Put 'er There!

I recently received an interesting email outlining 24 things about to go extinct. (No, Tiger Woods’ career wasn’t mentioned, although it’s more endangered than the spotted owl.) The list of things going the way of the Carcharodontosaurus and the  Canadian dollar bill, included such familiar items as the yellow pages and classified ads, VCR’s and dialup internet (You mean they aren’t dead yet?) as well as ham radio and cameras that use film, among other things.

It seemed to me the anonymous list maker missed a biggee, however. There is one thing that I see nowadays that is getting scarcer than a respected politician. No, it’s not faith in our institutions (that’s for another rant) but the humble handshake.

There was a time everyone shook hands. It was almost as popular as smoking. It was used in greeting and when departing, as a means of relaying both convivial congratulations and shared sorrow. It was REALLY popular with drunk guys, too, along with the phrase, “I love you, man.” The handshake was as pervasive as fedoras in the ‘50’s. There was none of this fist pounding stuff or the new elbow bump. Elbow bumping? Give me a break! We may as well wave from across the street. And for what? You’re as likely to catch something from a handshake as you are from a door knob or money or any of the myriad things we touch that others have touched.

If the threat of microbial invasion is as bad as those that make money off it claim, it is amazing the human race managed to survive through their multi-millennia handshaking phase until the use of hand sanitizers became more popular than, well, smoking. We must be a healthy society, indeed! But there are those that would have us believe we are walking bundles of bacteria. Well, we are, but the bacteria aren’t all bad. We’d die without bacteria in our systems. We need them as much as we need pizza and liquorice allsorts. Maybe more.

According to that universally trusted infotainment source, Wikipedia, historians believe handshaking has been with us since at least the second century BC... apparently before bacteria were invented. It has been used as a gesture of goodwill that, even we emotionally repressed males, are allowed to engage in with each other.  This is why it is so popular to do after sporting events to demonstrate good sportsmanship, and is second only to fanny patting in communicating a hearty ‘attaboy’.

Recently, pressing the flesh has been banned in the most surprising places; kids’ soccer leagues, some churches, even at the Olympics. I was saddened by this turn of events. The handshake in church is one of my favourite parts. (I’m not a big offering fan.) And what better way to leave competitive aggression in sporting venues than with a hearty handshake? I confess I do support the ban for hockey players shaking hands, though. I mean... have you ever smelled a hockey glove? Do you really want to come in contact with that?

There’s a lot of communication in a handshake. It’s like a short, private, intense conversation. That’s why folks are selective about who they clasp with, unless of course they are politicians trying to get elected. Apparently, they will shake anyone down, especially after they win.

There is finesse to handshaking, too. It’s much more complicated than it may seem. You have to come in just so, feeling for that taut flap of skin at the base of the V created by thumb and forefinger (T&FV) on your T&FV. If you clamp earlier than full T&FV contact, you end up grasping the other person’s fingers in a squishy, unsatisfying, uncomfortable moment. If you come in too hard, you might break the other person’s thumb, which can also be socially uncomfortable. A firm, solid grip with a vigorous pump action is the goal but some carry the whole ‘firm’ thing too far. They see a handshake as a contest of strength instead of the genteel greeting it was intended to be and try to crush every carpus in your hand. Still, I’d rather have one of the ‘help, my hand’s caught in the car door’ type shakes than one that’s limper than soggy Sapporo Ichiban. Those ones are unsettling, like you feel you have accidently grabbed somebody’s prosthetic rubber arm.

I will miss the handshake.  It’s a sign we’re all retreating into our own little tidy, self-contained units of humanity, enjoying music on our personal stereos, watching movies on our personal DVD players and texting our conversations without talking.

Despite this zest for isolation, studies have proven we need to be touched or we die. (The nice kind of touching, not the icky weird Uncle Naughtypants variety.) I believe we should take no chances and never pass up an opportunity to be touched. Paris Hilton could be the poster girl. Sadly, some, and not just the homeless and the homely, never get touched by anybody. To them, even a simple handshake would make all the difference. But it’s too late. Handshaking is now looked upon as a personal space invasion. The general public recoil at the thought of clasping hands in friendship.

And we are poorer for it.

