A Quirky Trigger

We all have our quirks... well, at least that’s what I’ve told Cupcake. It‘s been said everyone is normal until you get to know them and Cupcake knows me quite well. She says I’ve always been “blessed” with my quota of quirks, plus a few extra eccentricities thrown in for being an early adopter. One particular peculiarity of mine, though innocuous enough, drives me crazy. I know many think my journey to join the barmy army is a short drive indeed; walking distance, really, but I wondered if it’s just me or if it’s one of those strange characteristics everyone does but nobody ever talks about, like stop light nostril exploration.

The aberration works like this; something in my surroundings will make a random noise and my subconscious mind processes it instantaneously (Cupcake disagrees with the speed she feels my thought processes occur at but that’s not important right now.) The memory sorter-outer part of my brain (That’s what we amateur brain experts call it) compares it with all previously heard noises to see if it is recognizable. When a possible match is found, it’s kicked upstairs to my consciousness for assessment, sort of like E-harmony without the dating. Invariably, the random noise; a persistent tapping or a chime or a squeak or really anything, reminds me of a song or a melody or often a few bars of some long forgotten tune.

Here’s an example. When I play FreeCell on my computer (instead of knuckling down to write the article you’re currently reading) there is a synthesized electronic organ note that is produced every time a card is added to the “home cells” in the upper right. At each occurrence... like 52 times a game, I am reminded of Boney M’s version of the Christmas song “When a Child is Born” as the first chord is quite similar to the annoying electronic note noise. It got so bad I shut my sound off on my speakers when I play FreeCell, although it still plays in my head every time a card moves up just like Pavlov’s stupid mutt drooling over doorbells.

I’ve had something as simple as a randomly plucked  string evoke music ranging from Beatle hits to the theme to “The Jackie Gleason Show”. Just the other day I ended up with the world famous one hit wonder from the early 70’s; Mouth and McNeil’s immortal “How Do You Do?” from listening to a passing road grader. Some sound in thrum of the motor or clank of the machinery conjured up that mouldy oldie and I’ll never know what. I can’t count how often the sound of something rubbing rhythmically on wood brings to mind CCR’s “Looking Out My Back Door”.

I will admit being reminded of these dusty ditties is kind of cool sometimes. An errant sound triggering a pleasant musical memory is a good thing. The problem lies with the fact that it isn’t just a fleeting thought. The song stays with me, sometimes for days. The worst part is that occasionally, I only know a snippet of the song and that wee snippet will play over and over again. If it’s an instrumental, it’s even more frustrating since the only way I know to rid myself of a stuck song is to locate it on the ‘net and play it over and over. Unfortunately, finding the name of a snippet of music is tough to locate when all you know is “la de do de da do da da da da de de de” plucked out pizzicato-style on a violin. So it plays over and over like a Meatloaf 8-track tape at a ‘70’s stoner party, only much shorter.

Part of the problem for me, is since I was a teenager, some of my siblings and I would play “radio race” constantly. When a song came on the airwaves, first one to name the band got a point. The points never added up really but were more of a point of honour. Thus, it became imperative for me, in my formative years, to be acutely aware of the opening strains of any song I happen to hear. The urge to yell out the artist from somebody else’s music is strong and it takes all my strength of will not to look like a dork. I believe this caused my affliction. It neatly explains why, when I hear a faint whistle of brakes just starting to go, I am reminded of the first high pitched whistled notes of Manfred Mann’s 1967 hit “Mighty Quinn”. (It always makes me wonder why “When Quinn the Eskimo gets here, everybody’s gonna jump for joy”. Can he catch a Ricky Ray pass?)

I’ve asked a few people whether this phenomenon has happened to them and there was a mix of responses from my admittedly tiny polling group. There were those that looked at me pityingly as if I’d just divulged I had begun to use Depends. Then there were those that would shake their head and snicker “You are a weird one, McKerracher... but then we knew that.”

But there was also a small group; they would lower their voice and look furtively about before blurting out their shame. There weren’t many of them but I was still relieved.

It’s not just me.

Introducing the 2010 Cupcakemobile

         My cherished bride of what seems an eternity, (albeit one that flew by faster than a flat-out Ferrari) my sweet Cupcake, has many wonderful qualities. Besides being an able administrator for a company at the airport, she’s also a fine cook, craftily creative, and a dab hand with a sewing machine (for new items only, mind you, the clothing in the mending pile has gone in and out of fashion four times).
        However, there’s one area Cupcake is sorely lacking. There is a skill she is so bad at, she actually lets me take charge. That skill is car shopping. Here’s an example of Cupcake’s negotiating strategy with a car salesman.Salesman: Here’s one you’ll like; it’s not black.
Cupcake: I LOVE IT! I WANT IT I’LL PAY ANYTHING FOR IT!!
Me: Oh no!
       Salesman: Mwahahahahaha!
       It was this exact strategy that, a few years back, forced us into the purchase of a four wheeled pile of feces, the brand I will charitably leave unmentioned, although, I’ll admit, it wasn’t black and did have a sunroof. Cupcake thought it was “cute” despite the fact it was lousy on gas for a car that looked like it was swiped from a L’il Tykes Gas and Go Garage set.
        I’d eyed the interest rate it was bought at, the years left to pay and the current market value. I then factored in the reality that things have begun to go haywire with it. (It cost about a grand to find out the problem causing the “check engine” light to go on was, ultimately, a flaw in the “check engine” light.) Logically, I came to the conclusion it was time to make a change.
         Trying to select a vehicle was going to be a chore, however. Since we owed more than the car was worth, we would have to tack the difference onto the new car loan. To offset that, though, we’d be trading a loan at over 8% on a six year old car to 2.49% for a brand new one. Another strong motivator was that winter was coming and her poop-mobile is colder than a serial-killer’s smile.
          When I told Cupcake of what I’d decided, she was cautiously excited. She itemized the “must haves” that any prospective vehicle would be equipped with.“My needs are really simple,” she asserted nobly. “I just has to have an automatic transmission, a decent heater and for it not to be black.”
           Cupcake once had a black van and she’d swelter in it in the hot days of summer, something anyone living here for less than eighteen months would not have yet experienced. She argued her anti-black vehicle stance by pointing out how all of her subsequent vehicles have been white and she never had another in-car crematorium problem.
           Telling her I’d made sure all her subsequent vehicles had air conditioning following her overheated van experience was for naught. Logic rarely works on Cupcake. She remained undeterred. No black vehicles. Period.“Oh, and also,” she hastily added, “I need it to be higher off the ground; like a van or an SUV but I don’t want a truck.  It has to get good gas mileage and have a long lasting warranty. It has to have cruise control and a CD/MP3 stereo and keyless entry and...”
          “Woah, woah, woah!” I broke in on her in panic. “Do you think a loans manager is made of money? What happened to ‘I don’t care as long as it’s not black’?”
          “Well, you asked,” she maintained haughtily. “If you don’t want to make me happy, that’s fine.”
           Being married this long, I knew it wasn’t fine. I listened for a half an hour to the rest of her “simple needs”. Since she has the shrewd poker face of a five year old, I made my initial foray to the dealership alone. No sense getting her all fired up if a new vehicle isn’t in our budget. I will admit, however, my heart raced (outwardly controlled, of course) when I sized up the model I had researched. After a discussion with the salesman, I called Cupcake.
          “It’s got more bells and whistles than an obsessive model railroad fancier,” I told her enthusiastically, “All the things you want plus everything else you can think of. It would be perfect for you and I am sure I can beat them down to a price we can live with.”
          “Oh, Honey, thank you!” Cupcake squealed with joy. “I have to ask though.... what colour is it?”
          “Oh... ahh... errrr.... uh...” I frantically groped for the most tactful way to describe it but finally decided on the truth. “Well, it’s not black... more of a... well... to be honest, a ‘baby poop after eating squash’ colour. ‘Burnt orange’ would be my closest guess, but it’s brand new, fully loaded, has a 5 year warranty and is only a few bucks more a month than we are currently paying for your four-door Fridgidaire.”
          “BABY POOP!” Cupcake gulped. “Really? Baby poop?”
          Then there was silence.
          “Well...” she finally responded heartily. “I like babies!”
         She’s already named it “Punkin”.

