and smashing all the bones that just healed from his last stunt.
More than likely you'd stumble into a smokey living room, still in your PJs, to find you dad watching (ugh) golf or (shoot me with a bazooka) curling.
As a child, televised curling was about as exciting as watching a black and white test pattern. At least the latter had a funny (and yet inexplicable) picture of an Mohawk chief (if you were born in the 1990s, Google television test pattern).
As I stood in my Batman jammies watching the entertainment equivalent of grass growing (only more boring) I made a pledge that I would NEVER, EVER waste my valuable viewing time watching golf or curling.
Forty-odd years later, I golf any chance I can get and sit through hours of golf coverage that is still (to the non-golfer) about as dry as an unsalted cracker left in the Mojave desert. So much for that.
The other half of my pledge remained in tact much longer, as I playfully mocked the sport that once sucked the life out of my Saturday afternoon television.
That is until I met the love of my life, (no, not golf), the incredible, caring, patient, beautiful woman who is now my wife. Now, you husbands know that marriage means more than a commitment to your spouse, it also means you are joining a larger family. The good news for me was that I was lucky enough to join an amazing family, who share similar values, sense of humour and also accept me as the lunkhead that I am.
I am particularly fortunate to have a mother in-law who is warm, friendly, hilariously funny and has a huge heart. I consider her to be my second mom.
She is, however, (gasp) a curler.
Now I knew I was in trouble. I was about to be outed as an unCanadian curling-hater. I had nightmares of being chased down a strip of ice by wild-eyed men in track suits weilding flaming brooms screaming "Hard! Hard!"
So what other choice did I have? I grudgingly parked myself in front of my big screen (knowing I had gabillion other channels to choose from) and sat through hours of the Scotties.
And what did I learn?
Psst, come closer...
I like it.
Just like the proverbial green eggs and ham, curling is something I should have tried years ago. Who knew?
It's got all the strategy and shot-making challenges of golf without ever having to worry about rain, crashing your cart in a trap or being smacked in the skull by an errant ball. Heck, you don't even need a cup holder, you just slide on up to the bar between ends and enjoy the cocktail of your choice. Magic.
I'm not quite a curling aficionado yet, owing to the fact that often I still need those experts to tell me what is going on, but I'm getting there. Fortunately I have a built-in expert in the family, which makes it that much more fun to watch.
Although, I do think the flaming brooms would make it more exciting.
Go Canada.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
All That Glitters...
Congratulations Alexandre Bilodeau for winning the first gold medal on Canadian soil. Whew, what a relief. Now the nation can finally relax knowing that we have achieved this seemingly elusive and momentous goal...at least that's what every talking head on CTV, TSN, TSN2, Sportsnet and every other media outlet of the vast Globemedia empire has been telling us. Bow down to the Globe.
If you're like me, you get caught up in the excitement of Olympic competition, even if it comes from events that we might otherwise ignore in our local paper on our way to looking up the latest NHL standings. There is something about these games that capture the imagination and elevate sports competition to something more profound.
The Olympics also reveal something of an ugly side to international competition and competition in general: the obsession with winners and losers. Such an attitude has always been the trademark of our neighbors to the south, and Canadians in general have always found this mindset to be a bit presumptuous. Patriotism is a notion that makes us squirm on our chesterfields as we snack on Timbits whilst sipping a cold Canadian.
That seems to have changed with the Vancouver Olympics. The media rhetoric has shifted from "wish our athletes well" to "own the podium." For the past year or so, every story of every athlete in every competition has been about who will win the first gold on Canadian soil. As the games drew closer, the discussion reached a fever pitch, until finally on Day 1 of competition Darren Dutchyshen, a TSN anchor most notable for his ability to talk for 30 minutes straight without drawing a breath or blinking, proclaimed that a gold medal for Canada in Vancouver was 'inevitable'.
I guess what I find unsettling about all this Canadian smack talk is that, well, it's Canadian smack talk. Sure, I would love to see Canadian athletes achieve great things, but I can also appreciate that there are 30 million other Canadians who will not be donning spandex jumpsuits, careening down an ice track, soaring off a mountain ramp or flipping our partners through the air to the tune of Songbird. So yes, as trite as it may sound, just getting to the Olympics is a significant victory in and of itself.
Hey, I'm all for aiming high, but it really irks me when the media bobbleheads prattle on about how close Jennifer Heil came to gold. As if that was the only story angle worthy of discussion. Sure, I wanted it, and I'm fairly certain Jennifer wanted it, but it's Olympic freakin' silver, not 99th place. I didn't see any shame on her face.
For me the highlight of the Vancouver games thus far was Kristina Groves, the Canadian speedskater who won bronze in an event that was not even her strength. You could see pure joy in her face as well as immense pride. Anyone who watched her team-mate Clara Hughes win any medal in any event she'd ever competed in, would recognize that reaction. It's no surprise Clara was chosen as the flag bearer for Canada. Not only because of her bold competitive spirit, but that she has always accepted the results with a blushing grace and a jubilant smile.
I think it's important to support our nation's athletes, to cheer them on with passion, but also to celebrate their victories be they personal bests or any one of the three medals. As a nation we have to get over this notion that humility and grace somehow equals weakness and failure. Let the athletes do what they do best without the added pressure of some media contrived conception that winning a piece of metal within your own borders is the only worthy form of validation.
No matter the outcome, our athletes have done us proud simply by having the courage, determination and heart to take on the world's best. The reward for such an audacious act is far more valuable than a forged chunk of metal.
Go Canada.
If you're like me, you get caught up in the excitement of Olympic competition, even if it comes from events that we might otherwise ignore in our local paper on our way to looking up the latest NHL standings. There is something about these games that capture the imagination and elevate sports competition to something more profound.
The Olympics also reveal something of an ugly side to international competition and competition in general: the obsession with winners and losers. Such an attitude has always been the trademark of our neighbors to the south, and Canadians in general have always found this mindset to be a bit presumptuous. Patriotism is a notion that makes us squirm on our chesterfields as we snack on Timbits whilst sipping a cold Canadian.
That seems to have changed with the Vancouver Olympics. The media rhetoric has shifted from "wish our athletes well" to "own the podium." For the past year or so, every story of every athlete in every competition has been about who will win the first gold on Canadian soil. As the games drew closer, the discussion reached a fever pitch, until finally on Day 1 of competition Darren Dutchyshen, a TSN anchor most notable for his ability to talk for 30 minutes straight without drawing a breath or blinking, proclaimed that a gold medal for Canada in Vancouver was 'inevitable'.
I guess what I find unsettling about all this Canadian smack talk is that, well, it's Canadian smack talk. Sure, I would love to see Canadian athletes achieve great things, but I can also appreciate that there are 30 million other Canadians who will not be donning spandex jumpsuits, careening down an ice track, soaring off a mountain ramp or flipping our partners through the air to the tune of Songbird. So yes, as trite as it may sound, just getting to the Olympics is a significant victory in and of itself.
Hey, I'm all for aiming high, but it really irks me when the media bobbleheads prattle on about how close Jennifer Heil came to gold. As if that was the only story angle worthy of discussion. Sure, I wanted it, and I'm fairly certain Jennifer wanted it, but it's Olympic freakin' silver, not 99th place. I didn't see any shame on her face.
For me the highlight of the Vancouver games thus far was Kristina Groves, the Canadian speedskater who won bronze in an event that was not even her strength. You could see pure joy in her face as well as immense pride. Anyone who watched her team-mate Clara Hughes win any medal in any event she'd ever competed in, would recognize that reaction. It's no surprise Clara was chosen as the flag bearer for Canada. Not only because of her bold competitive spirit, but that she has always accepted the results with a blushing grace and a jubilant smile.
I think it's important to support our nation's athletes, to cheer them on with passion, but also to celebrate their victories be they personal bests or any one of the three medals. As a nation we have to get over this notion that humility and grace somehow equals weakness and failure. Let the athletes do what they do best without the added pressure of some media contrived conception that winning a piece of metal within your own borders is the only worthy form of validation.
No matter the outcome, our athletes have done us proud simply by having the courage, determination and heart to take on the world's best. The reward for such an audacious act is far more valuable than a forged chunk of metal.
Go Canada.
Friday, February 12, 2010
The Friday time-waster supreme
It’s Friday! In honour of the end of another five days working for the man, here are some completely useless random thoughts.
Ever noticed how some American sports trophies, like the Vince Lombardi or the World Series trophy, lack one key item? You can’t drink out of them. Unlike the Stanley Cup and Grey Cup from which many a delightful beverage has been slurped.
Can someone please tell Jacques Martin that the Brylcreem era ended at least 35 years ago?
In a province where greasy deep-fried potato strips covered in thick gravy and curd cheese has become the fifth food group, why didn’t Krispy Kreme donuts catch on?
