Stay tuned, Opraholics

Last week I was surfing online news sites, keeping on top of critical current events, (“Two Women Injured As Bulls Flee Tom Cruise Set”) when I came upon a Reuters release with implications that could shake the very foundations of the planet. After reading the terse article, I realized life may never be the same again. No, I'm not discussing the Large Hadron Collider again. This is much bigger. The bombshell I am talking about is that they announced the date of the final episode of the Oprah Winfrey Show. Wow. I thought they would have to drag her kicking and screaming off the set. I could picture her arms wrapped around the leg of a studio camera, shrieking like a harpy, as people in medical garb pull on her legs to break her grasp. I must admit, if I had her job, that's what they'd have to do to me, too.

My sad delusions of grandeur aside, in the Harpo Productions announcement, company president, Tim Bennet said they are planning on an end date of September 2011. He didn't specify why they were announcing it almost two years down the road. I'm sure they want to allow people time to get mentally prepared for the enormous crater left in their lives at her departure. Bennet didn't mention if they were looking for a younger, shapelier Oprah to fill those giant shoes (Size 14, at least) or if Oprah's clone was finally old enough to take over the show. He did, however, hint that further details will be available in the official press release, Friday and on “ET Tonight” for the forseeable future. Why the program was being wound down (wound up?) wasn't mentioned as the short article was even shorter on details and didn't even address if she jumped or was pushed. My money's on jumping.

Of course, money's no object for Ms. Winfrey. According to sources (I think I read somewhere) the daytime TV maven is, not only the richest self-made woman in America, she is the wealthiest black person ever. EVER! She has a bigger annual income than half the countries in the United Nations. She could buy anything she could ever want, other than being effortlessly thin.

But she's EVERYWHERE! I groaned audibly in the lineup at Sobey's the first time I saw Oprah's “O” magazine. I figured she either had an ego the size of Mount Trudeau or her accountants had decided she hadn't quite saturated the market. They should know, too, since they prepare and package Ms. Winfrey in every concievable way.  I mean, you can buy Oprah jewellrey and Oprah fragrances (Eau De Talk Show Host) and other Oprah this and that. I'm surprised there isn't a line of Oprah power tools. In pink.

I did a little investigative-type journalism and “googled” Oprah Winfrey. The miraculous instant-info machine coughed up 9,330,000 “hits”. By contrast, I got four. They were about my son, Chris Jr.

Nonetheless, besides being a TV show, two magazines, five books, a multi-billion dollar business and a myriad of other things, Oprah is also a website; www.Oprah.com. (Of course.) This is only because it didn't occur to her IT people to create their own domain. This way, they could have called it Oprah.oprah. The website is full of, guess what? Oprah.

I find it interesting that I have come to know about Oprah without ever once having watched an episode of her show. I've seen bits here and there... mostly Tom Cruise jumping on her couch and teeheeing like he'd taken a trip through the giggly-weeds. But she's on during the day when I'm at work and our paths never cross. Not that I watch her when I'm home on a weekday, obviously. Daytime TV? Are you kidding? I couldn't take it even when I was hopped up on morphine following my hip op.

Still, without being exposed to the creepily powerful TV show, I still manage to see her everywhere else, getting interviewed, making speeches and being filmed, photographed and followed like some ill-fated English princess. Despite the throngs of paparazzi hacks she must wade through just to... I don't know... go uptown for bread and milk or whatever celebrities go uptown for, it isn't nearly adequate. I am almost convinced “O” and “O at Home” magazines were created because they couldn't guarantee her smiling face on the covers of the National Enquirer and other magazines of that stature often enough to sate the Harpo machine's lust for media exposure. Apparently they won't be satisfied until she's on the cover of every single magazine sold around the world from Psychology Today to Canadian Bow Hunter.

This just in... (writing a column a week in advance sucks in the immediacy department) according to her website, Ms. Winfrey claimed the reason behind her earth shaking announcement is because it “feels right in my bones”. Well, I'm not one to argue with her bones, either. I'm just not into arguing with anything bigger than me. This whole bone thing does seem rather vague, however. When politicians quit, they always say they “want to spend more time with their families”. When actors end their long-term shows it's always to “go out on top” or to “quit before it gets repetitive” or  “nobody watches it anymore”.