In Defence of Pennies

           Between the sheets of this very newspaper, a fellow scribe had offered up a vicious condemnation of the least among our coins, the ignoble penny.  His misguided attitude was that pennies should be abolished because they cost the system more than they are worth.  Spouting “statistics” left, right and centre (but mostly right of centre) he cruelly made the case for their death sentence. (Speaking of which, where in heck did the “cent” button go?)
            But pennies are vital. It’s common knowledge a penny is the going rate for thoughts, although admittedly for many, they are overcharging. And what manner of coinage will fall from heaven if pennies are abolished? Twoonies? Man, if you get one of those in the head, it could kill you.
            The problem is pennies aren’t considered real change. We hoard them like television interventionees but we sure don’t roll them up and cash them. Apparently, it’s not worth the effort to go to the store, get some rolling papers, take them back and get the correct coin rolling papers, count out piles of fifty pennies, try and make even stacks and somehow manage to neatly arrange the coins in a tubular shape tightly bound in coin wrapper; repeating this step until all of your decades of penny hoarding has been twisted up, then take the time to go to an actual bank, (rolled up coins are a drag to deposit in the “insert money here” slot in the ATM) wait an eternity in the mystifying rope-fence labyrinth waiting for an organic banking interface, (also known as a teller) while looking like some kind of wishing well coin rustler, all for, maybe, a whole $17.32. Not a chance, unless, perhaps, I was a starving student, struggling artist or a Pipestone Flyer employee.
              The reason my venerable colleague is incorrect (again) is that the problem isn’t the penny. The issue is in the lack of circulation. We need to get those babies circulating like a cougar after the divorce. What pennies need is better PR. We need to find a way to give value to the penny; to make it the symbol upon which the concept of collective worth is built. If we could harness the power of these pennies, just think what good we could do without missing a dime.
              Imagine, if you will, communities competing to see who could amass the most pennies with the winner flying the other’s flag for a day or some such. The collected coinage could be rolled up by volunteers with a rented/borrowed/temporarily stolen automatic coin roller and cashed in for a community project in need of a hefty cash injection (is there anybody that can’t think of even one?) The worthy causes would be, ahem, rolling in dough. (Sorry, it had to be said.)
             If the idea goes bacterial or viral or whatever they call it, volunteer associations all over the country could use the power of the penny to enhance their communities, too. Soon, all those pennies will begin to wash back into the copper pipeline to be reused over and over. It will allow the Canadian Mint to cease having to make another half a billion pennies every year and we will all save the $130M from the federal budget, rid ourselves of a storage nuisance and feel good about doing acts of charity without feeling nary a pinch.
             So how do we round up the pennies? Well, the Loco World Group Research Centre has so far failed to develop a magnet that attracts pennies although they did create an awesome recipe for Tequila Caesars. Therefore we will have to go back to the basics. We could get the cubs and scouts to do a penny drive while the grads are doing their bottle drive. We could have industrial strength scales at competing town offices that people could dump their pesky pennies into when they stop by to pay the water bill or whatever. There could be a central dump off point at the annual fair perhaps, offering onlookers  free throws at the dunk tank with each donation of a pound. The possibilities are only limited by the imagination of the community groups and it’s been my experience that those groups’ imaginations are bounded only by those activities frowned upon in the criminal code and even then, well, there’s been some grey areas.
              I will admit that so far, the two notable nations to have succumbed to penny-hating riots and banned pennies from cash transactions have both reported few problems with the change in pocket change, but let’s face it; we’re talking about Australia and New Zealand, for crying out loud. They’re way down there on the bottom of the planet and all their blood is constantly rushing to their heads. They are as crazy as koalaroos or whatever freakish creatures they have roaming about. They probably never noticed the difference. I don’t know what my aforementioned learned colleague Brian’s excuse is, however.
             So instead of throwing out pennies, let’s all gather them up and see what we can do when we all put our heads and tails together. Perhaps a penny saved is a playground earned.

Advice for School Kids

          Ahhhhh.... the kids are back in school. The parents of school-aged children are all breathing a collective sigh of relief that their world can get back to normal, as if “normal” exists. Still, educating the yard apes of the land is a good thing. I, personally, am a big supporter of education. It is rather sobering to realize, though, that had I stayed in school, I’d be in grade 45 by now. Still, it is impossible to miss the hubbub at the stores and the incessant “It’s The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year” commercials, even for us folks whose kids have already run the public education gauntlet. Therefore, as a public service, the think tank at the Loco World Group headquarters (AKA Jeff’s Bar and Grill) has developed a number of guidelines to follow for a happy, well-adjusted educational experience.

1) If you ride your bike to school, to be cool, make sure it’s a Harley.
2) If your dog eats your homework, blame anything else. That excuse has never worked; not even once. Maybe try, “Mom and Dad were drunk again and I couldn’t concentrate while hiding in the basement.”
3) Demand the best I-gadgets from your folks; I-Pad, I-Phone, etc. Just remember the magic mantra “I-Want”.
4) There is an age when it is no longer cool to bring a “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” lunchbox to school. That age is thirty-five.
5) On fake sick notes, you will undergo less scrutiny if, instead of putting something like the flu or a cold, you   say you had blood in your stool. Shuts ‘em right up.
6) Fellas, when getting the strap, it is not cool to pull away. Take it like a man. It makes for a great story when you’re older. What? They’re not allowed to do that anymore? Pity.
7) Never put your tongue on the metal pole of the swings in the school playground in winter, even if you’re double-dog dared. Actually, it’s not even advisable in summer. Ewww!
8) High school is no place for drugs and alcohol. That’s what university is for.
9) Never tell your parents how many apples you’ve thrown out from your bagged lunch without eating them. They would kill you.
10)You don’t have to be dropped off a block from school so you’re not seen with your nerdy parent. To be cool, get dropped off right in front of the door. Make sure you ride in the backseat and as you get out of the car, say in a loud voice, “Pick me up at three-thirty, Jeeves, there’s a good lad.”
11) When the snow flies, remember toques just wreck your hair and wearing mitts makes it hard to smoke. It’s way better to jam your hands deep into the pockets of your light fall jacket (which looks so sharp compared to that bulky parka) and hunch your shoulders like Quasimodo. It’s almost as warm and WAY less geeky.
12) Girls, now’s the time to really go for the gusto with back to school outfits. Whine that the new stuff you got is so last Thursday and that you’ll just die if you don’t get the latest style from (insert trendy store name here. Value Village need not apply).
13) Boys, it’s true that girls have cooties but the cooties eventually grow into curves you’ll appreciate later. You still won’t understand girls any better at this juncture, however. This never goes away.
14) Never, ever, ever take a paper clip and bend it into a “U” shape and place it on an elastic band you’ve strung between thumb and forefinger and let fly, bow and arrow style at, say, the teacher’s posterior. You will be ratted out for sure and there would be grave consequences. But it IS fun to think about.
15) Tired of always being picked last for sports teams? So was I. Sorry, can’t help you.
16) Don’t sweat the small stuff. In job interviews and performance evaluations throughout my thirty-year career, I have never had anyone ask what mark I got on my grade eight science final.
17) When it’s your turn for show and tell, never bring a dead thing. The teacher always freaks out.
18) Don’t understand algebra? Don’t worry. I’m almost 50 and I’ve never needed it. I think the only purpose in becoming good at it is to be able to teach it to others. Other than that, it probably has no practical purpose. Sort of like learning Latin. Or Klingon.
19) Are you young guys still wearing your jeans ten sizes too big so they droop so low they advertise your choice of undergarment? If so, just stop it!
20) Don’t pull anyone’s finger. Sadly, the advice doled out by the Loco World Group think tank is highly suspect and must, for liability reasons, divulge warnings associated with their use. May cause nausea, vomiting and light-headedness. Some have experienced sharp pains...in the neck. May contain nuts. Not to be used with other advice columns as interactions may occur. If you experience any of these symptoms, call a doctor.