Hey, Charest and Tremblay, your electoral status is hanging by a thread. Do you really want to float the idea of another gas tax?
I keep getting these updates from iTunes. When I install them, absolutely nothing changes. If I had to fix my work that often for no apparent reason I’d have been fired years ago.
People are getting very upset that it’s raining in Vancouver this February…just like it has every February for the past fifty thousand years.
The east coast of the United States, including Washington D.C. and New York, have just been pummeled by two massive snowstorms with a third apparently on the way. Meanwhile Montreal has been relatively mild and without any significant precipitation for several weeks. I don’t have a point here, except to say Ha-Ha!
For all those people who smugly remind us that 2010 is not the first year of the next decade, but the last year of the last decade, I have one word for you: eHarmony
All drive-thrus should be built on a downgrade. That way you can turn off your engine when waiting in a big lineup for your double-double.
And finally… Abe Vigoda, still alive. Who knew?
Enjoy your weekend.
Ever noticed how some American sports trophies, like the Vince Lombardi or the World Series trophy, lack one key item? You can’t drink out of them. Unlike the Stanley Cup and Grey Cup from which many a delightful beverage has been slurped.
Can someone please tell Jacques Martin that the Brylcreem era ended at least 35 years ago?
In a province where greasy deep-fried potato strips covered in thick gravy and curd cheese has become the fifth food group, why didn’t Krispy Kreme donuts catch on?
Hey, Charest and Tremblay, your electoral status is hanging by a thread. Do you really want to float the idea of another gas tax?
I keep getting these updates from iTunes. When I install them, absolutely nothing changes. If I had to fix my work that often for no apparent reason I’d have been fired years ago.
People are getting very upset that it’s raining in Vancouver this February…just like it has every February for the past fifty thousand years.
The east coast of the United States, including Washington D.C. and New York, have just been pummeled by two massive snowstorms with a third apparently on the way. Meanwhile Montreal has been relatively mild and without any significant precipitation for several weeks. I don’t have a point here, except to say Ha-Ha!
For all those people who smugly remind us that 2010 is not the first year of the next decade, but the last year of the last decade, I have one word for you: eHarmony
All drive-thrus should be built on a downgrade. That way you can turn off your engine when waiting in a big lineup for your double-double.
And finally… Abe Vigoda, still alive. Who knew?
Enjoy your weekend.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Scandal, American Style
Who the heck is Adam Giambrone? Well, according to the news last night, Mr. Giambrone is a young and ambitious Toronto city councilor who just recently joined the mayoralty campaign. By the way, mayoralty is a lot easier to write than say…anyway where was I? Right, Mr. Giabrone, a promising young candidate, was recently caught in what the reporter described as 'an American style political sex scandal.'
First off, since when did Americans corner the market on sex scandals? Politicians have been secretly bed-hopping long before Columbus crashed the Santa Maria into the Bahamas and declared “look everyone, the Indies!” as the natives looked on thinking “this can’t be good.”
Of course when it comes to political sex scandals, Americans are true to their philosophy of go big or go home. The names Kennedy and Clinton come to mind, but the more entertaining ones are guys like Eliot Spitzer. Remember him? The former governor of New York who in his earlier life as a prosecutor crusaded against, among other things, prostitution rings. His career ended with the discovery that he had a certain 'business relationship' with (surprise) a prostitute. And Alanis sings “isn’t it ironic…?”
Who can forget South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford? The politician who mysteriously disappeared for an entire week. When he finally surfaced he claimed he’d gone on some sort of mystical walkabout on the Appalachian Trail. It was later discovered that he’d hopped the redeye to Argentina for some matress-gymnastics with a secret liaison. So, let me get this straight, you leave your wife, kids and STATE GOVERNOR'S OFFICE for a fling in SOUTH AMERICA, and you think no one will notice? Like he couldn't find a Motel 6 anywhere in South Carolina.
These two horn-dogs have nothing on former Democratic Presidential hopeful John Edwards. Not only did Edwards have an affair, it also produced a “love child” that he resolutely denied being his. Faced with a torrent of allegations and potential DNA evidence he was forced to admit the affair and its resulting spawn. Oh yeah, did I mention that said affair took place while his wife was undergoing treatment for breast cancer. And Satan says “Dude, that’s cold.”
Getting back to Giambrone and his “American style political sex scandal”, or ASPSS. It seems the young candidate, once described as the golden boy of Toronto municipal politics, had been cheating on his partner of many years with a young college student. Apparently some of their “encounters” took place on the sofa in his office in City Hall, no doubt during an intensive study of his political briefs. As you can imagine there was no way this kind of story was going to stay contained.
You have to wonder what is wrong with his brain. After all, if you’re a young, upstart politician with the audacity of running for mayor of the biggest city in Canada, wouldn’t it make sense to clean out the ol’ closet first? Did he honestly think reporters would salivate over his electoral platform and promises of political reform? No, no, no skippy, if you want to get a reporters mojo going, just drop a tiniest hint of indiscretion and watch them feed like ravenous wolves.
To make matters even weirder, once the story broke the ‘other woman’ allegedly started sending photos of herself to the media so that the image used in their reports would make her appear sexier. And Scooby Doo says “ruh-ruh?!”
Personally, I think anyone skulking off behind the back of their spouse or partner for some surreptitious nookie is a selfish and callous cretin, but that’s just me. Even if you lack the intestinal fortitude to keep your overactive libido in check, to have the gall to think you can carry on at will under the glare of the public eye is the pinnacle of arrogance. Even Tiger Woods couldn’t pull it off, and he had the best clean up crew in the galaxy (although in his case, quantity that was his undoing, but that’s another blog).
I guess public humiliation is one thing that knows no nationality, although I think some of these guys could use a good old fashioned CHGBD also know as a ‘Canadian hockey goon beat down.'
Who the heck is Adam Giambrone? Today, nobody.
First off, since when did Americans corner the market on sex scandals? Politicians have been secretly bed-hopping long before Columbus crashed the Santa Maria into the Bahamas and declared “look everyone, the Indies!” as the natives looked on thinking “this can’t be good.”
Of course when it comes to political sex scandals, Americans are true to their philosophy of go big or go home. The names Kennedy and Clinton come to mind, but the more entertaining ones are guys like Eliot Spitzer. Remember him? The former governor of New York who in his earlier life as a prosecutor crusaded against, among other things, prostitution rings. His career ended with the discovery that he had a certain 'business relationship' with (surprise) a prostitute. And Alanis sings “isn’t it ironic…?”
Who can forget South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford? The politician who mysteriously disappeared for an entire week. When he finally surfaced he claimed he’d gone on some sort of mystical walkabout on the Appalachian Trail. It was later discovered that he’d hopped the redeye to Argentina for some matress-gymnastics with a secret liaison. So, let me get this straight, you leave your wife, kids and STATE GOVERNOR'S OFFICE for a fling in SOUTH AMERICA, and you think no one will notice? Like he couldn't find a Motel 6 anywhere in South Carolina.
These two horn-dogs have nothing on former Democratic Presidential hopeful John Edwards. Not only did Edwards have an affair, it also produced a “love child” that he resolutely denied being his. Faced with a torrent of allegations and potential DNA evidence he was forced to admit the affair and its resulting spawn. Oh yeah, did I mention that said affair took place while his wife was undergoing treatment for breast cancer. And Satan says “Dude, that’s cold.”
Getting back to Giambrone and his “American style political sex scandal”, or ASPSS. It seems the young candidate, once described as the golden boy of Toronto municipal politics, had been cheating on his partner of many years with a young college student. Apparently some of their “encounters” took place on the sofa in his office in City Hall, no doubt during an intensive study of his political briefs. As you can imagine there was no way this kind of story was going to stay contained.
You have to wonder what is wrong with his brain. After all, if you’re a young, upstart politician with the audacity of running for mayor of the biggest city in Canada, wouldn’t it make sense to clean out the ol’ closet first? Did he honestly think reporters would salivate over his electoral platform and promises of political reform? No, no, no skippy, if you want to get a reporters mojo going, just drop a tiniest hint of indiscretion and watch them feed like ravenous wolves.
To make matters even weirder, once the story broke the ‘other woman’ allegedly started sending photos of herself to the media so that the image used in their reports would make her appear sexier. And Scooby Doo says “ruh-ruh?!”
Personally, I think anyone skulking off behind the back of their spouse or partner for some surreptitious nookie is a selfish and callous cretin, but that’s just me. Even if you lack the intestinal fortitude to keep your overactive libido in check, to have the gall to think you can carry on at will under the glare of the public eye is the pinnacle of arrogance. Even Tiger Woods couldn’t pull it off, and he had the best clean up crew in the galaxy (although in his case, quantity that was his undoing, but that’s another blog).
I guess public humiliation is one thing that knows no nationality, although I think some of these guys could use a good old fashioned CHGBD also know as a ‘Canadian hockey goon beat down.'