Not Oprah. She consults calcium. Her femur told her it was time to hang them up, although rumour has it, her tibia thought she should wait a few more years.

Stay tuned, Opraholics. I suspect this story won't be going away any time soon. Nor will Oprah.

You Couldn’t Pay Me Enough!

I think having a job is a lot like aging. As big a drag as both of them are, they sure beat the alternative. As Drew Carey said, “Oh, you hate your job? Why didn't you say so? There's a support group for that. It's called EVERYBODY. They meet at the bar. “In all actuality, however, I like working. Lazing around the house in my jammies till noon and then wasting the rest of the day would get real old, real fast. A person needs purpose, A person needs direction. A person needs beer money. A person needs to not only put food on the table but also house that table. A few utilities are nice, too. And a satellite dish.

Mind you, it is insane to work at a job you hate, given what a huge chunk of your waking hours are spent at it. Sure, I have to deal with the public (Ewww!) but I see that as a plus. One of the worst things a job can be (along with “dangerous”, “illegal”, or includes the phrase “do you want fries with that?”) is for it to be boring. With customer service, however, every conversation with a client is as unique as the clients themselves. Each interaction keeps the job fresher than a TimBit during the breakfast rush.

Of course, there are jobs no one actually likes; serving TimBits during the breakfast rush, for example, but there are far worse. There are people that make their living smelling underarms for deodorant manufacturers. There are people who provide for their families by handling loads of excrement; sucking out septic systems,video-taping sewers or writing political speeches.

Speaking of which, I think the worst job of all would be President of the United States. Can you imagine having 300 million bosses, each with a different viewpoint on how the job should be done? Having a herd of reporters (A flock? A murder? A pride?) reporting on your mistakes as you try and do your job would be a pain in the posterior, to say the least. Can you imagine all those scrum-suckers looking over your shoulder while you're just trying to do your job? How embarrassing the headlines would be! “President McKerracher Screws Up Visa Charge For Customer.”

“President McKerracher Attacks Office Photocopier In Frustration.”
“President McKerracher Quits; Tells Press Corps to Go Scribe Themselves.”

Of course there would be plusses to the job of President. You wouldn't need to carry cash on you,. The chance of the motorcade stopping at a 7-11 for Slurpees is infinitesimal. You also would get the best hiding place for when 2012 hits and it's the end of the world as we know it. (“And I feel fine.”) Still, weathering a nuclear winter, environmental destruction, a plague of zombies  or whatever may befall us with a bunch of generals, senior bureaucrats and politicians doesn't sound like much fun. Maybe with the Pussycat Dolls, it might be okay. And a dart league with free beer.

I am frankly amazed, however, that every job gets filled. What would make a person who has just gone to school for many years to become a doctor and then remain in school for another four years to specialize in proctology? Don't get me wrong. I have a fundamental respect for these brave folk... the rear guard of the nation. But man! You couldn't pay me enough to be one.

Same goes for other medical practiconers. People who give barium enemas cheerfully, professionally and as pleasantly as possible under the circumstances, (a staggering feat indeed), I think they deserve a medal.  I can only imagine how poorly I would do at it.

Me, “Here, let me just grab this hose Mr. Shmidlap and... oh my.... I don't feel SO good...  OH NO! HAND ME THAT BEDPAN! STAT!”

No amount of monetary reward could not induce me to get into such a field. It even grosses me out to consider hairdressers have to touch other people's heads all day.

I also wouldn't be a farmer for anything, either. They must be absolutely nuts. I mean; these guys even take on full time jobs to subsidize their farming habit if need be. It isn't a job, it's a lifestyle choice. They get up at the crack of dawn to get on horseback to round up the chickens or whatever the heck farmers do, even as the rest of the world lies in bed til their snooze alarms have gone off ten or twelve times. Who else would keep us in meat? Who else would gamble their entire annual income on the vagaries of Canadian weather? Who else would keep the coffee shops in business?

There are many other unpleasant vocations. There's the photo-radar tech on Highway 60, as you're  driving by Devon, who spends his working life in a truck in the ditch, helping people have a crappy day. Then there's the job that bringer of happiness and joy to all, the telephone solicitors who, in the course of their daily work, are yelled at, sworn at and hung up on. And that's just from Cupcake. I'd put her on that “no call” list but I'd much rather she let off steam on them than me.