Someones Watching

       Have you ever been in a room in your house all by yourself and yet, not feel alone? You are suddenly alerted, by who knows what sense, that somehow there’s some other entity in the area and its eyes are on you. The hair on the back of your neck starts to stick up like someone’s duct-taped an icicle to your spine and you look around but there’s no one there.
        Usually I chalk it up to Cupcake spying on me but when I know she’s in bed fast asleep (no doubt halfway through yet another whodunit she’ll never figure out) the sensation is unsettling to say the least. It’s not just me that has sensed this... presence in our house. Our boys have told us over the course of their lives about strange experiences, sounds and sensations they claim to have witnessed. We always did the “good parent” thing and told them it was their imaginations and they better quit stalling and go to sleep or it could go badly for their video game allotment. It shut them up at the time (a skill I have long lost) but to this day they are absolutely convinced there is, well, something, but they’re not sure what, in the house.
        Even staunch Cupcake, who’s only succumbed to nonsense once in her life (the day she agreed to marry me) and is stupendously unshakeable (unless mice are involved), has had odd experiences. When asked if she had ever noticed anything out of the ordinary, she admitted to hearing some weird, inexplicable sounds when she has been sitting home by herself (since I never take her anywhere, she had to add).“Swear you won’t tell anyone,” she confided, “because they would think I was crazy. (I bit my tongue on the crazy line... too easy.) “Shortly after our black lab, KC passed away, I am certain I heard the sounds of a dog eating from KC’s metal bowl. I turned around to where the metal bowl used to sit but I didn’t see anything that could have made that particular noise. Still, I heard it clear as a bell.”
        A chill coursed through my body as if a parade had just walked over my grave.
        “The exact same thing happened to me!” I told her, my heart pounding like the stereo of a teenager’s muscle-car. “I’m not kidding! It was exactly as you described!” We both executed a creepy-feeling shoulder twinge simultaneously.
        It’s not just weird noises, either. Things go missing in our house with alarming regularity. Sure, we share our house with two sons that couldn’t remember where they put something down to save their souls. “Nope, never seen it,” they say. “Uh huh”, I think to myself.
        Still, that doesn’t explain every incident. About a week ago I was up for work early. I was the only awake person in the house. I looked for my daily pill holder thingy where I keep it on the vanity in the bathroom. It was nowhere in sight. I searched high and low. Finally, I gave up and jumped in the shower. As soon as I emerged from the plastic curtained cabinet, my eyes immediately alighted on my pill container sitting exactly where I’d left it, on the vanity the day before.
        When I relayed the event to Cupcake, I was surprised that she wasn’t.
        “Stuff like that happens all the time to me,” she admitted airily. “It doesn’t seem particularly malevolent. What’s the big deal?”
        “Well, I get creeped out when I’m on the computer and I feel as if someone has just blown air from their lips onto the back of my head but there’s no one else in the room.” I answered, watching closely to see if she was taking me seriously, a rare event.
        “I agree, that would be a bit unsettling, but, really, what can we do about it?” she pointed out matter-of-factly. “We don’t know what “it” is. Practically everything that has ever happened can be explained away. You can’t explain a gut feeling and you can’t deny it’s there but it makes for lousy evidence to take to the authorities, whatever authorities might actually take us seriously. At most we could phone one of those stupid cable “Ghost Hunter”-type shows but what would that accomplish except to make us the laughingstocks of Calmar?”
        “Okay, fair enough,” I conceded, “there is little we can do. So what do you think it is?”
        “I’m not sure,” Cupcake looked off reflectively. “Many possibilities come to mind. It could be a person who is caught in some kind of temporal shift or alternate universe. It might be an unseen observer from another planet who does things to see our reaction. It could be all kinds of things, really.”
         “I notice you didn’t suggest it might be a ghost,” I prodded.
         “Oh don’t be silly,” she chuckled mysteriously, “You’d have to be crazy to believe in ghosts.”

SETI - Close Encounters

        A couple snippets hot off the wire caught my interest recently. (Okay, it wasn’t really on “the wire” whatever “the wire” might be, but were actually internet news websites, however “the wire” sure sounds all journalistical don’t it?) The first was a report concerning Seth Shostak, Senior Astronomer with an institute based in Mountain View, California dedicated to the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence.  (SETI, not to be confused with “yeti”, the possibly mythical mountaineering cousin of Sasquatch that hangs out in the Himalayas.) Cosmo-politician Shostak claimed they feel confident we Earthlings will be in contact with an alien life form within 25 years.  The assertion was contained in a speech given to a SETI convention in Santa Monica, California, in which the researcher made the bold prediction, adding the momentous event is very likely to be in the lifetimes of the mostly youthful attendees. (I’d bet afterward, the bulk of the attendees went home to their parents basements to play World of Warcraft.)
          ‘Holy mackerel! 25 years!? We better start cleaning up before the visitors arrive! Quick! Hide the homeless!’ was the first thought through my mind.  Then my head was filled with the voice of my father which temporarily drowned out the other voices. It was a recollection of him giving me advice regarding the news media.
          “Follow the money,” he said. “To find out why things are happening, just think of who stands to gain.” I instantly recognized that it was obvious. Of COURSE Mr. Shostak has to deliver an optimistic prognostication for contacting little green men or whatever size and colour they may be. He may even believe it himself, although that may be irrelevant. The point is, as a privately funded institution, according to Wikipedia, anyway (and Wikipedia IS the sum total of the world’s knowledge, and not Ben Stein as reported by his publicist), in order to continue to receive grants and funding, Mr. Shostak must be more optimistic than a teenage boy buying a condom for his wallet. Sure, much of the search for interplanetary neighbours consists of scanning for radio waves and there is only a slight possibility advanced alien cultures might not have some other broadcast medium, cable perhaps, but there’s jobs at stake here, including Senior Astronomer Shostak’s.
           Don’t get me wrong, by the way. I am very interested in SETI and even offered up my home computer for a time to the SETI@home research group. This organization has harnessed the down-time of an estimated 290,000 home computers which makes it the 7th most powerful computer system in the world. (The most powerful being, of course, Bill Gates’ home computer followed closely by the one that checks to see if I’ve made a car payment or not.)
           In addition to my SETI phase, I’ve always been fascinated with the space sciences. Cupcake likes to say I have space between my ears but I think she means something else. Still, I think it would be great to have friendly foreigners from neighbouring nebula show up to say “Hi!” and be on their way. But what if they like it here so much they want to stay? How would we feel about that? Would they be processed by the immigration department or would they remain illegal aliens? Would they be allowed in Arizona?
            Even worse than simply over-friendly, what if they’re hostile, mean and vicious; a planet of divorce attorneys, for example? What if they are like Klingons with no Star Fleet to come to our rescue? I doubt even Ronald Reagan’s Star Wars project could have shot down a Klingon photon torpedo. There’s so much at stake!
           On the bright side, there may be helpful aliens out there in the cosmos, committed to helping us achieve an environmentally sustainable planet with fair distribution of food; with peace and harmony in all our lives and tofu burgers for everyone. At least it would shut David “Eeyore” Suzuki up. However, I’m not sure that having some off-worlders telling us what to do would be really popular. We much prefer being bossed around, repressed and manipulated by our own kind.
            Another newsy bit to “hit the wire” (actually, the “The Mother Nature Network)” was that when/if aliens ever stopped for gas on their way to visit relatives in the Andromeda  galaxy, their interest would not be in any part of the entire body of science from the first head-bashing rock to the IPhone 4. Rather their focus would be on our arts and music. Obviously the “panel of experts” quoted in the article (their names or credentials were not mentioned, probably to protect their professional reputations in other fields) have never watched TV or listened to any of the music coming out of my son’s MP3 player. What if they don’t have fiction? What if they don’t get that TV and movies aren’t real? What would they think of “gangsta rap”? It makes you wonder why they would ever want to meet us. Maybe that’s why we haven’t made contact. They don’t want us to know they’re there. How embarrassing!

The Jetblue Blues

             Unless you’ve been living entirely out of the news loop recently, perhaps camping or just coming out of a coma, you must have heard about the flamboyant flake who quit his job at JetBlue Airlines in a blaze of media-fuelled glory. He allegedly (we news guys can say anything we want if we preface it with the word “allegedly”) got irate at a customer who smacked him on the head with some luggage and refused to apologize or some such. It’s hard to say because many of the reports of the original altercation are more vague than a politician answering questions about his college days. The flighty attendant, one Steven Slater, was said to have (almost as good as “was alleged to”) then flounced off to the galley and proceeded to commandeer the intercom to give the passengers a totally different in-flight instruction than they were used to. He told the assembled customers in general and his new nemesis in particular, to “F___ off”, swiped a couple beers (he was, possibly, an undercover Canadian) and slid down the emergency escape to make his getaway. He somehow managed to evade airport security (not a particularly difficult feat, apparently) and made his way home.  A media circus that would make P. T. Barnum jealous was, of course, on hand when police showed up to arrest him on a couple charges but he appeared happy enough when he was led off. He was obviously enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame.
             The situation has brought into focus a number of issues that require more examination than a Paris Hilton home video. The first facet of this story that troubles me is the fact that his creative resignation technique has raised the bar on leaving one’s employment. Suddenly, it’s just not good enough to yell “I quit!” and go off in a huff (or a car or bike or whatever). Now, your exit strategy has to be worthy of a YouTube video, appearances on all the talk shows and a book deal. To steal the limelight from other guys who are going to “go flight attendant” (formerly “go postal”) they will have to do even crazier and outrageous stunts to capture the public’s ephemeral attention span. What’s next? Giving the CEO a “wet willy” at the annual shareholders meeting then streaking out of the convention centre? Where will it all lead to?  This can`t be good.
             Another issue this guy’s daring departure raises is the fear this is the beginning of a trend where  service industries workers are going to  demand to be treated like human beings. On the surface, this may seem like a reasonable request given that their jobs are often stressful, low-paying and difficult. Take flight attendants for example, since we’re on the topic. Their list of responsibilities includes everything from thwarting would-be terrorists and hijackers to handing out amazingly small packages of peanuts and slinging beer. After all, an airplane is essentially a flying tavern where you aren’t allowed to toss out the drunks. (The paperwork after such an event would be staggering, much like some customers.) The attendants are both bartenders and bouncers that also hand out itty-bitty pillows when you’re sleepy. And yet many are treated poorly by their cranky customers because, in our society, like so many others, the service class is fair game for our grumpy tirades. We pay their salary, by gum, and we expect to be treated better than royalty, which airline ads with their smiley-faced actors lead us to expect. Then reality hits.  You mix 300+ parts stressed out air traveller with seven parts airline employees, add liquor and what you have is a recipe for trouble.
               If this trend continues, society may suffer dire consequences. If you are a wee bit curt with the teenaged Timmy`s toiler making your ice capp, is he/she going to spazz out and fling the delicious, icy treat in your face, then flee the scene amid the strobes of paparazzi camera flashes? The people behind you that must now wait even longer in line for their toffee coffee and Timbits are going to want blood; namely yours. We may all end up being forced to be civil to every single person in the service sector, yet another group we’ve never had to be nice to before. Where’s the fairness in that?
              The last wrinkle to this story we need to explore is the personal consequences of Mr. Slater’s great escape. After giving the paying public the finger with more fanfare than Michael Jackson’s funeral, who would ever hire him? How could any self-respecting HR manager (there must be one or two out there) trust a man known to be demonstrably willing to tell their hard-won, paying customers to eff off? Even worse, he stole beer! That`s lower than Michael Ignatieff`s approval rating. When he slid down the inflatable slide to freedom, his chances for future employment plunged downward even faster. Very few companies will take a chance on a temperamental, surly employee. There’s nothing left for him but the civil service. Poor guy.