Who the heck is Adam Giambrone? Today, nobody.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Give Me A Brake
We’ve all done it at one point in our lives. A single moment of ineptitude caused by either a lack of caffeine, or sleep, or both. That one time when we said or did something so breathtakingly brainless at exactly the wrong time so as to completely undermine whatever credibility we’ve scraped together over a lifetime.
At the moment, that dubious honour belongs to the Toyota Motor Company. For them it is a sticky accelerator and faulty brakes, which short of a spontaneously detaching steering wheel and an exploding gas tank, are about the two worst things that could happen to a car. As automaker 'oopsies' go, these two are biggies.
I actually feel bad for Toyota. As a former owner of two Toyotas, a Tercel and Corolla, I can attest that they were both significantly better built and more reliable than any other vehicle I have driven. A Tercel, which I owned for 8 years and a Corolla, which lasted 13 years, had very few if any maintenance issues, and with one exception, both cars started every time I turned the key (the one exception: a dead battery after 12 years of use).
Toyota’s reputation for building affordable, reliable and long-lasting vehicles has, until recently, been the envy of the automotive world. This wasn’t always the case. Like many Japanese automakers, their entry into the North American marketplace was less than stellar. Like Honda and Datsun (now Nissan), their vehicles had a reputation for being small, clunky, bland, rust-buckets (I'm excluding the sports-cars, some of which were pretty cool). Mechanically they were sound, which became the platform upon which all three automakers began an aggressive campaign to improve quality and performance.
As a child of the seventies, I witnessed the point at which North American automakers, who frequently mocked their Japanese competitors, began to churn out model after model of poorly made, mediocre cars. The Vega, the Pinto, the Pacer, the Cordoba, not to mention the inexplicably underpowered Mustang II. These cars were fraught with mechanical and handling issues as well as being prone to severe rust damage. In a word, they were crap.
The big three didn’t care. They had a fat load of market share and a consumer base drunk on the notion that anything made outside of North America was scrap. So on they went slapping together their shiny rattleboxes, seemingly oblivious to their Japanese counterpart's military-like approach to quality improvement. Surely they would figure it out eventually.
Fast-forward to 2009 and there are the big three automakers begging Washington for handouts as the bottom falls out of the economy. Could it be that their troubles had more to do with continuing to produce four wheeled trash cans for the past few decades?
Now, as Toyota scrambles to rebuild a damaged reputation, there are smirking shots being leveled from those same companies who just a few months ago had there hands out in on the steps of Capitol hill. Really? Are we going to get into a quality debate between Toyota and let's say GM? I can’t tell you exactly how many Caveliers, Sunfires, Pontiac 6000s and sundry other similar clunkers came and went in the life of my Corolla, but there were enough to make a ponderous pile of scrap metal. Don’t bring a rubber chicken to a knife fight.
The irony is, the big three automakers are most certainly no strangers to massive recalls and disquieting safety issues. Need I bring up the aforementioned Pinto?
In fairness to North American automakers, they have made some significant quality improvements. Ford is clearly a standout, having said no to bailout money they went on to demonstrate an ability to produce affordable quality cars and trucks. In the seventies, the name Ford became an acronym for Found On Road Dead. At least some things have changed.
What really irks me about the floundering North American car business is that Canadian and American auto workers, dealerships and mechanics, who are an important part of our economy, are the ones who have paid the biggest price for the worst of the big three’s arrogance. The decision to build quality vehicles comes from the top down. None of those smarmy, fat-ass executives will have to suffer and certainly pointing a derisive finger at Toyota won't 'get America working again'.
My hope is that Toyota will be able to bounce back from this damaging setback. If anything because their reputation for quality, as is also true for Honda and Nissan, was hard fought and well earned. After all, a post-recalled Toyota would still be considered higher in overall quality than most North American cars. It’s about consumer confidence, and the big three need to work a lot harder to get it back. Taking shots at a company many still consider a quality leader ain’t gonna to cut it.
At the moment, that dubious honour belongs to the Toyota Motor Company. For them it is a sticky accelerator and faulty brakes, which short of a spontaneously detaching steering wheel and an exploding gas tank, are about the two worst things that could happen to a car. As automaker 'oopsies' go, these two are biggies.
I actually feel bad for Toyota. As a former owner of two Toyotas, a Tercel and Corolla, I can attest that they were both significantly better built and more reliable than any other vehicle I have driven. A Tercel, which I owned for 8 years and a Corolla, which lasted 13 years, had very few if any maintenance issues, and with one exception, both cars started every time I turned the key (the one exception: a dead battery after 12 years of use).
Toyota’s reputation for building affordable, reliable and long-lasting vehicles has, until recently, been the envy of the automotive world. This wasn’t always the case. Like many Japanese automakers, their entry into the North American marketplace was less than stellar. Like Honda and Datsun (now Nissan), their vehicles had a reputation for being small, clunky, bland, rust-buckets (I'm excluding the sports-cars, some of which were pretty cool). Mechanically they were sound, which became the platform upon which all three automakers began an aggressive campaign to improve quality and performance.
As a child of the seventies, I witnessed the point at which North American automakers, who frequently mocked their Japanese competitors, began to churn out model after model of poorly made, mediocre cars. The Vega, the Pinto, the Pacer, the Cordoba, not to mention the inexplicably underpowered Mustang II. These cars were fraught with mechanical and handling issues as well as being prone to severe rust damage. In a word, they were crap.
The big three didn’t care. They had a fat load of market share and a consumer base drunk on the notion that anything made outside of North America was scrap. So on they went slapping together their shiny rattleboxes, seemingly oblivious to their Japanese counterpart's military-like approach to quality improvement. Surely they would figure it out eventually.
Fast-forward to 2009 and there are the big three automakers begging Washington for handouts as the bottom falls out of the economy. Could it be that their troubles had more to do with continuing to produce four wheeled trash cans for the past few decades?
Now, as Toyota scrambles to rebuild a damaged reputation, there are smirking shots being leveled from those same companies who just a few months ago had there hands out in on the steps of Capitol hill. Really? Are we going to get into a quality debate between Toyota and let's say GM? I can’t tell you exactly how many Caveliers, Sunfires, Pontiac 6000s and sundry other similar clunkers came and went in the life of my Corolla, but there were enough to make a ponderous pile of scrap metal. Don’t bring a rubber chicken to a knife fight.
The irony is, the big three automakers are most certainly no strangers to massive recalls and disquieting safety issues. Need I bring up the aforementioned Pinto?
In fairness to North American automakers, they have made some significant quality improvements. Ford is clearly a standout, having said no to bailout money they went on to demonstrate an ability to produce affordable quality cars and trucks. In the seventies, the name Ford became an acronym for Found On Road Dead. At least some things have changed.
What really irks me about the floundering North American car business is that Canadian and American auto workers, dealerships and mechanics, who are an important part of our economy, are the ones who have paid the biggest price for the worst of the big three’s arrogance. The decision to build quality vehicles comes from the top down. None of those smarmy, fat-ass executives will have to suffer and certainly pointing a derisive finger at Toyota won't 'get America working again'.
My hope is that Toyota will be able to bounce back from this damaging setback. If anything because their reputation for quality, as is also true for Honda and Nissan, was hard fought and well earned. After all, a post-recalled Toyota would still be considered higher in overall quality than most North American cars. It’s about consumer confidence, and the big three need to work a lot harder to get it back. Taking shots at a company many still consider a quality leader ain’t gonna to cut it.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Rinkside memories
Yesterday, Bob Gainey stepped down from his position as the Canadiens General Manager after a tumultuous six-year tenure. Predictably, this move has sent the multitude of local media into a mouth-frothing tizzy. Well, you know what they say about opinions, like that certain part of the anatomy, everyone’s got one. In this city, there are some with more than one.
Montreal loves its team, at least you’d think that was the case. Unfortunately it seems that you can’t be an analyst of the Habs unless you can find something wrong with the players, the management, the ownership, the guy who washes the towels and Youppi.
There are an absurd number of panel shows staffed by self-proclaimed experts and insiders who spend most of their time wailing like a gaggle of screaming banshees, ranting on about the skills, abilities and language of any given player. Like any one of these wild-eyed hacks could last three seconds in an NHL game, let alone manage a hockey franchise with the distinguished history and passionate fan base as the Montreal Canadiens.
That is not to say there are not some brilliant hockey minds out there, as well as sports reporters who are intelligent enough to side-step the hype and let the story be told. Sadly, they are few and far between.
Allow me to get my cardigan, slippers and pipe so I can tell you about my fondest hockey memory. I grew up as a fan of the Canadiens which began in the early seventies. My family would sit around the TV on Saturday night and watch the Habs on Hockey Night in Canada. Danny Gallivan made the call as those now legendary names charged over the blue line. Henri Richard, Yvon Cornoyer, Serge Savard, Steve Shutt and the unforgettable Guy Lafleur. We shouted and cheered and chewed our nails off as Ken Dryden kicked and grabbed at flying pucks, Larry Robinson slammed opposing players into the boards, Bob Gainey back-checked then skillfully moved the puck ahead. Win or lose, as the credits rolled at the end of the telecast the television was turned off. Tomorrow was another day.