An Olympic Career

Last Friday, Cupcake and I had gotten a room at a budget motel to celebrate her birthday, Valentines and the fact that we still find each other attractive, 29 years after meeting. I am not at liberty to divulge which particular birthday but I will say, if the figure were converted to dog years, it would be over 375. Let’s listen in as there appears to be trouble brewing in la room de l’ amour. (That’s French, you know.) “But I don’t want to,” I protested. “You know I’m not into that stuff.”“Oh, come on,” Cupcake enticed.” I think you’ll like it. It would be great to do together. I don’t want to do it by myself like last time. Please? For me?”

I resisted as long as I could but, man, I love it when she begs.

“Okay, I’ll try it for a while,” I caved.

That exchange between us would explain why, amid a room filled with sensual delights; gigantic Jacuzzi tub, crackling fireplace, and a bed the size of a small country, the evening found us watching the opening celebrations of the 2010 Olympics.

Now it’s not that I hate the Olympics. I’m just not sure we get enough bang for our billions. I also question why I, via taxation, have to subsidize an over-blown track meet featuring people who, other than our birth country, have absolutely nothing in common with. These are beautiful, fit, young people with great hair, plus Kevin Martin. I mean, if the Olympics really were truly a money-making proposition as some people claim, private enterprise would have taken over years ago and instead of being every four years, would be a weekly reality show.

To me, I can’t help but see the whole thing as paying people to do jobs that don’t really need doing.What direct benefit do I get from athletes learning how to slide down hills really quickly? After all, the impact on my daily life would be negligible, even if Canada won every medal. My paycheque would remain the same, my darts would still suck; nothing would change. In fact, the only difference I can perceive between a world with Olympics as opposed to one without, is that in a world bereft of The Games, I wouldn’t have been sitting in a sumptuous motel room watching television.
I have a theory why countries fight over hosting them. I believe we are all are victims of international peer-group pressure. It’s like we’re all, as nations, still in junior high.

And what pressure there was. We had to win gold at our own Olympics since we never had before on Canadian soil... or snow... or ice... Calamitous! We better throw more money at it!

I’m old enough to remember (unfortunately) in Montreal and Calgary when we failed to finish first in any event. How truly Canadian, I thought. We are such generous hosts! No wonder the Olympic Committee chose Vancouver.

As Cupcake and I watched, I had to admit the snowboarder entrance was pretty cool.  The guy must have had kahunas the size of cantaloupes which should have made the descent even more difficult. The native dancing was enthralling, too, as was Ashley MacIsaac’s incredible fiddling performance.

“Who’s the dude with the sour face?” I asked Cupcake of the grim-looking dignitary sitting beside Governor General Michaelle Jean. “He looks like a refugee from a 1930’s horror flick.”

“Oh shush,” scolded Cupcake. “That’s Jacque Rogge, the president of the IOC.  I’ll grant you that he does look like he just ate some of your father’s tripe and onion soup.”

I must say, the speeches from Canadian celebrities praising their homeland did make me uncomfortable. I’ve always felt our undemonstrative patriotism fits nicely with our national image. I find over-zealous public displays of love of country as inappropriate as over-zealous public displays of romantic exuberance. That’s what motels are for. Besides, it’s so un-Canadian to invite someone to your home just so you can brag about it. Our way is much more subtle. We simply open our doors in welcome and let folks think what they may. We know they will love it, too.

The speechifying aside, the celebration continued to amaze. Sure there were a few glitches; a delayed dignitary here, a stubborn cauldron leg there, but it was still an inspiring spectacle. I wanted to be in BC Place so bad, if only to get one of those nifty electric candle jobbies everybody in the audience got.“See?” said Cupcake as the credits rolled. “Aren’t you glad we watched it?”

“Oh yeah,” I agreed readily. “When I pay three figures for a night away, there’s nothing I’d rather do than watch TV.”

“You know,” Cupcake giggled. “With your grumpy face on, you look just like that Rogge guy!” P.S, For those interested in my Great Treadmill Adventure, you may recall I was working out the cost/hour of treadmill ownership. I have now used it for approximately three weeks and have brought the price below $100.00/hour. I have been using it even more, lately, since I pimped it out with a cup holder and a sandwich tray.