Golfing with Bob

        I love golf, as stupid as the concept is; a cross-country driving range with a whole whack of “spot the little white ball in amongst all the little white mushroom caps and little white dandelion fluffs ” thrown in. Still, it is a sport I enjoy immensely. The fact that you’re not only allowed beer while you’re playing, but actively encouraged to drink it, is a major plus. They even send out sweet young things with cooler carts to sell it to you! Heck, I’d buy one even if I didn’t drink!
One of my favourite golfing partners (if by ‘partner’ I mean someone I ardently hope does poorly and screws up so I can come out ahead... much like a marriage partner) is my oldest brother, Bob. To say that my fine frère is a real character is an understatement in the league of “the Edmonton Eskimos are a wee bit unlucky this year”.
        I had just come home from another successful golf outing with Bob (successful in that we returned home with more balls than we left with; our principal goal) and felt a bit sore. The room was dark to keep it cool from the evening sun and I collapsed into the recliner with The Golf Network (aka Nap TV) muttering in the background. Slowly, inevitably, my eyelids grew heavier than Lady Gaga’s makeup. With the golf announcers’ hushed tones mingling with my recent adventures on the links, I was suddenly transported to the first tee off with Bob, except this time, we had a gallery much like at the Master’s, and our game was being broadcast internationally. We take you now to the first tee in this most fateful of all golf match-ups between bitter rivals Bob and Chris.
Announcer #1: Well, David, it is a beautiful day here at Thorsby Golf and Temporary Shack and here comes Bob to tee off. He is dressed in his trademark work coveralls and silly hat. The crowd shrinks back a bit, remembering how often he lets fly off the toe of his driver.
Announcer #2: Bob addresses the ball.... here’s the backswing and.... ooohhhhh, swing and a miss. He is going to call that one a practise swing and line up again. The crowd takes another discrete step back...Okay, here’s the backswing again and... oh dear, he shanked it into the water to the right of the fairway about a hundred yards up.
Announcer #1: That’s not that big of a problem to him, David, as he will just beat the weeds around the hazard until he finds a ball and then claim it was the one he lost.
Announcer #2: Right you are, Jim. That manoeuvre is almost as well known in the local golf community as the fact that Chris’ favourite club, aside from his ball retriever, is the “foot club” whereby he gives his ball a bit of a kick to get a better lie.
Announcer #1: And here comes Chris now, decked out in a Pink Floyd tee shirt and jean cutoffs, his legs covered in a thick layer of mosquitoes. They almost look like grey leg warmers from the 70’s.
Announcer #2: Here’s Chris’ backswing and.... oh my gosh! He’s hit an old lady in the gallery square in the forehead! Chris tells Bob it is an unnatural hazard and that he gets another drive. The crowd is well back now with some spectators hiding behind trees or fatter spectators. And here comes his shot and..... He topped the ball! The ball has at least made it just past the ladies tee, sparing him the indignity of that old tradition.
Announcer #1: I noticed that Chris’ club went about ten yards farther than his ball.
Announcer #2: Yes, he’s got quite an arm on him when he’s frustrated. May I, at this time, remind viewers there are a lot more interesting thing on other networks...
Announcer #1: Okay so now Bob has “found” his ball in the reeds by the water hazard and with a splendid drive off the steel toe of his work boot has landed in the middle of the fairway. The crowd applauds appreciatively at the irony. Apparently, Chris isn’t the only one with a foot club in his bag.
Announcer #2: Chris is trying out his fairway driver and... he hit the ground behind the ball! The ball has gone ahead maybe a foot. Chris slams his driver against the ground and trades it for a 3 iron in disgust. He takes another mighty swing and sends the ball forward another twenty yards.
Announcer #1: Did you see the size of that divot, David? I’ve seen smaller chunks of turf on a sod truck.
Announcer #2: I’d have to agree, Jim. We haven’t seen dirt like that flying around since the last municipal election.
         At this point, Cupcake woke me from my reverie to help set the table for supper. I was very relieved. Fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Jiggle Giggle

        Last week Cupcake and I decided we would try something new, something just a little out of our comfort zone, something that would get our blood coursing through our invigorated bodies. (No, I’m not talking about playing strip Boggle.) Our friend, Leah, stalwart of the Calmar Prairie Players, owns a “spa” in Devon and has a pair of wonderful machines designed to do just that. She claimed the effects on the body’s various interior systems after just a  ten minute ride, was the equivalent of an hour’s worth of exercise, albeit without the cardiovascular workout.
“Don’t worry,” I assured her jokingly, “If I want to get my heart rate up, I just try and use my debit card.” I could almost see her make a mental note to charge me in advance should I become a client.
Although a bit uneasy about the whole procedure, I was heartened when we walked in the door. When I envisioned a “spa” I was thinking of some darkened sanctum loaded with women lying about with mudpacks on their faces and cucumber slices on their eyes.   This looked more like a doctor’s office only brighter and cheerier, although it did have its scary side. While showing us around, she displayed a small room which contained a machine that looked like a trickle charger for a car battery. I was relieved when she quickly closed the door.  She claimed that machine was just for specific areas of the body. I am glad she didn’t go into those specifics.
Then came the moment I was dreading; the pre-procedure baseline measurements. She measured my thighs, my biceps, and my waist, with which she had a bit of trouble with her short arms. She wanted to measure all kinds of other things such as my jowls but mercifully let me off the hook as it was just a trial basis.
After the last measurement, which was standing on the scales (Dang!) I finally set foot on the miraculous machine. The way it works is that you stand on this wobbly platform while the trained professional punches in your vital statistics. Then after coming up with your ideal personalized regimen, the contraption generates a vigorous vibration that is designed to get your precious bodily fluids churning and detoxifying and circulating faster than a hot piece of gossip. Or something like that.
According to the literature, the use of this miraculous machine can not only improve your body tone, but have a positive influence on everything from increasing bone density to heightened lymphatic drainage. I didn’t even know my lymphatics needed draining. There were 28 conditions in all that the literature claimed to help improve, ease or cure. On this list were some pretty serious illnesses such as Multiple Sclerosis and Fibromyalgia, as well as maladies I had no idea what they even were, like the listing for “frozen shoulder”. I’d gotten the cold shoulder from Cupcake a number of times but I didn’t realize it was a precursor to a serious chronic illness.
The machine started off vibrating gently. It was weird to see my entire body jiggling in the mirror strategically placed in front of the machine. I have never been more thankful I was wearing clothing. I snuck a peak over at the adjoining machine Cupcake was occupying. Although she was jiggling too, somehow it looked better on her than me.
The machine audibly increased in tempo, as did the violent shaking of the looser areas of skin (i.e. everything but my shins and ankles). I took particular note that Santa’s bowl full of jelly’s got nothing on me.
I found that by flexing different muscles; knees, arms, stomach, etc, (yes, I have stomach muscles) it would actually transfer the vibrating energy to different parts of the body. I was quite astonished when I discovered tightening my ab muscles caused the flab in my face to shake uncontrollably. I was afraid spit would fly in every direction if I dared open my mouth.
“Ifff n-n-nothththing e-e-else I  h-h-have i-isssol-lat-ted w-w-whichch p-partss n-n-need t-t-ton-ning,” I manage to say to Cupcake with the machine at full throttle.
“Looks like all of them from my perspective,” she answered calmly, already in the “cool down” mode. All too quickly, the ten minutes was up and I got off the machine with knees wobblier than they were in the wee hours of the dart wind up.
“Wow, that was quite a ride!” I enthused. “I’m sure I had it at warp factor ten!”
“Well, actually, I noticed the machine only topped out at three,” Leah chuckled. “We save the higher settings for the advanced users.”
I was both disappointed and relieved at the same time. While I like to try everything to the max, I also didn’t want my loose flesh jiggling off my body.
We still have one more visit before the final measurements will be taken but I probably wouldn’t have shared my vital statistics. There are some things inquiring minds really don’t want to know.