In 1979 I had the rare opportunity of seeing a game at the old Forum with seats right down at ice level. As was often the case, it was the father of a friend who had got tickets through his work. My friend and I sat on the edge of our seats watching the warm up with wide-eyed facsincation as the legendary Canadiens glided past, effortlessly snapping shots and sliding laser-like passes back and forth. For a young fan, the sights and sounds were intoxicating. The puck pinging off a goal post, the deep thud from Dryden's pads, the sharp crack on the boards, the solid ‘tock’ as it hit the blade of a stick, the ‘rasp-rasp’ of steel on ice, the growing thrum of the crowd.
As if this were not enough, a moment I will never forget. Bob Gainey, Larry Robinson and Guy Lafleur paused to stand together just a few feet in front of us. There, on the other side of the glass, three iconic hockey heroes.
In the near forty years I have cheered for this team, that moment stands above all others. Why? Because it was pure and simple and everything that being a fan of any team is all about. To have heroes who elevate us above our mundane, every-day lives, to help us set higher standards for ourselves. To see a person use all of their skills and abilities to excel, which in turn gives us inspiration to at least try to do the same in whatever we do.
Today I’m not in the mood to discuss trade deadlines, salary caps and arbitration, plus-minuses and all the other flotsam that seems to permeate every single discussion of the game of hockey today. I will say that I believe Bob Gainey when he says that he tried his best, and I for one am in no position to judge if his best was good enough. As a fan who watched him play, I know he gave his all and that kind of passion just doesn’t go away. Like it or not, he did it his way and let the chips fall. Which is why for me he was and still is a hero of the game, and we are all fortunate to have him.
Thanks again, Bob.
Montreal loves its team, at least you’d think that was the case. Unfortunately it seems that you can’t be an analyst of the Habs unless you can find something wrong with the players, the management, the ownership, the guy who washes the towels and Youppi.
There are an absurd number of panel shows staffed by self-proclaimed experts and insiders who spend most of their time wailing like a gaggle of screaming banshees, ranting on about the skills, abilities and language of any given player. Like any one of these wild-eyed hacks could last three seconds in an NHL game, let alone manage a hockey franchise with the distinguished history and passionate fan base as the Montreal Canadiens.
That is not to say there are not some brilliant hockey minds out there, as well as sports reporters who are intelligent enough to side-step the hype and let the story be told. Sadly, they are few and far between.
Allow me to get my cardigan, slippers and pipe so I can tell you about my fondest hockey memory. I grew up as a fan of the Canadiens which began in the early seventies. My family would sit around the TV on Saturday night and watch the Habs on Hockey Night in Canada. Danny Gallivan made the call as those now legendary names charged over the blue line. Henri Richard, Yvon Cornoyer, Serge Savard, Steve Shutt and the unforgettable Guy Lafleur. We shouted and cheered and chewed our nails off as Ken Dryden kicked and grabbed at flying pucks, Larry Robinson slammed opposing players into the boards, Bob Gainey back-checked then skillfully moved the puck ahead. Win or lose, as the credits rolled at the end of the telecast the television was turned off. Tomorrow was another day.
In 1979 I had the rare opportunity of seeing a game at the old Forum with seats right down at ice level. As was often the case, it was the father of a friend who had got tickets through his work. My friend and I sat on the edge of our seats watching the warm up with wide-eyed facsincation as the legendary Canadiens glided past, effortlessly snapping shots and sliding laser-like passes back and forth. For a young fan, the sights and sounds were intoxicating. The puck pinging off a goal post, the deep thud from Dryden's pads, the sharp crack on the boards, the solid ‘tock’ as it hit the blade of a stick, the ‘rasp-rasp’ of steel on ice, the growing thrum of the crowd.
As if this were not enough, a moment I will never forget. Bob Gainey, Larry Robinson and Guy Lafleur paused to stand together just a few feet in front of us. There, on the other side of the glass, three iconic hockey heroes.
In the near forty years I have cheered for this team, that moment stands above all others. Why? Because it was pure and simple and everything that being a fan of any team is all about. To have heroes who elevate us above our mundane, every-day lives, to help us set higher standards for ourselves. To see a person use all of their skills and abilities to excel, which in turn gives us inspiration to at least try to do the same in whatever we do.
Today I’m not in the mood to discuss trade deadlines, salary caps and arbitration, plus-minuses and all the other flotsam that seems to permeate every single discussion of the game of hockey today. I will say that I believe Bob Gainey when he says that he tried his best, and I for one am in no position to judge if his best was good enough. As a fan who watched him play, I know he gave his all and that kind of passion just doesn’t go away. Like it or not, he did it his way and let the chips fall. Which is why for me he was and still is a hero of the game, and we are all fortunate to have him.
Thanks again, Bob.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Scene it, done it.
I’ve often said to my teenage son that you have to live long enough to appreciate some of the amazing changes that can happen in the world. This elicits the typical teen response of a blank look with the hint of a nod that has more to do with the song being blared into his skull, via earphones rammed deep in his ear canals, performed by a band named Death Blood War, featuring the lyrics “don’t listen to your parents, they’re all insane.”
Of course, I can’t expect much of a response from such a statement, as I am sure I would've had the same reaction when I was his age, except perhaps I would have added a yawn.
There have been some incredible things that have happened in my lifetime. The falling of the Berlin wall, peace in Ireland, the end of Apartheid. True, there have been some equally terrible events, but unfortunately tragedy is an all too familiar and inevitable reality of life. It is those joyously unexpected and history-altering moments of positive change that seem to transcend the muck and mire of the human experience.
There are also some trivial, but no less cool innovations that have come along over the years that still amaze me. Computers, ATMs, Google, iPods, microwaves, cell phones, YouTube, the list goes on and on. These are all things that either did not exist or were not in common use when I was young (back when the earth’s crust was cooling).
The downside to bearing witness to decades of social and political change, as well as technical innovation, is the realization that as a species we’re about as original as moss. Case in point, during the Super-dee-duper-bowl television bombast on Sunday we were treated to three movie trailer commercials, two of which were do-overs of stories that have been told, in one form or another, a modest googa-trillion times.
Robin Hood stars Russel Crowe as the famous green-tights-wearing rogue in the latest iteration of the ancient legend. I suspect he’ll have a better go of the English accent than the myopic choice of Kevin Costner in the last Hollywood adaptation, Robin Hood Prince of Thieves. The only thievery in that bucket of rotten clams was the cost of admission. The Wolfman, another not very original story, features Benicio del Toro as an American in Victorian England who, due to some unfortunate and mysterious incident, is destined to be transformed into the infamous rabid man/labradoodle. In yet another odd piece of casting del Toro, a Spanish-speaking Puerto Rican, is required to fake an American accent...in England. Go figure.
Is it me, or has the movie business finally run out of ideas? Robin Hood and The Wolfman (which would be a cool movie idea right there) come on the heels of a string of Hollywood franchise resuscitations: Sherlock Holmes, Star Trek, Battlestar Galactica, not to mention the inexplicable and ironically undying obsession with vampires and zombies. You’d think by now that the viewing public would've had enough of these juvenile, asinine rip-offs, but audiences just eat is up like zombies chowing down on a fresh spleen.
So who’s to blame here? Is it us for willingly forking out our fun-money for this regurgitated pabulum, or the entertainment industry, so terrified of embracing new ideas, that they creatively phone-it-in, then leave it to the CGI folks to make it look new and interesting. It’s hard to know, but I can say this much, there are more than a few of us who have been around long enough to say read it, seen it, bought the DVD, now show me something new.
I just hope they get the message before they cast Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson as King Arthur.
Of course, I can’t expect much of a response from such a statement, as I am sure I would've had the same reaction when I was his age, except perhaps I would have added a yawn.
There have been some incredible things that have happened in my lifetime. The falling of the Berlin wall, peace in Ireland, the end of Apartheid. True, there have been some equally terrible events, but unfortunately tragedy is an all too familiar and inevitable reality of life. It is those joyously unexpected and history-altering moments of positive change that seem to transcend the muck and mire of the human experience.
There are also some trivial, but no less cool innovations that have come along over the years that still amaze me. Computers, ATMs, Google, iPods, microwaves, cell phones, YouTube, the list goes on and on. These are all things that either did not exist or were not in common use when I was young (back when the earth’s crust was cooling).
The downside to bearing witness to decades of social and political change, as well as technical innovation, is the realization that as a species we’re about as original as moss. Case in point, during the Super-dee-duper-bowl television bombast on Sunday we were treated to three movie trailer commercials, two of which were do-overs of stories that have been told, in one form or another, a modest googa-trillion times.