Revenue Canada Phobia

At this time year, I begin to get irritable, preoccupied; maybe even a little crazy. It’s not Seasonal Affective Disorder but something much worse. It is my annual attack of revenuecanadaphobia whereby I’m thrust into the unaccustomed experience of having to think about my finances.

I view my paycheque as a sort of wind tunnel. The money, in twenties, gushes from the blower end, while at the far side, sucking up all my twenties, are the mortgage, the car payment, the utilities, insurance, groceries and the like, and boy do they suck! Every once in a while, I reach into the meagre flow of twenties and pluck out one or two for beer and other necessities but mostly they just fly by. I won’t say it’s a perfect system but it has got me this far. However, with tax season approaching, as unstoppable as another Simon Cowell produced TV show, everything’s changed.

Financial questions invade my mind which had previously been occupied with foraging for food in the fridge, cajoling Cupcake into connubial goings-on and....uhhhh... foraging for food in the cupboard.  Seemingly overnight I am pondering such deep issues such as, should I buy RRSP’s to offset my tax burden? How much? Which ones? How long a term should I sign up for? What is my maximum allowable contribution? Why aren’t those Triscuits still up on the top shelf, behind the spaghetti canister, where I hid them?

The problem is that I have just watched my company RRSP’s go through a phase where they were losing money faster than a rube at a pickpocket convention. My quarterly financial statements sent by the financial institution had profit and loss charts that looked suspiciously like they were borrowed from an automotive manufacturer... except I didn’t get a bail out. I was leery about pouring more money into an apparently insatiable monster but felt I had a better chance of getting something decent out of it than if I just mailed it off to Revenue Canada. My odds may be lousy with the stock market but money sent to the government is gone forever.

I decided to ask an expert. I booked an appointment with a finance fellow at the credit union. Some might say going to an RRSP salesman to see if I needed an RRSP was like going to a used car lot to see if I needed a 1974 Gremlin. Nonetheless, the credit union had treated me as fairly as I ever expected a financial institution to and felt they deserved a chance to convince me.

The financial guru, Ian, (not his real suit jacket) is a tall earnest man with an amiable disposition and a shrewd mind for money. I suspect he’d been a nerd in school.

As Ian crunched the numbers of a retirement formula on his computer screen, a line graph of my projected income after retirement based on my current investments began to appear. If it had been my electro-cardiogram readout and not my financial picture, I would be in ICU with hoses in every orifice. “Okay, let’s look at your investments,” Ian said heartily. “Maybe when we plug some of those numbers in, the graph may perk up a bit.”

“Well,” I began nervously, “there’s the 12 bags of empty beverage bottles by the shed... I donated them to the grad’s bottle drive,” Cupcake whispered. “And if you bring up the change in the sofa, I’ll smack you.”

The brief stab at levity aside, I enumerated my sources of income I could expect, based on the various pensions and RRSP’s I currently have. Although I had been with the same company for almost thirty years, along the way it changed hands a few times and new pension plans appeared with each new logo on my paycheques. One parent multinational conglomerate only owned the company I toiled for briefly, and the pension from the short fling is anticipated to be worth a whopping $29.47 per month. The company threatened me that if I retired earlier than 65, they would cut it back to $21.63. I’m working until I’m 65 now just to tick them off.

Finally, after examining the bones of my financial future, Ian came to a stunning conclusion. “Based on what’s already invested from payroll deductions, you probably don’t need more RRSP’s to maintain a reasonable tax rate,” he proclaimed. “And with help from CPP and OAP and your umpteen pensions, your retirement is more promising than you first thought, too.”

“Boy,” I blurted out, “you sure make a lousy RRSP salesman!” Cupcake kicked my leg.

“Just to be sure,” Cupcake told Ian after shushing me with her patented ‘shut the puff up while I do the talking’ look, “We’d like a five-year principal-guaranteed investment product as outlined on your website.” She stated the amount and Ian quickly tapped out the transaction on his computer.

“Apparently he’s a better RRSP salesman than I gave him credit for,” I chided Cupcake outside the credit union doors.  “Actually, I think you made an astute financial decision.”