I will leave the last word to Oscar Wilde, “The best way to appreciate your job is to imagine life without one.”

TV Schmeevee

I am not one who watches a lot of TV. For one thing, the chance of me wrestling the remote from Cupcake is... well, remote. Control of the remote control just means so much to her, it would be no contest. She would win every match, especially since she wouldn't be shy about using a chokeslam or a diving elbow drop to back up her claim to the device.  (I would use the term “controller freak”, but I have to sleep sometime.)

Worse yet, besides, apparently, watching WWE, she favours cop shows including about 12 different versions of Law and Order and CSI. As well, she watches... I'm almost embarrassed to say it, but she watches reality shows. In fact, her dream show would be to have David Caruso win all the marbles in “Dancing With the Stars”. (He could use the marbles, too, considering all the ones he's lost playing intense detective types.)

“Wouldn't you call your stupid  'Myth Busters' a reality show?” Cupcake says in defense. “You claim it is educational but all they do is blow stuff up. You call that entertainment?” “Well, yes, actually, I do,” I had to admit. “Did you see the one with the hot water tank blowing through the roof of that house? It was AWESOME!”

Cupcake ignored my outburst. Not like her at all. “You look down your nose at my shows but a lot more people like my choices than yours,”  she pointed out primly. “Apparently, you are the aberration, not me. Again. You say I have all the taste of tofu-flavoured jello but this is coming from a guy that listens to CBC radio, for crying out loud.”

Despite our differences however, to humour her and perhaps soften her up for connubial goings-on later, I will occasionally watch a show with her on our loveseat, (A misnomer if ever I heard one. It should be known as a “keep your hands to yourself” seat). I even let her pick the show although I always am careful to shut my eyes to the gorier bits on CSI. I am not as desensitized to bloody carnage as hardcore CSIers are. Watching slow motion bullet penetration of spleens and whatnot makes my stomah feel like I've eaten too much Halloween candy.

Granted, unreality shows are even worse. Programs like “Big Brother” and “Survivor” seem to me to be designed solely for the purpose of satisfying a certain segment of the population that are into voyeurism and gossip. They scratch the itch of our collective inner Gladys Kravitz (Hey, Abnah, there's weird things going on at the Stevens house again! Abnah! Wake up!) in all of us. You can almost imagine viewers of this sort of show watching the episodes through horizontal blinds just to get that “nosey neighbour” thrill.

On the plus side, I guess, it's better for the inquisitive minded to dissect and study the entrails of fake relationships, “faux-mances” and artificial environments, as in “Big Brother” rather than the relationships of their own neighbours, friends and relatives. Mind you, hoping that gossiping about TV characters satisfies the gossip craving is like hoping indulging in pornography will satisfy carnal cravings. The prospects of either one working are about as good as the chances of me figuring out “The String Theory” in quantum physics, or even more unlikely, successfully dieting.

I must say there are two sides to watching shows like “Dancing With the Stars” or “Battle of the Blades” (okay, I will admit I found the thought of Ti Domi figure skating to be more than just slightly intriguing). On the one hand, the outfits worn by the shapely, attractive, barely clad female skaters and dancers almost makes it worth the inane judging and commentary portions of the shows. The biggest downside, however, is when I am tolerating the show as best I can and my son comes in the livingroom to question my masculinity. “Jeez, Dad, you're watching this? Voluntarily? Did you forget your kahunas in your other pants?” he'd say, guffawing in cruel mirth. It forces me to consider the moral ramifications of post-natal abortion. Like when they're 24 years old.

Nonetheless, despite the fact that I find most shows she likes either disturbing, disgusting or simply disinteresting, I watch a bit of TV with her as often as I can tolerate. She does things for me which she has litte interest in, other than pleasing me. Ironing my work wear, for example. Catching an hour of inanity, occasionally, is the least I can do, and never let it be said I didn't do the least I could do.

And there are some positives to watching the old “boob tube” besides getting to say the word “boob”. I get to keep current on all the best commercials which are my favourite part of any show. Plus, I get to pig out on munchies as “Family TV Night” has always been an orgy of lax dietary responsibility, to put it charitably.