Robin Hood stars Russel Crowe as the famous green-tights-wearing rogue in the latest iteration of the ancient legend. I suspect he’ll have a better go of the English accent than the myopic choice of Kevin Costner in the last Hollywood adaptation, Robin Hood Prince of Thieves. The only thievery in that bucket of rotten clams was the cost of admission. The Wolfman, another not very original story, features Benicio del Toro as an American in Victorian England who, due to some unfortunate and mysterious incident, is destined to be transformed into the infamous rabid man/labradoodle. In yet another odd piece of casting del Toro, a Spanish-speaking Puerto Rican, is required to fake an American accent...in England. Go figure.
Is it me, or has the movie business finally run out of ideas? Robin Hood and The Wolfman (which would be a cool movie idea right there) come on the heels of a string of Hollywood franchise resuscitations: Sherlock Holmes, Star Trek, Battlestar Galactica, not to mention the inexplicable and ironically undying obsession with vampires and zombies. You’d think by now that the viewing public would've had enough of these juvenile, asinine rip-offs, but audiences just eat is up like zombies chowing down on a fresh spleen.
So who’s to blame here? Is it us for willingly forking out our fun-money for this regurgitated pabulum, or the entertainment industry, so terrified of embracing new ideas, that they creatively phone-it-in, then leave it to the CGI folks to make it look new and interesting. It’s hard to know, but I can say this much, there are more than a few of us who have been around long enough to say read it, seen it, bought the DVD, now show me something new.
I just hope they get the message before they cast Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson as King Arthur.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Go Leafs, Go
Last evening, amid preparing our teenager for the principal's dance at school, a raucous game of superheros with the five-year old and catching up on a growing pile of projects, came news that 21 year old Brendan Burke died tragically in a car accident. At the time, perhaps due to all of the distractions of the day, I hadn't put two and two together to realize that Brendan was the son of the Toronto Maple Leafs general manager Brian Burke.
Brian Burke has always had a reputation of being a tough, hard-nosed, no-bull kind of manager. His hockey business savvy has few rivals in the league. Many who know him, including the well spoken hockey-mind Pierre McGuire, know that most of what we see on screen is an act. Brian Burke the man, as we have been told, is a sincere, dedicated friend and in particular, a proud father.
Regardless of what anyone thinks of Brian Burke, we must acknowledge that this day his world is one of deep sorrow and loss.
I won't pretend to know his feelings, but I am not unfamiliar with his pain. It is the same pain that I witnessed in the eyes of my own parents when my brother was lost in similar circumstances at the young age of 23. As a parent, I can barely fathom the depths of despair that invariably accompanies such an unthinkable tragedy. It will never leave him, this profound hurt, but over time he will come to accept it and continue to live his life knowing a significant part of himself is gone forever.
No parent should have to live through such an event, but sadly for many people around the world, most recently in Haiti, the loss of a child is a far too familiar and heartbreaking reality.
That it should happen to a high-profile personality doesn't make it any more tragic or less sobering. It is only to remind us of the fragility of life and how each moment we spend with those we love is beyond human measure.
Today I let go of trivial and childish rivalries and stand with the Maple Leafs organization, and with Leafs nation, in mourning the devastating loss of Brendan Burke. I am a Leafs fan, if only for one day, in hopes that whatever the outcome on the ice, Brian and his family can have even the smallest moment of respite from a virtual sea of sorrow. I have to go hug my son now. Go Leafs Go.
Brian Burke has always had a reputation of being a tough, hard-nosed, no-bull kind of manager. His hockey business savvy has few rivals in the league. Many who know him, including the well spoken hockey-mind Pierre McGuire, know that most of what we see on screen is an act. Brian Burke the man, as we have been told, is a sincere, dedicated friend and in particular, a proud father.
Regardless of what anyone thinks of Brian Burke, we must acknowledge that this day his world is one of deep sorrow and loss.
I won't pretend to know his feelings, but I am not unfamiliar with his pain. It is the same pain that I witnessed in the eyes of my own parents when my brother was lost in similar circumstances at the young age of 23. As a parent, I can barely fathom the depths of despair that invariably accompanies such an unthinkable tragedy. It will never leave him, this profound hurt, but over time he will come to accept it and continue to live his life knowing a significant part of himself is gone forever.
No parent should have to live through such an event, but sadly for many people around the world, most recently in Haiti, the loss of a child is a far too familiar and heartbreaking reality.
That it should happen to a high-profile personality doesn't make it any more tragic or less sobering. It is only to remind us of the fragility of life and how each moment we spend with those we love is beyond human measure.
Today I let go of trivial and childish rivalries and stand with the Maple Leafs organization, and with Leafs nation, in mourning the devastating loss of Brendan Burke. I am a Leafs fan, if only for one day, in hopes that whatever the outcome on the ice, Brian and his family can have even the smallest moment of respite from a virtual sea of sorrow. I have to go hug my son now. Go Leafs Go.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Are you ready for some pre-game?
Back in my high school and university days, I like many others, had become something of a master of the use of filler. You know, the word equivalent of cellulite that was stuffed into a term paper to make it look like we knew more than we actually did. For example:
"The so-called missing link between humans and lower animals and their nearest ancestors the neanderthals, may indeed not be missing-link at all. This is the theme of this paper that I am in fact composing at this moment, that addresses the so-called missing link, which is a link that might indeed not actually be missing at all."
Rinse and repeat.
Most teachers were wise to this erroneous form of wordsmithing and would occasionally call us on it. Sure it was wrong, but there were far too many other equally valid activities in our young lives that demanded our time and attention as did our schoolwork. Some of which I have difficulty recalling at the moment, but I'm sure they were important.
Over the years we discover that filler exists just about everywhere. Food is probably the best (or perhaps worst) example. Just about every processed food product has some mysterious bulk inducing substance to convince us that we're getting more for less.
Anyone who has ever read an ad, or a CV, or a real estate listing, has encountered some of the most well-crafted say-nothing blather, conceived solely to distract the reader from discovering that the product, person or property is about as appealing as a slab of dry tofu. I know, I've written at least one of each.
All these these examples pale in comparison to the truly extraordinary capacity of television to pack every moment of broadcast time with pure unadulterated twaddle, and then hype the living daylights out of each and every second.
Consider CNN's recent coverage of the U.S. Presidential State of The Union address. The program consisted of a panel of about 8 political experts, another guy with some sort of smart screen to track preselected audience responses, and yet another overly peppy talking head monitoring Tweets as the speech progressed. All of this riveting lets-make-up-the-news news was moderated by the appropriately named Wolf Blitzer stalking the massive studio reminding the audience that CNN had the best political team in the history of humankind. But I paraphrase. Hey, here's a radical idea, why don't we just listen to the speech and form our own opinion?
This weekend brings us the annual orgy of sports coverage, the Superbowl. For four full hours we will be inundated with a torrent of hyperbole in the form of behind-the-scenes stories of players, coaches, general managers, team trainers, seamstresses and waterboys. At least once we will hear the words, "even though he is living a life long dream, today (enter player's name) will be playing with a heavy heart." Expect an unending stream of intricate and incomprehensible analysis of what each team must do, defensively and offensively, to win the most coveted trophy in the known universe. Even the most trivial aspect of the game, from the coin toss to the quarterback's choice of underwear, will be discussed and debated by a panel of former players and coaches who would much rather be suiting up to play than pretending to care about the pedantic poetic musings of the host.
Dress it up anyway you want, it's about as satisfying as that mysterious bulk inducing substance crammed into your chili dog, and about as good for you. Here's a radical idea, why not just watch the game?
I guess I'm bitter. Who knew you could actually get paid to generate reams of pointless double-talk?
Wait, I think I saw Wolf Blitzer at the window...
"The so-called missing link between humans and lower animals and their nearest ancestors the neanderthals, may indeed not be missing-link at all. This is the theme of this paper that I am in fact composing at this moment, that addresses the so-called missing link, which is a link that might indeed not actually be missing at all."
Rinse and repeat.
Most teachers were wise to this erroneous form of wordsmithing and would occasionally call us on it. Sure it was wrong, but there were far too many other equally valid activities in our young lives that demanded our time and attention as did our schoolwork. Some of which I have difficulty recalling at the moment, but I'm sure they were important.
Over the years we discover that filler exists just about everywhere. Food is probably the best (or perhaps worst) example. Just about every processed food product has some mysterious bulk inducing substance to convince us that we're getting more for less.
Anyone who has ever read an ad, or a CV, or a real estate listing, has encountered some of the most well-crafted say-nothing blather, conceived solely to distract the reader from discovering that the product, person or property is about as appealing as a slab of dry tofu. I know, I've written at least one of each.