“Not really,” confessed my child bride. “I noticed a sign saying that if you buy an RRSP, you can win a big screen TV!”

Recalling My Chevette!

Last week, Toyota’s recall of some models due to accelerators sticking made more headlines than a corduroy pillow. The panic and anger felt by the owners of the affected vehicles was substantial, but I bet it was nothing like the panic and anger felt around the Toyota chairman’s boardroom table. I can picture in my mind in exquisite detail, that first meeting after the CEO learned a massive recall had to be made. Unfortunately, it’s all in Japanese so I can’t make out what they’re saying exactly but I’d bet money that somebody was blaming somebody, though.

Having an accelerator stick is not a... ahem, foreign experience to me. Years ago I owned a Chevette (Yes, I admit it) that had more problems than a gay infidel at a Taliban training camp. Commuting in winter without freezing to death required me to wear a snow suit, two sweaters and four pair of long underwear. I looked like Marlon Brando in his later years. I would try to arrive early so I could sit in the bathroom stall at work nicknamed “the crematorium” just to defrost.

One day on the way in, I had just reached the bottom of Devon Hill and had begun to accelerate to make it up the other side. Suddenly I realized, with a stab of terror, my gas pedal wasn’t coming back up when I lifted my foot. I was indeed fortunate that it happened where it did because the climb up Devon Hill at full throttle in a Chevette doesn’t even put you at the speed limit. It gave me time to think of options, other than hammering my foot on the obstinate accelerator over and over and over and screaming like a girl.

At the top of the hill, the car began to pick up speed. I was no further ahead in planning how to deal with my little accelerator issue. I had to do something, though, as I was hurtling toward the back of a semi. Although it was entirely possible the little car may have fit under the chassis of the trailer, I didn’t want to take that chance. Braking wasn’t helping, other than to burn out my pads. I even tried taking it out of gear so I could slow it down but the engine screamed like a chain saw on full bore.... well, ¾ bore and was shaking the car so violently, I thought the tiny, 400 hamster-powered motor might leap right through the hood. I was pooping cinderblocks, let me tell you..

It finally occurred to me to simply turn the key off, and coast to a stop on the shoulder of the highway. I turned on my four-way flashers, the international symbol for “Yes, I’m having a bad day. Yes, I’m having a bad day. Yes, I’m having a bad day.” I sat there for a few minutes, willing my heart to stop pounding and resisting the urge to roll up into the foetal position.

‘Calm down,’ I thought to myself. ‘Everything’s fine, for now.’

‘CALM DOWN??’ I answered. ‘Are you nuts? I might have been killed!’
As I sat there wondering what to do about the situation and dreading the hit my wallet would take if I had to pay for a tow, suddenly, the accelerator popped back up. I was as elated as I was suspicious. I gave it a few test presses but was afraid of flooding the engine. I weighed the risks of driving back to Devon to get it fixed but having Devon Hill between me and the dealership made me nervous. I knew I would have to floor it again to get up the other side and was scared to death it might stick again in the ‘lethal missile’ position.

Gingerly I started the killer machine up and braved the perils of Devon Hill. The thought of having my throttle sticking in the city, overpowered my fear of the icy climb I’d be facing again.

Safely at the dealership, the mechanic explained the problem. Apparently, in the cold, the throttle cable would accumulate ice and freeze against some other lump of ice when the pedal was completely  depressed. Sitting on the side of the road with the warmth of the engine heating the motor cavity, it melted the ice and freed the mechanism. With some WD40, a new chunk of cardboard jammed in my grill and moving a rad hose closer to the throttle gizmo rectified the issue immediately.

“Happens all the time with these types of cars,” the mechanic assured me.

“What type of cars do you mean?” I asked.

“Crappy ones,” he responded with a wink.

There was never a recall of Chevettes, despite all their foibles. I learned a lot about what makes cars go and stop from my buddies, thanks to that car. Although the motor would never die, everything around it had to be replaced eventually.  On the other hand, it was cheap to run and mostly got me to where I wanted to go. When I traded it in for another Chevette, it had over 350,000 kilometres on it. I loved that little car, other than the day it tried to throttle me to death. All I can say to the recall victims is, “I feel your pain”.