Canada's Worst Handyman

        Cupcake is full of ideas. Sadly, they are predominately ideas of things for me to do. Her most recent brainwave was for a bicycle shelter. She figured by freeing the bikes from our storage shed, we could shift stuff from the garage to the place where the bikes now reside. This, she claimed, would create space in the garage for what’s now in the attic which would provide room to store the items she wanted out of her storage closet in the den.
Not wanting to become lost in the bizarre labyrinth of what she uses for logic, I focused on the part that had something to do with me. "You want me to build a bike shelter just so you can clean out a cupboard?" I asked doubtfully. “Is that really necessary?"
It’s not that I’m lazy (despite all the rumours) but if I was on a TV show it would be more like “Canada’s Worst Handyman” than “Extreme Home Makeover”. In fact, I’d rather watch The Women's Television Network than the House and Garden network, as all I see it as is Chore TV. I tried to get it blocked so Cupcake wouldn’t get any more big ideas but failed miserably just because she pays the bill for it. The problem is these TV guys can cut all their wood for a project ahead of time and it all fits together during the assembly stage. Cupcake thinks all men are born with this knowledge. She believes within the X-chromosome is a set of Popular Mechanics and that if she can dream it, I can build it. And being a male of the species, I have never told her different.
"Of course it’s necessary," she responded. "We have all those old 2X4’s kicking around and there’s plywood in the garage you’ve been saving for who knows how long. It won’t cost a dime. What more do you need?"
I privately had to admit she was right. I had everything I needed, other than skill, energy and motivation. I still wasn’t too thrilled, though. Carpentry is darned hard work involving frequent trips to the bank, the hardware store and occasionally the emergency department at the hospital.
Despite my distaste for construction work, however, I pretended to agree to the task, thinking there may yet be a way out if I played along. I had to convince her I was serious so she wouldn’t be suspicious if things didn’t pan out.
To demonstrate by enthusiasm, I donned my sturdy leather tool belt with the nail pouches, pencil sheath and hammer holster. Although it invariably pulls my pants down (the curse of a flat posterior) I still love to wear it. Nothing gets the old testosterone going like a good tool belt, other than maybe an AK47.
I strapped on the belt like I was girding for battle, then marched outside; sureness in my step. I then marched back inside, poured myself a coffee and sat down.
"Are you done already?" she asked in jest. (She uses that one a lot.)
"No, I just forgot to ask an important question," I responded tentatively. "What, exactly, do you mean by a ‘bike shed’? I don’t want it half built and you going ‘That’s not what I want, at all’.”
As expected, her concept of sheltering bicycles was different from mine. Hers included a gabled roof with upper hatches, shelving on both sides, and room for four bicycles, two lawnmowers and a large plastic wheelbarrow. I was surprised she hadn’t included a full bathroom.
"What?" I exclaimed. "No rec-room in the basement?"
"Very funny," she snapped. "You’re lucky I decided against the feature wall."
I pointed out we only had five sheets of plywood and if she wanted a more elaborate structure, we’d have to save up materials and wouldn’t be able to build it that weekend. I sketched out a simple construct with an open front and a roof sloping to the back. It looked like a small-scale machine shed. I knew she would hate it.
"I’m afraid with our available material; this is all we could build. I’m sure you want something nicer," I said, trying to sound regretful.
"You mean, if I agree to this, you could build it this weekend?" she asked pointedly.
"Well, I suppose…um…I’m…uh," I gulped.
"Well it’s not so bad," she said looking at the drawing. “Kind of quaint, really. It looks like what I originally thought of before I got ambitious with the cupboards and whatnot."
I winced as I saw the trap close in on me.
"You said you could have it finished by Sunday? That would be terrific. Thanks, honey!" she exclaimed, "I knew I could get you to do it, I mean, I knew you would do it for me because you love me."
I sighed as I stood, yanking up my tool belt again. No sense protesting, I knew I’d been had.
P.S. During construction, Cupcake was busy, too. Now the new ‘bike shed’ is filled with stuff from the garage, the attic and the closet while the bikes are back in the storage shed.

A Drizzle Fizzle

          In many middle to far-eastern countries, (far to middlin’?) they are known by the Swahili name; “monsoon”; rain storms, both vicious and unrelenting that are almost as lethal as an Iraqi election. In the Philippines, they are called “tag-ulan”, in Haiti, “muason” but around these parts, they call it “Chris and Cupcake’s summer holidays”.
           I don’t know what it is but for darned near every summer of Cupcake’s and my married life, our week off has been characterized by hard rains, hypothermia-inducing temperatures and more grumpiness than a bus load of seniors facing a Depends shortage. This year was no exception. As you may have guessed from last week’s torrential rainfalls, it was time our attempt at a dry (in the meteorological sense) holiday for myself and my bitter better half. Sadly, as usual, Mother Nature, with her perverse sense of humour, had other plans.
            The devastation that our week off wreaked on our community was tragic. We drove up and down every street in Calmar and in those ten minutes, we saw more people hauling out soggy sofas and besotted broadloom than after Hurricane Katrina. (Mind you, Calmar survived Katrina fairly unscathed). Instead of the Prime Minister flying to the disaster zone as prime ministerial-types like to do (as if their very presence will staunch the rain, dry out basements and demoldify drywall) all that happened was the office of the assistant to the undersecretary of the interior sent us a nasty letter strongly suggesting in future, we take our vacations abroad, ideally in a rogue, enemy state like North Korea or Holland. Frankly, I’m surprised we aren’t approached by drought-stricken areas begging us to holiday in these regions to relieve their moisture problems. I’m sure if Cupcake and I took a year-long sabbatical in Africa, it would lead to the creation of Lake Sahara.
            It’s not like we pick the same weekend every year, either. How dumb do you think we are? (That was a rhetorical question, so don’t bother sending in letters and emails with your answers.)We have tried every week from early July to late August and it doesn’t make any difference. The weekend our vacation begins, the weatherman gets beaten with an ugly stick. One memorable year in particular, we planned our time off for the last week of August only to have it snow a good six inches. Cupcake, as they say, was not amused. I felt almost as much anguish as she did but drew the line at making crank calls to Environment Canada like Cupcake threatened to do.
        “Arrggghhhh!” Cupcake emoted as the sky turned black last Monday, the first day of our vacation. “I don’t believe this. Every year it’s the same thing.”
          I should add that interspersed with her statement were terms not suitable for this space.  In fact some of the terms would have had the late, great George Carlin adding to his famous list.
          “Now, Honey,” I quickly interjected. “This would be a great time to do some ‘chillaxin’.
          “If I wanted to do some ‘chillaxin’ as you call it, I would want to be doing it in the sun in the pool or on a beach, not on the stupid recliner. I sit on the recliner every day. The thrill is gone, you know?”
          “We can go outside and pretend it`s nice out and just accept the fact we`re not made of sugar and won`t melt away. We can putter in the yard maybe.”
           “That`s a great idea,” Cupcake spat, telegraphing the fact she didn`t think it was that great of an idea. “You can start by trimming the hedge with our electric trimmer. I get to watch you plug it in when you`re out in THAT.”
            She pointed dramatically at the sheets of water pouring out of the heavens and laughed maniacally.“Very funny.” I grunted. “Do you take me for a moron?”
“Well you’re the one that suggested we try heating the pool with our toaster.”
            “Okay, I get your point,” I sighed. When Cupcake gets mad, the best thing to do is just let her be mad. When she achieves a certain level of unhappiness, even Eeyore is easier to cheer up.
             As the week wore on, however, Cupcake and I, as usual, adjusted to our fate.  We went on a shopping expedition which helped to mollify her. Spending money seems to lighten her mood as much as my wallet. Still, some things are worth the cost, even if they only increase my quality of life as much as, say, pillow shams or a new candle powered potpourri boiler jobby to go with her other dozen.
            We also ate out at restaurants a lot, too, as barbecuing was out of the question and holidays are no time to make messes somebody would have to clean up.
            “I think the key is that at least we had togetherness,” I waxed philosophic as our holiday drew to a close with a gloriously sunny Sunday.
             “That’s true, dear,” Cupcake patted my leg kindly. “Even a bad day with you beats a good day at work.” I looked at her quizzically. “Uhhh... thanks... I think.”