All these these examples pale in comparison to the truly extraordinary capacity of television to pack every moment of broadcast time with pure unadulterated twaddle, and then hype the living daylights out of each and every second.
Consider CNN's recent coverage of the U.S. Presidential State of The Union address. The program consisted of a panel of about 8 political experts, another guy with some sort of smart screen to track preselected audience responses, and yet another overly peppy talking head monitoring Tweets as the speech progressed. All of this riveting lets-make-up-the-news news was moderated by the appropriately named Wolf Blitzer stalking the massive studio reminding the audience that CNN had the best political team in the history of humankind. But I paraphrase. Hey, here's a radical idea, why don't we just listen to the speech and form our own opinion?
This weekend brings us the annual orgy of sports coverage, the Superbowl. For four full hours we will be inundated with a torrent of hyperbole in the form of behind-the-scenes stories of players, coaches, general managers, team trainers, seamstresses and waterboys. At least once we will hear the words, "even though he is living a life long dream, today (enter player's name) will be playing with a heavy heart." Expect an unending stream of intricate and incomprehensible analysis of what each team must do, defensively and offensively, to win the most coveted trophy in the known universe. Even the most trivial aspect of the game, from the coin toss to the quarterback's choice of underwear, will be discussed and debated by a panel of former players and coaches who would much rather be suiting up to play than pretending to care about the pedantic poetic musings of the host.
Dress it up anyway you want, it's about as satisfying as that mysterious bulk inducing substance crammed into your chili dog, and about as good for you. Here's a radical idea, why not just watch the game?
I guess I'm bitter. Who knew you could actually get paid to generate reams of pointless double-talk?
Wait, I think I saw Wolf Blitzer at the window...
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Women are from Venus, men want to go to Mars
As Bill Cosby once said “I know women, I married a women, so I know women.”
It seems much has been written and debated about the differences between women and men. Aside from the obvious physiological differences (men have to aim in the bathroom, women don’t) it’s what happens between-the-ears that so fascinates us. Actually, to be honest, it only fascinates women, who seem oddly compelled to unravel the great mystery that is the male mind.
Well, allow me to save some cognitive resources that would best be employed solving the middle-east crisis, because here’s what’s going on in the male mind: nothing.
Okay now that we’ve cleared that up…
Of course, an answer that simple couldn’t possibly satisfy a mind engineered to deconstruct and analyze each and every detail of human behaviour, as does the female mind. In addition to the remarkable ability to identify and catagorize the minutia of every human interaction, there is the capacity to construct multiple scenarios as a way in which to understand their meaning.
Ladies really, you’re giving us way too much credit. Let me reiterate: nothing. This blog is about as accurate an interpretation of what most men are thinking, and it would have stopped two paragraphs ago.
To put it bluntly, men like to do stuff. We like to build cool things, do cool things, and go to cool places…that’s about it. We don’t want to go to Mars for the betterment of humanity and scientific knowledge, we want to go so we can come back and boast to all our buddies.
“Hey dude, I went to Mars.”
“Oh yeah, what was that like?”
“Cool.”
I recall hearing once that the male obsession with building things was based on a deep-rooted jealousy of women’s ability to bear children. Really? And just how many men do you know who could handle, or would even want to handle childbirth? We’ll take the big belly part, but everything else, forget it.
I remember a time some years ago when my wife and I were still dating. We were sitting together on a sofa on a warm summer evening, she was nestled beside me, my arm around her shoulders, while music played softly. Suddenly, without warning she turned to me and asked the question that every male who has ever had a female companion will one day be asked:
“What are you thinking?”
On the outside, most men will don a fake smile and attempt to give off an appearance of serenity and calm as we thoughtfully consider the question.
Inside our brains, someone has shouted red alert, and little men in grey jumpsuits start running around, crashing into one another, as lights flash and sirens blare.
There are only two possible scenarios, either you were thinking nothing, or whatever thought you did have was something that belonged in one place, and one place only: inside your head. So, I gave the standard answer.
“Do you really want to know?”
This is about the most pointless question a man could ever ask a woman, short of can't I just wear this?
“Yes, I really want to know.”
So, I was faced with a dilemma. Either I make something up, which, given the state of the men in the grey jumpsuits, was highly unlikely to sound even remotely plausible, let alone sincere. Or I just go with honesty and hope against hope that her judgment would be lenient. One last hope for a deflection…
“You really want to know?”
“I really want to know.”
Oh, this beautiful, compassionate, loving woman with such high hopes for poetry and prose, so anxious to hear profoundly romantic and heartfelt words.
“Well,” I said with a sigh, “if you must know, I was trying to figure out how to reach my beer without pushing you off the sofa.”
Honestly ladies, the middle-east could really use your expertise.
It seems much has been written and debated about the differences between women and men. Aside from the obvious physiological differences (men have to aim in the bathroom, women don’t) it’s what happens between-the-ears that so fascinates us. Actually, to be honest, it only fascinates women, who seem oddly compelled to unravel the great mystery that is the male mind.
Well, allow me to save some cognitive resources that would best be employed solving the middle-east crisis, because here’s what’s going on in the male mind: nothing.
Okay now that we’ve cleared that up…
Of course, an answer that simple couldn’t possibly satisfy a mind engineered to deconstruct and analyze each and every detail of human behaviour, as does the female mind. In addition to the remarkable ability to identify and catagorize the minutia of every human interaction, there is the capacity to construct multiple scenarios as a way in which to understand their meaning.
Ladies really, you’re giving us way too much credit. Let me reiterate: nothing. This blog is about as accurate an interpretation of what most men are thinking, and it would have stopped two paragraphs ago.
To put it bluntly, men like to do stuff. We like to build cool things, do cool things, and go to cool places…that’s about it. We don’t want to go to Mars for the betterment of humanity and scientific knowledge, we want to go so we can come back and boast to all our buddies.
“Hey dude, I went to Mars.”
“Oh yeah, what was that like?”
“Cool.”
I recall hearing once that the male obsession with building things was based on a deep-rooted jealousy of women’s ability to bear children. Really? And just how many men do you know who could handle, or would even want to handle childbirth? We’ll take the big belly part, but everything else, forget it.
I remember a time some years ago when my wife and I were still dating. We were sitting together on a sofa on a warm summer evening, she was nestled beside me, my arm around her shoulders, while music played softly. Suddenly, without warning she turned to me and asked the question that every male who has ever had a female companion will one day be asked:
“What are you thinking?”
On the outside, most men will don a fake smile and attempt to give off an appearance of serenity and calm as we thoughtfully consider the question.
Inside our brains, someone has shouted red alert, and little men in grey jumpsuits start running around, crashing into one another, as lights flash and sirens blare.
There are only two possible scenarios, either you were thinking nothing, or whatever thought you did have was something that belonged in one place, and one place only: inside your head. So, I gave the standard answer.
“Do you really want to know?”
This is about the most pointless question a man could ever ask a woman, short of can't I just wear this?
“Yes, I really want to know.”
So, I was faced with a dilemma. Either I make something up, which, given the state of the men in the grey jumpsuits, was highly unlikely to sound even remotely plausible, let alone sincere. Or I just go with honesty and hope against hope that her judgment would be lenient. One last hope for a deflection…
“You really want to know?”
“I really want to know.”
Oh, this beautiful, compassionate, loving woman with such high hopes for poetry and prose, so anxious to hear profoundly romantic and heartfelt words.
“Well,” I said with a sigh, “if you must know, I was trying to figure out how to reach my beer without pushing you off the sofa.”
Honestly ladies, the middle-east could really use your expertise.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Go ahead, say what you think, see if I care...
I've disabled some of the dense and confusing features for posting comments. So now you don't have to be a member of the Google empire to tell me that my writing would make healthy compost.
I believe this means you have to choose 'anonymous' to circumvent that whole security feature nonsense.
Rant away.
I believe this means you have to choose 'anonymous' to circumvent that whole security feature nonsense.
Rant away.
Tea Time in Space
So, President Barack Obama has cancelled the mission to the moon, or as Hollywood would call it: Moon, The Return, starring Tom Hanks as the loveable but hard-nosed mission control director, and Megan Fox as the smart, sexy but ultimately misunderstood, mission commander. Hell I’d pay to see it.
Where was I? Oh right, let me get this straight, President Obama, a Democrat, has pulled the plug on a financially bloated and grossly unnecessary government-funded bridge-to-absolutely-nowhere venture that was initiated (or re-initiated) by President Bush, a Republican, in 2004. If memory serves, it was President Kennedy, a Democrat, who first set the goal of landing a man on the moon, which in turn created the lunar mission program only to be cancelled by President Nixon, a Republican, after Apollo 17 in 1972.
Up is down, right is left, dogs and cats living together, what is going on here?