Besides, everybody knows you can get a man to do absolutely anything if he thinks it's foreplay. Even watch TV!

The Juxtaposition Syndrome

There are two hypothesis floating around which are equally frightening. The first is that governments are universally incompetant; like King Midas on “opposite day”. Everything they touch turns to poop. The other is that governments know EXACTLY what's going on but the information is so monumentally cataclysmic (not to mention bad), they don't dare tell us what it is, but feel a need to control our behaviour in some way.

There are numerous examples of this phenomenon where, whatever the issue, people gravitate to either “The government is useless.” or “The government is controlling us” camps. For example, I've actually heard people claim the H1N1 vaccine is a scam to inject microchips into our bodies so the government can keep tabs on you. I'm leery of this theory. They don't NEED to inject us with Global Positioning nanoprobes. We all have GPS-equipped cell phones already, which we willingly pay for ourselves, to the delight of Big Brother (no, not the stupid reality TV show). And if FaceBook isn't voluntary Big Brotherism, I don't know what is!There's loads of other similarily polarizing issues from the economy to the environment, but there's one issue that makes those two issues look as serious as “America's Funniest Home Videos.” I am talking about the Large Hadron Collider.

The LHC as it's known, (obviously named by scientists, not marketing people or it would have a cooler acronym) lies deep underground near Geneva, Switzerland. Being the mother of all science projects, the collider is old news to technogeeks. For those of us with lives, however, it's stayed below our radar. Here's what I discovered in my research.

The collider is a gigantic gizmo, looking suspiciously like an enormous roulette wheel, 30 kilometers in circumference or, for metrically challenged readers, 18 miles around. The nine billion dollar doohickey is the shiniest toy the scientific community has ever seen. It is designed to smash sub-atomic particles (itty-bitty bits of .... er... stuff) together in such a way, it will tell the egghead brigade gobs of information about the “Big Bang” which started that whole “universe” fad. Religious types refer to this point as “Creation”.

Opponents of the monstrosity claim the machine may potentially wipe out Switzerland, the planet, the solar system or the entire universe, depending on which pessimistic professor you prefer.

My career in the field consists of three weeks of Physics 10 before accepting it was entirely over my head, so I realize I'm no expert, but I do understand some things. I understand nine billion dollars, for example.
Nine billion dollars is one of those Real Big Numbers that roll rather trippingly off the tongue when discussing governmental expenditures. However, like the other Real Big Numbers that get tossed around, it is hard to grasp. To put it in perspective, to make that much money at my current rate of pay, (with no beer allowance) I'd have to work over 200,000 years. This is, coincidentally, the same amount of time it will take before the pension I am paying into, may actually be worth enough to live on.

Notwithstanding, over 100 governments worldwide, including Canada, has kicked in on on this fantastic device whose sole purpose is apparently to learn whether it will kill us or not.

The professed use of it is to find out what atoms were hanging around at the beginning of time. It won't help feed the poor or fix the economy or get the Edmonton Eskimos into the playoffs (apparently, the collider can't protect against a half-decent pass rush, either) or any other worthy goal. In fact, the only value it has, seemingly, is to satisfy some theoretical phsysicist’s curiosity.

Since governments generally are loathe to invest in private ventures with no hope of profit, (unless you're an automobile manufacturer) the whole “official line” on the “why” of this project seems so implausible. Governments must be insane to contribute to this wonderfully elaborate white elephant.

Or are they? Maybe they're only feeding us this Big Bang BS to polarize the population into Bangers versus Creation-philes to keep us from finding out what they are REALLY  up to.

And what might that be? What could possibly be worth $9 billion to a collection of governments that  is more important than doing things that will get them re-elected? What is so important that America tried to build one ahead of the Swiss consortium's version only to abandon it after sinking billions into it? Americans are many things but they are not quitters. What made them start the project? What made them stop? Of course the American model was known as a SUPER particle collider. Much better than an ordinary, consumer-grade particle collider, although the Swiss model also had a corkscrew, spoon and little pair of scissors.

For myself, I am undecided. It is easy to believe governments are full of dumb ideas and flawed plans. Having them as evil, shadowy know-it-alls is a bit of a stretch. Either way though, as far as the LHC goes, I'm sure it has something to do with the end of the Mayan calendar in 2012. As sure as I am  about the government's motives.