Signs of Summer

         Ah, summer. You can sure see the signs. The flesh-scorching daytime temperatures that inevitably lead to dazzling lightning attacks that pound the earth so vigorously it loosens your back teeth and scares the wits out of anyone who has ever seen the movie Twister. Then there’s the constant whine of mosquitoes in search of blood engorged flesh much like my own to feast on. One gets so vigilant to the feeling of something landing on us, we slap at any slight touch - a blade of grass, a tuft of dandelion fluff, a spouse that stops talking to you for the rest of the day until you admit it was on purpose. Then there’s the endless parade of motor homes, truck and camper units, tent trailers and fifth wheel monstrosities all whizzing by as people try and "get away from it all" only to discover they brought it all with them. The irony is lost on them in their focussed determination to get ahead of the gigantic Winnebago ahead of them, not caring there are still dozens, if not hundreds of Winnebagos ahead of that one.
          But to me, the surest signs of all that summer is really upon us in all its glory, is the ever present "garage sale" signs. They set my heart a-fluttering like a debutante at prom.
          Being "Mr. Wise Shopper" (not "Joe Skinflint", as some would believe) I truly appreciate the incredible bargains available to those with the patience and persistence to dig through piles of junk to locate rare treasures. To me, this is recycling at its best; probably heartily endorsed by Dr. David Suzuki himself. (I bet the good doctor has a house just crammed with garage sale goodies.)
           In fact, you wouldn't believe the haul I got last weekend. I bought a stereo, a set of encyclopedias, a cheese slicer and an electric razor. Guess how much I paid for all that stuff. Fifty dollars? Uh uh, too high. Forty? No, sirree. Try $17.10 for the whole works. What a deal. I almost felt guilty taking it.
           This was high quality stuff, too; real top drawer. The stereo, for example, plays both records and 8 tracks and even has a system whereby you can stack up four or five albums on the turntable and they will drop down and play automatically, almost like one of those fancy CD players. Of course after the third disc drops down onto the rest, it kind of slows down the motor so the Bee Gees start sounding a lot like Barry White on downers, but this can be a good thing. Actually the 8 track makes a similar noise when it starts “eating the tapes” but since 8 tracks of everything from Abba to Z Z Top are only ten cents a piece at garage sales, who cares?
          You wouldn't believe the encyclopedia set, either. It's the 1964 Encyclopedia Britannica and not only does it look brand new, but it's also almost complete. I have never been that interested in people or places that start with L, N or T, anyway. I just can't wait til I need to look something up! Who needs Google? (Well, I do for anything beginning with L, N or T, I suppose.)
          I will admit I'm a little disappointed in the razor however. Being a discriminating purchaser, I made sure it worked before I bought it, but I didn't actually test it on my face. Perhaps I should have, however, because it appears that the three rotary blades, although they do go around, don't seem to go around fast enough. This means that instead of the whirling blades cutting the hairs off evenly at skin level, they actually grab hunks of hair and yanks them out by the roots. The pain is both exquisite and profound. Since it will never come within scarring distance of my face again, I'll probably give it to my wife for her birthday to use on her legs.
          In some ways, though, the best deal of all was the cheese slicer. It's one of those high tech ones with a wire instead of a blade. I tried to dicker with the lady who was selling it, I figured I could beat her down by 10 per cent, at least, because the wire was a little bent but she stood firm. She pointed out it was only ten cents anyway and why was I wasting her time trying to chisel her out of a penny, but I figure that you never know, you know.
          When I lugged all my booty into the house to show it all off to my wife, I must say, she was decidedly underwhelmed. She took the $17.10 I had spent and added in the gas for the car, the lunch I bought and a couple other minor expenditures and figured out I had actually spent about fifty bucks for all my treasures.
          Mind you, I didn't tell her about the electric razor. I wouldn't want to spoil her birthday surprise.

Ideas from the Think Tank

          Last week saw the end of the G8 and G20 meetings in the latest international G spot, Toronto, with the expected damage to public property and finger pointing at who is to blame for the mess. I think the buck has to stop with whoever decided to have a major terrorism target party in an enormous monstrosity of a city complete with plate glass windows. But the burning question remains - if having it in a major metropolitan area is stupid, irresponsible and unduly expensive, then where does it make sense to have it? To help answer that question, I contacted researchers at the Loco World Group International Issue Think Tank, also known as Jeff’s Bar where solving the world’s problems over a refreshing beverage is a popular pastime. Here are the alternatives that the Think Tank experts arrived at, complete with pluses and minuses of each choice. They are ranked in descending order.
Choice Number 6: Tuktoyktuk, Northwest Territory
+ Not as many buildings for rioters to damage.
+ Not as many rioters.
- Not as many anything.
+ Cuts down on the pesky streakers if held in winter.
+ Paul McCartney’s busy on the other side of the country trying to stop the seal hunt.
- Limos look stupid with a snowmobile escort.
- Polar bears make off with the guys in the back of the photo op.
Choice Number 5: Foam Lake, Saskatchewan
+ At least you’re not in Tuktoyaktuk.
+ You can see protestors coming from miles away.
- Protestors can see you from miles away.
- The store closes at six p.m., even on Friday nights.
+ It already has a lake. You don’t have to spend 300 million dollars to build one.
+ Delegates could tour Super Dave Osborne’s sealskin binding factory.
+ Cheap tax-free smokes at nearby native reserves.
+ Nothing much else ever happens in Foam Lake, Saskatchewan.
Choice Number 4: In the middle of the Atlantic
+ No buildings to damage.
- The golf course has too much water.
- Extremely expensive to do pre-summit cleanup of entire ocean.
+ No homeless people to displace and then catch flak for from bleeding hearts.
+ NATO helicopter gunships can pick off Greenpeace activists claiming they thought they were Somali pirates blown off course.
+ It isn’t Foam Lake, Saskatchewan.
Choice Number 3: Millet, Alberta
+ They could really use a 300-million-dollar  lake.
+ Close to Wetaskiwin’s Auto Mile for convenient delegate car shopping.
- Hostile press.
-  Not much loot for looters locally, although there is decent pillaging in Edmonton a mere 40 kilometres north.
+  Easy to spell.
+  Hard for protestors and terrorists to find on a map.
-  Hard for ANYONE to find on a map.
Choice Number 2: Saint John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador
- Takes way too long to type.
+ Nice oceanfront location to make it easy to catch crabs.
+ And lobsters.
+ Locals can’t complain to the international press because they wouldn’t understand them.
+ Newfoundlanders are well known for their hospitality, friendliness and screech.
-  Half the delegates will get their travel bookings screwed up and end up in Saint John, New Brunswick.
- Premier Danny Williams will have to be on national TV again.
- Paul McCartney will show up.
Choice Number 1: Teleconferencing
+ No security issues since you’re not creating a target for terrorists by having all the G20 leaders in one place at one time. The biggest threat is “technical difficulties”.
+ If they want to play golf together, the world leaders could all just buy a Wii each and play online.
+ They can photo shop the photo op.
+ The cost to put on the summit would be about the same as the value of the decisions rendered.
+ News agencies could focus on the issues and not the activities of extremists which are always so much more interesting and newsworthy than the actual summit.
+ The almost-500 dollars spent by the Canadian Government for every man, woman and child in the country could have been put to so much better use... like returned to our personal bank accounts.
+ Saves so much money, nations could fund the promises they make at the meetings.
           So the verdict is in. Let’s tell the world leaders to stay home and go “tweet” themselves. Twitter is so aptly named for a world summit, don’t you think?