I’ll admit I’m a bit of a space exploration geek. There is something innately fascinating about setting off to discover distant and alien places. After all it was that pioneering spirit that first drew explorers to shores of the St. Lawrence in search of new worlds and new civilizations, boldly going where no man had gone before. Yeah, well that’s crap. They came here for the money. Based on a radical notion that the world was indeed round, and not flat (except for Saskatchewan), they set off seeking a faster route to the orient to cut down on the cost of tea and spices. They gleefully hopped off their boat, jabbed their flag into the muddy shores, exclaiming La Chine! Meanwhile, the Iroquois watched from the hills thinking “this can’t be good”.
When they finally figured out they were an entire continent short of reaching the far east, they bought a trunkload of tobacco and pipes from the natives, clubbed a couple of beavers and sent their best salesmen back home to convince the elite that wearing rodent pelts on their heads and smoke inhalation would be the next great fashion trends. Damn they were good.
Let’s face it, the one and only reason for going back to the moon was to make money. Since we’ve sucked just about every drop of oil from the earth, to the point where some parts of Alberta are starting to look like the moon, why not start drilling into the nearest celestial body (and no, I am not referring to Megan Fox again)?
Wait a second, flying off to another planet to rape its resources, somebody ought to make a movie about that.
A recent NASA mission did something for which the agency has developed a disturbing affinity, that is to crash an exceedingly expensive vehicle. The LCROSS (or Lunar Crater Observation and Sensing Satellite) was a probe designed to smash into the lunar surface, spraying millions of particles of moon bits into space. Knowing NASA's track record with these things, it had all the makings of another spectacularly embarassing failure. Imagine the headline:
NASA's High Impact Probe Couldn't Hit The Broadside of The Moon
Fortunately, this time the agency got it right. LCROSS slammed into the moon as planned, and poof, up when a plume of moon dust. The particles were then analyzed by a device I have dubbed the Articulate-matter Sensing System, or ASS, to determine if there were traces of frozen water on the moon. I’m not sure how frozen water on the moon somehow equals profit, unless they were also planning to find tea and spices there too, and so establish the first colony of genetically modified spiced-tea-drinking super-humans.
Well good news for all you lovers of billion year old, highly radioactive and insanely toxic water, they were right! I was however, disappointed to find out there were no traces of cheese.
If I’d only known that NASA was going to spend a terazillion dollars to travel to a desolate, remote and inhospitable place in search of water, I’d have gladly done it for half. Heck, after just a short drive out of town I could stand in the middle of a farmer’s field in minus 30 degree weather, it doesn’t get much more desolate, remote and inhospitable than that. And get this, there’s frozen water everywhere! I wonder if I have to supply my own earl grey and beaver pelt hat.
Where was I? Oh right, let me get this straight, President Obama, a Democrat, has pulled the plug on a financially bloated and grossly unnecessary government-funded bridge-to-absolutely-nowhere venture that was initiated (or re-initiated) by President Bush, a Republican, in 2004. If memory serves, it was President Kennedy, a Democrat, who first set the goal of landing a man on the moon, which in turn created the lunar mission program only to be cancelled by President Nixon, a Republican, after Apollo 17 in 1972.
Up is down, right is left, dogs and cats living together, what is going on here?
I’ll admit I’m a bit of a space exploration geek. There is something innately fascinating about setting off to discover distant and alien places. After all it was that pioneering spirit that first drew explorers to shores of the St. Lawrence in search of new worlds and new civilizations, boldly going where no man had gone before. Yeah, well that’s crap. They came here for the money. Based on a radical notion that the world was indeed round, and not flat (except for Saskatchewan), they set off seeking a faster route to the orient to cut down on the cost of tea and spices. They gleefully hopped off their boat, jabbed their flag into the muddy shores, exclaiming La Chine! Meanwhile, the Iroquois watched from the hills thinking “this can’t be good”.
When they finally figured out they were an entire continent short of reaching the far east, they bought a trunkload of tobacco and pipes from the natives, clubbed a couple of beavers and sent their best salesmen back home to convince the elite that wearing rodent pelts on their heads and smoke inhalation would be the next great fashion trends. Damn they were good.
Let’s face it, the one and only reason for going back to the moon was to make money. Since we’ve sucked just about every drop of oil from the earth, to the point where some parts of Alberta are starting to look like the moon, why not start drilling into the nearest celestial body (and no, I am not referring to Megan Fox again)?
Wait a second, flying off to another planet to rape its resources, somebody ought to make a movie about that.
A recent NASA mission did something for which the agency has developed a disturbing affinity, that is to crash an exceedingly expensive vehicle. The LCROSS (or Lunar Crater Observation and Sensing Satellite) was a probe designed to smash into the lunar surface, spraying millions of particles of moon bits into space. Knowing NASA's track record with these things, it had all the makings of another spectacularly embarassing failure. Imagine the headline:
NASA's High Impact Probe Couldn't Hit The Broadside of The Moon
Fortunately, this time the agency got it right. LCROSS slammed into the moon as planned, and poof, up when a plume of moon dust. The particles were then analyzed by a device I have dubbed the Articulate-matter Sensing System, or ASS, to determine if there were traces of frozen water on the moon. I’m not sure how frozen water on the moon somehow equals profit, unless they were also planning to find tea and spices there too, and so establish the first colony of genetically modified spiced-tea-drinking super-humans.
Well good news for all you lovers of billion year old, highly radioactive and insanely toxic water, they were right! I was however, disappointed to find out there were no traces of cheese.
If I’d only known that NASA was going to spend a terazillion dollars to travel to a desolate, remote and inhospitable place in search of water, I’d have gladly done it for half. Heck, after just a short drive out of town I could stand in the middle of a farmer’s field in minus 30 degree weather, it doesn’t get much more desolate, remote and inhospitable than that. And get this, there’s frozen water everywhere! I wonder if I have to supply my own earl grey and beaver pelt hat.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Am I what?!
I've decided to own up to my wicked past. Once, when I was at the tender age of thirteen, I snuck into a movie rated fourteen and over. Whew, I feel so much better getting that off my chest, the guilt has been crushing me all these years.
The success of my early teen subterfuge led to a few repeat offences in later years, most involved gaining access to certain establishments wherein minors where not permitted. I often boasted that these escapades were achieved without the benefit of a Hawaii driver's license with the name McGlovin. This still amazes me, particularly now when I look at old photos on myself as a teenager. Either the bouncers of that era suffered from some serious form of visual impairment or they just thought that anyone looking like I did, who had the cohones to think he could fool anyone into thinking that he was even close to adulthood, was worthy of a free pass. Regardless, my record stood for all these years: I've never been carded.
All of that came to a sad and disturbing end last evening whilst standing at the cash of a local discount store, who shall remain nameless (it begins with 'Z'). The cashier rang up my order...okay I'm dating myself, nobody rings up orders anymore, scanned is probably the term. At any rate, the cashier gave me the total and then asked a question that so stunned me, I had to ask her to repeat it.
So she did. "Are you 55 or older?"
Now, we've probably all, at one point in our lives, asked a question only to find ourselves wishing we had never opened our mouths, and then spent the rest of the day trying to invent a flux capacitor to travel back in time and repair the damage.
Questions like:
"How's the wife?" Reply: "We're divorced."
"How's business?" Reply: "We went bankrupt."
"How's your crazy dad?" Reply: "He's dead."
And the grandaddy of them all,
"When are you due?" Reply (wait for it): "I'm not pregnant."
Asking the question, "Are you 55 or over?" and overshooting the estimate by ten years, ranks pretty high in the inglorious anthology of regrettable questions.
For the record, I am NOT 55 or older. Middle aged, I suppose, but NOT 55.
In all honesty, I've never been too hung up on my age. In spite of a few unwelcome aches and pains, I still feel like I did in my twenties. My memory is the same as always, that is to say it's always been this bad. And I still don't know what I want to do with my life, even though I'm married with kids, a mortgage and a career.
As for a mid-life crisis, so far I haven't felt compelled to run out and buy a Harley or a Mustang, jab botox into my brows or audition for lead singer of a rock band (although, considering Mick Jagger's advanced age, I'd be a junior candidate).
That said, being asked if one is 55, by a discount store cashier, who by the way I'm certain was older than myself, was a fairly powerful blow to the ego. Not that there's anything wrong with being 55, just like there's nothing wrong with being a little overweight and not pregnant, of which I once again remind you am neither 55 nor pregnant. I'm just not ready to be 55 yet. I'm not even ready for 45, and that one's a lot closer.
Maybe it's just karmic justice for all those times when I was wasn't carded. Ironically, after finally being asked if I was old enough I was happy to say no.
All this to say, I'm okay with my age, and I suspect I'll be okay if I make it to 55 (which, if my investments continue their stellar performance, will be anything but Freedom 55). I've made it this far in one piece, with plenty of experiences, both good and bad to serve as a guide for whatever happens next. My life is great. I have two amazing sons, a wonderful, caring, and if I might add, beautiful wife, a home we love, with great neighbours, and a job where I work with a dedicated and fun group of people. Every day I am reminded of how truly fortunate I am.