Canada Daze

         With this being the Canada Day long weekend (except for those of us too slow or too far down the corporate ladder rungs to have booked the Friday off) it is time to reflect on what it is to be Canadian. This is easier said than done considering Canada is comprised of people so diverse; we barely understand each other, even when we’re all talking English.  Just picture a conversation between a Quebecois English as a Second Language student and a resident of Tops’l, Newfoundland, my dear bride’s birthplace (and not the dark, fiery bowels of Hades, as I have previously alluded.) Newfoundlander;  “So where y’ to, b’y?”
French-Canadian ESL student; “Uhhhhhh...”
Both of these people are as Canadian as beaver-tail-on-a-stick with a maple syrup dip and yet they are so different.
Or, take, for example, the modern day Inuit person, balanced precariously between their old ways and the new. Consider the Inuit family out shopping at the Wal-Mart in Tuktoyaktuk for an ice floe for Grandma’s retirement. They understand that clinging to the traditional way of life is great but when your dogsled has a flat or whatever, to be able to call for help with a satellite cell phone is kind of cool, too. How different is that Inuit person’s life experiences from that of the sturdy Saskatchewan farmer surprised by a flood in a province as flat as a map of itself? A glass of water spilled by a careless child would spread across the entire province and the poor farmer is shocked when his cattle doing the backstroke in the spring storms.
And yet, these too are Canadians, just as much as an Arrapaho/European pirate in Flin Flon, Manitoba (known as the “Arr Metis”), or a hermitically sealed trapper in the Yukon avoiding both humanity and PETA activists, (you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a PETA activist), even, yes I know, it’s tough for me to admit too, the metro-sexual man-about-town in Toronto.  So what can we say about what it is to be a Canadian when no two are alike?
The answer is that each of them holds certain attitudes and beliefs that are shared by all; whether you’re a Muslim mechanic in Lac La Biche, Alberta or a PEI potato producer, we all think and feel about some subjects the exact same way. Here are but a few:
We, as Canadians, feel we are blessed with great wealth; in resources and in opportunity but none of the political parties can be trusted to manage them effectively. The Conservatives cater to corporations, the NDP cater to wingy weirdos and the Liberals cater to the, well... Liberals.
We, as Canadians, tolerate this political situation because we are fairly unpolitical and refuse to spend time talking about and worrying about something we have no control over. So we talk about the weather instead.
We, as Canadians, are proud of our armed forces; the courageous men and women off in war zones fighting for... uh... for... uh... well, none of us are really sure but, by gum we’re proud of the soldiers that have to do it.
We, as Canadians, hate Canadian produced television unless it involves hockey or curling. We especially hate watered down Canadian versions of successful American shows like “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire” which was “Who Wants To Be A Toaster Owner?”
We, as Canadians, care a great deal about our land and our environment and would do anything to maintain the fragile eco-system, other than pay more in taxes or fuel.
We, as Canadians, think the World Cup of Soccer would be better if it was played on ice in an arena with sticks and pucks. We might actually get to compete.
We, as Canadians, think money invested in amateur sports is wasted... until we win. We, as Canadians, love our coffee. But we go to Tim Horton’s anyway.
We as Canadians, think nothing of driving hundreds of miles for any reason.  We would drive the equivalent of the length of England to go for beers with a buddy,  (that’s like to Banff and back). Mind you, we also drive the three blocks to the health club.
We, as Canadians, appreciate extremes in climate from the desert conditions of Dinosaur National Park (named for Prime Minister Harper’s inner circle) to the rainforests of British Columbia (Tourism slogan, “Woah... Dude, check out these trees...”) from the mighty frozen northland, home of the polar bear, the midnight sun and Honest Oktook’s 24 hour Solar Powered Tanning Salon and Grill to southern Ontario with its lush fruit regions, horrendous heat waves and a humidex count in the hundreds. We’ve got mighty mountains and great big seas. We’ve got every kind of climate you could wish for yet we go to the US for holidays ‘for something a little different.’
But the thing we, as Canadians all have, whether we moved here or were born here, we are Canadian because we have ID proving it.  Our membership in this nation boils down to a piece of government paper; a tiny sliver of the Great Ball of Red Tape that runs the country. How Canadian!

The Bees Knees

         You must have heard it by now. That cry of achievement, enjoyment and delight so prevalent on the tongues of today’s youth. “Sick!”  they say, with more zest than grated lemon peel. Yes, “sick” is the new “cool”, although, of course “cool” will ALWAYS be cool.
It seems weird to think of “sick” as meaning good, however. I wonder if it’s part of the “bad means good” mindset where it’s apparently really good to be “Super Bad”.  It seems “sick = good” isn’t even all that new, as the term “sick” was used in that context as far back as 2005 in an article in Rolling Stone. And if it’s in Rolling Stone, it’s got to be cool. Or sick. Or bad... er... good. You know what I mean.
Given my middle-age sensitivities, I find the use of the word “sick” to identify something positive seems mildly disgusting, almost gnarly. (“Gnarly”, in this case meaning its original intent of “offensive” and not the 90’s edition when it meant sick... I mean cool.) Why can’t these young people use something lyrical and whimsical like “the bees knees” which was so popular with in the 1920’s? (It seems when bees collect pollen to make honey, they store it behind their knees, thus making them “suh-weet!”)
There are other choices, too. What about “Hunky Dory”? That one was good enough for us; it should be good enough for them. If they yearn to toss in trendy terms with an edge to them, maybe the young people can recycle sayings such as “rad” and “gear”. Seriously; people actually would say “Man, that’s really gear!”! I think it’s more kickin’ than 23 Skidoo.
The same goes for “nifty”. Now that was a cool word. Sadly the only time you see it used anymore is on quinquagenarian cougars’ T-shirts emblazoned in glorious glitter with the phrase ”Over 50 and Feelin’ Nifty!” Such a shame.... about the loss of the word, I mean “Groovy” is still one of my favourites. Sadly, I remember when it was groovy to say “groovy”. Now if you say “groovy” you sound like an old hippy, which hasn’t stopped me, although the cops sure do. It must be the tie-dyed VW micro-bus I drive.
One expression I found somewhat mystifying and that is “the cat’s pyjamas”. What in the world were they thinking? Have you ever tried to get a cat to wear pyjamas? Good luck. We had a cat that wouldn’t even allow us to put a collar on him. Trying to put bedwear on that one would have led to lethal hemorrhaging for one or both of us.. How this could be construed as a positive is beyond me.
The problem with a lot of these sayings is that they are absolutes. It is sick or cool or groovy or whatever or it isn’t. Some, however, have degrees. Take “dandy”, for example. As a word, dandy is pretty nifty because, although it means neat or swell or skookum, when you add “Jim” to it to make it “Jim dandy”, that means it’s REALLY neat or swell or skookum. The same goes for the word “keen”. Keen is as nifty as dandy because it’s got its own qualifier, as well. Things can be just plain old keen or they can be peachy keen, which is not only much keener than keen but is also somewhat fuzzy, apparently. If you prefer the fuzz-free variety, may I suggest “Nectariny keen”.
There is one saying that was once everywhere but is now like so last Tuesday. That is... or was, “phat”.  I thought that it meant the same as all the other cool synonyms but was recently informed it is an acronym for “pretty hot and tempting”, which to me sounds like a steak.  I should add that the informant I was getting the “down-low” from, a young lady named Mary, (not her real name. Kelsey is her real name), who advised us that she wasn’t sure if there was a comma after the word “pretty” which would change the meaning slightly. Is it/her/she pretty AND hot or just pretty hot? Personally, rather than “phat” I prefer “phull phigured.”
This just in; there’s a word that’s even newer than “sick” and that word is... are you ready for this? The word is “word”, as in “You got two tickets to the Nickleback concert? Word! What? You’re taking someone else? Word!”
“Word” seems to have arrived as an all purpose word to replace all those other cool and gnarly words. Some might see it as a plus; a word to use when the word you’re trying to think of just won’t spring forth from its hiding place somewhere in your cranium. (I HATE it when that happens!)
I hope the word “word” doesn’t catch on as a cool saying. It’s so...bland. I say we should go back to the vaults. All in favour of “the bee’s knees” say “SICK!”

Boggles My Mind

I eyed my opponent with deep suspicion. After all, I had been victorious for the last... oh... dozen matches at least, suddenly, stakes are being discussed, high stakes.  Serious stakes. The field of battle was to be “Boggle”; the game where you make words out of lettered dice. The adversary was my dear, sweet, child-bride; the lovely, the charming, the vocabularily-challenged, Cupcake. The stakes; having to tidy the kitchen, including washing all the dishes that had been accumulating since breakfast. It looked like the aftermath of a Gordon Ramsey show.
“Are you sure you want to do this, honey?” I asked magnanimously. “I know I am the reigning Boggle champ in this house and don’t want to take advantage of you. I am aware your talents lie elsewhere. We could do something we are more even at.... arm wrestling, perhaps.”
“That’s okay,” she breezily replied. “I admit you usually win since “my talents lie elsewhere”, as you diplomatically put it, but I have great confidence I can be triumphant if I pit my talents against yours.” “Game on,” I chortled, grabbing the clear plastic dice container and giving them an enthusiastic shake. I spun the lid into place which forces the 16 die into a neat square four dice across by four dice down and automatically starts the battery-powered timer. The battle had been joined!
The letters were really good ones... it was to be a high word-count round and every second was vital. Amid my concentration, however, I happened to glance up at Cupcake. For some strange reason, she was unbuttoning her nighty.
“Hey!” I blurted out in astonished realization. “That’s not fair! You’re not allowed to distract me like that. That’s... that’s... are you not wearing a bra?”
Cupcake never looked up but continued to feverishly jot down words. I realized I had dishpan hands in my future if I didn’t get cracking but my eyes kept being diverted to her bosom.
You see, the problem is that men are actually hard-wired to appreciate the female figure, especially in the chestal area.  This is hardly news to the billions of women out there who occasionally, and not all I’m sure, use this particular male weakness to further their own agendas. Really! It happens!
Many sociologists maintain that man’s pursuit of beauty is what fuels greed. It is common knowledge that many women are attracted to great, big, thick bulging wallets. This because, to those same sociologists, women aren’t wired for appreciating looks as much as security and status. Multi-billionaire Aristotle Onassis put it best when he said that “Without women, money would become meaningless. “
The media is well aware of men’s fascination with the female form but the messages being sent are mixed. Besides the seemingly thousands of websites dedicated to examples of the fairer gender in various states of undress, there is even a site where women post pictures of their charms to be rated on a scale of 1 to 10. If it is an example of the objectification of women, it certainly appears there are a lot of women who don’t appear to mind. The supply of volunteers seems endless... well, according to a friend who told me about it. As well, if commercials are to be believed, the most desirable women with the most splendid examples of female attributes are attracted to men who drink large amounts of beer. Call me crazy but it has been my experience that this is not the case.
I took another quick peek at Cupcake pulling her nighty aside and then checked out the length of her word list. I still had a chance if I could just focus. It was particularly frustrating because the effectiveness of her ploy is just a one-way street. There is no body part I could flaunt that would have the same effect on her even remotely. The closest I could come would be to unwrap a chocolate bar and wave it seductively in front of her.
I redoubled my efforts at finding words while trying to ignore Cupcake’s heaving cleavage. I vowed not to think of her luscious ample appendages and only focus on the Boggle rack... I mean frame. I wrote like the wind and got some really long, extra-value words.  I may be easy but I’m no push-over.  Finally the timer beeped the end of the match. It was time to tally up our words.
After crossing out all the words we had in common, we counted silently our own scores.
“So... how many did you get?” I asked, my hand covering my total of 38.
“I got 37,” she said proudly.
My victory dance was quickly cut short. Cupcake had yet one more card to play.
“If you do the dishes while I wait for you in bed, I won’t do up my nighty,” she said softly.I was outraged that she would offer such a deal. I was so incensed, I almost didn’t go for it.Stupid hard wiring.