So, at the end of the day, who cares if someone thinks I'm 55? I'm not going to let such trivial things define who I am, or derail me from pursuing just and humane aspirations.
Does anyone know when the Harley dealership opens?
The success of my early teen subterfuge led to a few repeat offences in later years, most involved gaining access to certain establishments wherein minors where not permitted. I often boasted that these escapades were achieved without the benefit of a Hawaii driver's license with the name McGlovin. This still amazes me, particularly now when I look at old photos on myself as a teenager. Either the bouncers of that era suffered from some serious form of visual impairment or they just thought that anyone looking like I did, who had the cohones to think he could fool anyone into thinking that he was even close to adulthood, was worthy of a free pass. Regardless, my record stood for all these years: I've never been carded.
All of that came to a sad and disturbing end last evening whilst standing at the cash of a local discount store, who shall remain nameless (it begins with 'Z'). The cashier rang up my order...okay I'm dating myself, nobody rings up orders anymore, scanned is probably the term. At any rate, the cashier gave me the total and then asked a question that so stunned me, I had to ask her to repeat it.
So she did. "Are you 55 or older?"
Now, we've probably all, at one point in our lives, asked a question only to find ourselves wishing we had never opened our mouths, and then spent the rest of the day trying to invent a flux capacitor to travel back in time and repair the damage.
Questions like:
"How's the wife?" Reply: "We're divorced."
"How's business?" Reply: "We went bankrupt."
"How's your crazy dad?" Reply: "He's dead."
And the grandaddy of them all,
"When are you due?" Reply (wait for it): "I'm not pregnant."
Asking the question, "Are you 55 or over?" and overshooting the estimate by ten years, ranks pretty high in the inglorious anthology of regrettable questions.
For the record, I am NOT 55 or older. Middle aged, I suppose, but NOT 55.
In all honesty, I've never been too hung up on my age. In spite of a few unwelcome aches and pains, I still feel like I did in my twenties. My memory is the same as always, that is to say it's always been this bad. And I still don't know what I want to do with my life, even though I'm married with kids, a mortgage and a career.
As for a mid-life crisis, so far I haven't felt compelled to run out and buy a Harley or a Mustang, jab botox into my brows or audition for lead singer of a rock band (although, considering Mick Jagger's advanced age, I'd be a junior candidate).
That said, being asked if one is 55, by a discount store cashier, who by the way I'm certain was older than myself, was a fairly powerful blow to the ego. Not that there's anything wrong with being 55, just like there's nothing wrong with being a little overweight and not pregnant, of which I once again remind you am neither 55 nor pregnant. I'm just not ready to be 55 yet. I'm not even ready for 45, and that one's a lot closer.
Maybe it's just karmic justice for all those times when I was wasn't carded. Ironically, after finally being asked if I was old enough I was happy to say no.
All this to say, I'm okay with my age, and I suspect I'll be okay if I make it to 55 (which, if my investments continue their stellar performance, will be anything but Freedom 55). I've made it this far in one piece, with plenty of experiences, both good and bad to serve as a guide for whatever happens next. My life is great. I have two amazing sons, a wonderful, caring, and if I might add, beautiful wife, a home we love, with great neighbours, and a job where I work with a dedicated and fun group of people. Every day I am reminded of how truly fortunate I am.
So, at the end of the day, who cares if someone thinks I'm 55? I'm not going to let such trivial things define who I am, or derail me from pursuing just and humane aspirations.
Does anyone know when the Harley dealership opens?
Monday, February 1, 2010
WTF! No more texting?
Following the lead of other provinces, namely our own, today the Ontario and B.C. governments have made it illegal to text message while driving. This may go down as the single most moronic law on the books. What truly makes this theatre of the absurd is not the law itself, but that we need the law in the first place. While we're at it, why not ban the handling of venomous snakes while driving, or performing self-administered acupuncture, or using a waffle iron? Well, because those things would be rather distracting. As my teenage son would say, "well, duh." Although, fresh waffles in the car does sound rather nice. MMMW.
Admittedly, I'm rather biased on this issue. I just don't get the whole texting craze. Email I can understand. The immediacy of the technology combined with ability to craft a message so as to avoid misunderstanding, and have a written record of the exchange, is very appealing. The thought of thumb-typing a coded message on a microscopic keyboard, not so much. It takes all of my limited skills to use the keypad on the microwave. QL.
Okay, I get the appeal of texting amongst the younger generation. It has a bit of a passing-a-note-in-class kind of thing going for it. There's the whole secret, hip, coded language, LMFAO. Plus, if you're in a noisy club, or a dull meeting, you can still keep in touch if voice communication is otherwise impossible or disruptive. TWHE.
I can't help but wonder what Alexander Graham Bell would make of this? Having revolutionized the communications industry by inventing a device that allows us to talk to another person not only across town, but around the world, using ACTUAL HUMAN VOICES. SLAW.
Recently the Ford Motor Company, who seem to have emerged from the great North-American automaker crisis as a leader, introduced a hands-free device that will actually read your text-messages as you drive. It's a clever marketing manouevre, but at the same time, consider the ponderous complexity of a technology that uses a simulated human voice to read a five word, coded message, when you could use the same device to actually call the person using an ACTUAL HUMAN VOICE. 2G2BT.
I have friends that I consider to be intelligent, informed and rational people (and yet they still enjoy my company, go figure) who openly admit to texting while driving. They claim that texting is the only way to stay on top of what their teenagers are up to. I was a teenager once, back in the jurassic period, and the one thing I do remember was that the last thing I wanted was my parents knowing what I was up to. If they had the temerity to stick their noses in my business, they did so using ACTUAL HUMAN VOICES. RUS?
My bias aside, most everyone would agree that texting requires significantly more attention than virtually any other form of communication. Again, because the keypads are tiny, the screens are tiny and you have to make sure that what you are typing actually makes sense, complete with emoticons so that people will know if you're being sarcastic, cute, serious or flirty; all nuances that, by the way, can be communicated with an ACTUAL HUMAN VOICE. IMO.
So, now we have to waste our tax dollars on legislators to draft a law to get people to realize something that should be patently obvious: typing on a tiny keypad and reading a tiny screen while operating a 3000 lb vehicle at high speed is dangerous. Meanwhile we can't seem to come up with some way to keep greedy, bottom-feeder low-lifes from swindling our grandparents out of their life-savings. WTF.
Admittedly, I'm rather biased on this issue. I just don't get the whole texting craze. Email I can understand. The immediacy of the technology combined with ability to craft a message so as to avoid misunderstanding, and have a written record of the exchange, is very appealing. The thought of thumb-typing a coded message on a microscopic keyboard, not so much. It takes all of my limited skills to use the keypad on the microwave. QL.
Okay, I get the appeal of texting amongst the younger generation. It has a bit of a passing-a-note-in-class kind of thing going for it. There's the whole secret, hip, coded language, LMFAO. Plus, if you're in a noisy club, or a dull meeting, you can still keep in touch if voice communication is otherwise impossible or disruptive. TWHE.
I can't help but wonder what Alexander Graham Bell would make of this? Having revolutionized the communications industry by inventing a device that allows us to talk to another person not only across town, but around the world, using ACTUAL HUMAN VOICES. SLAW.
Recently the Ford Motor Company, who seem to have emerged from the great North-American automaker crisis as a leader, introduced a hands-free device that will actually read your text-messages as you drive. It's a clever marketing manouevre, but at the same time, consider the ponderous complexity of a technology that uses a simulated human voice to read a five word, coded message, when you could use the same device to actually call the person using an ACTUAL HUMAN VOICE. 2G2BT.
I have friends that I consider to be intelligent, informed and rational people (and yet they still enjoy my company, go figure) who openly admit to texting while driving. They claim that texting is the only way to stay on top of what their teenagers are up to. I was a teenager once, back in the jurassic period, and the one thing I do remember was that the last thing I wanted was my parents knowing what I was up to. If they had the temerity to stick their noses in my business, they did so using ACTUAL HUMAN VOICES. RUS?
My bias aside, most everyone would agree that texting requires significantly more attention than virtually any other form of communication. Again, because the keypads are tiny, the screens are tiny and you have to make sure that what you are typing actually makes sense, complete with emoticons so that people will know if you're being sarcastic, cute, serious or flirty; all nuances that, by the way, can be communicated with an ACTUAL HUMAN VOICE. IMO.
So, now we have to waste our tax dollars on legislators to draft a law to get people to realize something that should be patently obvious: typing on a tiny keypad and reading a tiny screen while operating a 3000 lb vehicle at high speed is dangerous. Meanwhile we can't seem to come up with some way to keep greedy, bottom-feeder low-lifes from swindling our grandparents out of their life-savings. WTF.
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