A Graduation Situation

     Last Saturday was a big day for my buddy Pete, whom I’ve known since Grade 5. I have referred to him in this space often; even, occasionally, in a kindly way. Pete, along with his bubbly missus, Roxanne, were proudly watching the graduation ceremony of their youngest daughter; the radiantly beautiful and sweet Shelby.
Given that, once more, I was not considered for the role of “keynote speaker” at her graduation (Or any others. Ever. The blackguards. Good thing I’m not bitter.), I would like to share some insights into the phase of life these young folks are now entering based on my observations, convictions and crap I’ve just made up.  Here then, for Shelby and all her fellow graduates across this great land, are pearls of wisdom to base the rest of your life upon. Or not.
Don’t worry if you don’t know what you want to be when you grow up. I’m almost fifty and I still have no idea. The problem is with the “growing up” part. I’ve seen what it does to people. It’s not pretty. Look what it did to Nick Nolte.
As comfy as home is, it’s time to move out.  Don’t worry that there are no jobs to be had and rent is astronomical and transportation costs for those cursed with youth are absurdly expensive. Just get out. We parents know you’ll be back in no time anyway, but at least if you get out right away, you’ll appreciate home so much more. You might even start helping out a bit.
You can be anything you want to be. That is, if your parents are rich and generous, and you’re actually smart enough and talented enough to do what you want to do. No? Sucks to be you then. Can you say “Would you like that upsized?”
Don’t be in a hurry to get married. No matter how old you get.
There’s no such thing as a free lunch... unless you’re gorgeous with an incredible body or are a politician.Networking is great to increase your social base and possibly establish business contacts. But beware of social networking websites. Having pictures of your drunken parties posted on your profile page can be problematic for potential employment and/or parents you told you were just spending a quiet evening doing homework over at her friend’s house.
If you work for a small company, expect to spend years establishing a reputation and paying your dues.  You will get the worst shifts and lousiest pay. This is also true if you work for a big company.
Avoid “get rich quick” schemes. I will say, however, that the poor fellow with all his money in Nairobi, needing help to get it out, sounded legit.
Everyone is normal until you get to know them. Always allow for other people’s foibles since we have to tolerate yours. You can make an exception for people who spit when they talk. Ewww! It’s okay to be without your cell phone sometimes and talk to people face to face. I know that sounds kind of old fashioned but you might like it if you try it a few times. It may be awkward at first but don’t give up. You’ll get the hang of it eventually.
Now that you’re out of school, it’s okay to wear warm clothes outside in winter. Watching young people walking to school without any gloves or headgear whatsoever gives me shivers worse than one of Cupcake’s lectures.  I can appreciate you didn’t want to wreck your ‘do that you’d spent over an hour creating, but ears lost to frostbite aren’t pretty, either. What if you need glasses some day? How will you keep them up?
Don’t be in a hurry to have children. Just remember how rotten you were. If you weren’t rotten, don’t forget it skips a generation sometimes.
Eat properly. Good nutritional habits developed young can stick with you, much like Nanaimo bars. Sadly, it is too late for me and I am condemned to eating unhealthy, processed food which is chock-a-block full of enough salt to attract cattle as well as other tasty ingredients such as sodium erythorbate, whatever the heck that is.  You’ll be better off to stick with foods that have only one ingredient; “carrot”, for instance, or “lettuce”.
Start thinking about fibre. It’s never too early. Oh yeah, and retirement.
Get plenty of exercise. Just remember while you’re out there playing hockey or football or extreme rocket-boarding with your young, bulletproof bodies, that you’ll need those same bodies when you’re older.     You won’t need pictures to make you think of the good old days. The aches in your body, wherever you had a major owie; broken arm, dislocated shoulder, reattached leg, etc. will remind you of those carefree times for the rest of your life.
And most importantly, don’t take advice from strangers.
Good luck, Shelby!

A Mouse in the House

          Last week, I came home from work in a fine mood. The day had whizzed by faster than a cop heading to a holdup at Tim Hortons. All was good with the world. Good, that is, until I walked in the house. Without any external clues whatsoever, I could feel tension in the air. My fears were confirmed when I entered the dining room and saw Cupcake sitting at the table with her arms crossed and a look on face like she’d just drank sour milk. I quickly replayed  the recent past for any transgressions I may have done, real or imagined and, for once, came up dry.
“We have to talk,” she stated through gritted teeth. She would have had to cheer up a bit just to be described as angry. I needed a snappy come-back to maintain my good spirits. Her spirits, unfortunately, were too far gone for me to improve.
“You want to thank me for making the bed every day this week?” I suggested hopefully. She ignored my dual-purpose quip designed to both lighten the mood and illustrate what a good boy I’ve been.
“Earlier today a mouse ran over my foot,” she declared, her voice just one notch below shrill. Her face was a picture of accusation. I’m sure she thought I’d trained it expressly for the purpose of running over her foot.
“Did it hurt?” I asked, full of concern.
“Of course not you... you...” she sputtered .
Before she could form an unpleasant, yet descriptive adjective/noun combination (stupid idiot, for example) for me, I thought I’d dig myself a little deeper.
“Well, the way you’re acting, it sounded like when it ran over your foot, it was with my Kia,” I pointed out reasonably, although perhaps unwisely. “You’re not hurt and other than the minor issue of the mouse, everything else is fine. Look at the real consequences.”
“Look, Buster,” she snarled. “You know how much I hate mice. Either you get rid of it or I’ll show you real consequences. You constantly leave that screen door open; just inviting the disgusting vermin to come in. You better have a business license for this Hanta Virus halfway house you’re running. I won’t sleep a wink tonight knowing that horrid creature is menacing us.”
“Don’t worry,” I consoled her. “When he chows down on the mousebait I have in the vents, he won’t bother you anymore. You know, I wonder if he will be creeped out by any mouse skeletons he comes across in the walls from previous infestations.”
“Ewww! Don’t even talk about that! That’s revolting!” She involuntarily shivered. “I want you to set out traps and catch it before it eats the poison!”
“Okay,” I cautioned as agreeably as I could. “But don’t blame me if you’re lying awake at night listening for the SNAP! Minute by minute... hour by hour... you’ll be laying there... waiting for that dreaded...” “All right, all right all right,” Cupcake waved her hands to stop the imagery from continuing. “I get the picture. Fine, you can keep your trap shut... like that will ever happen.”
“Nice,” I grunted. “Look, it’s not fair to be mad at me because a mouse scared you. That’s all I’m saying. No one knows who left the door open when it managed to sneak past our defences. You’re simply redirecting your anger of the moment towards me and it should be directed elsewhere.”
“Redirecting my anger at you has worked for decades, why should I change now?”  she pointed out absent-minded and then caught herself. “I mean, I don’t do that!” “Well, according to this book I’ve been reading...”  I began
“Oh no! You’re not reading ‘Chicken Soup for the Menopausal Man’ or some other claptrap, are you?” She broke in. “If you really want to improve our relationship, you will forget reading books telling me how I should act and catch that flea-bitten, lice-ridden rodent  NOW!”
“Be reasonable,” I implored. “It’s not like I have an AK47 and can shoot up the walls until its dead. These things take time. I have no idea where it’s at right now. It could very well be writhing in pain, gasping his last breath as the poison wracks his poor little body; drying it out worse than a ninety year old in a tanning booth.”
“Will you stop with that stuff? You’re not helping!”  She snapped.
“I’m just trying to explain,” I replied defensively.
Our son ambled into the room.
“If you guys are talking about the mouse, I saw it run out the back door when Mom left it open to bring in groceries.” He stated nonchalantly.
Cupcake was thrilled to be rid of her nemesis. “Thank heavens! You notice when I leave the door open, they run out, not in?”
“When they run in they haven’t met you yet,” I mumbled under my breath.
Later on I cornered my kid. “You never saw that mouse run out of the house, did you? That sounded like a load of hoohaw.”
“You’ll never know,” he smiled. “But you owe me one.”