This Just In!

             According to www.canoe.ca (Everyone else surfs, Canadians canoe) in a QMI News Agency dispatch,  quoting the London Daily Mirror, a man in Britain has filed discrimination charges against his employer after being asked to remove his hood while at work at a call centre. The aggrieved employee, one Chris Jarvis (How come all the whack jobs are named ‘Chris’?) alleged he was being discriminated against because he considered his hood to be religious garb.
             Jarvis is an adherent to the precepts of a fairly new sect on the spiritual landscape known as the ‘Jedi Faith’.  Ardent apostles of this denomination pattern their belief system on the hollowed traditions originally found in.... yes, I can’t believe it either, the hokey Star Wars franchise of movies that has plagued theatres and cartoon channels for the last few decades. It is akin to basing your entire spiritual structure on Chrissy from ‘Three’s Company’ or Tattoo of ‘Fantasy Island’ fame. (Boss! De plane! De spiritual plane!) By the way, I was actually going to use an ‘A-Team’ reference here but I see they have remade that show into a new movie proving once more Hollywood is bereft of original ideas. Sadly it wouldn’t surprise me to see a new religion based on the ‘B A Barracus’ character.
            So where does it end? Can ANYTHING be a religion? How does one discriminate between what is a religion and what is a cult? Is there a difference? Is it possible to be too tolerant of some of these weird new religions? Where do you draw the line? Can I create a religion around beer and claim dart night as a tax write off for religious reasons? Why do I keep asking myself questions I have no idea what the answers are?
            Let’s look at the facts. According to my prized Webster’s ‘New Lexicon Dictionary of the English Language’, which is about as large and heavy as a sidewalk block, the word ‘religion’ is defined as ‘a system of beliefs and practises relating to the sacred and uniting it’s adherents in a community’. A cult, on the other hand is ‘a system of religious worship’.  Delving into the other definitions for each word yielded no appreciable difference between them linguistically. They were as different as cantaloupe and muskmelon.
            I asked a number of friends, colleagues and relatives what their beliefs are and how they were differed from those of a cult. I was mostly told to go “jump in the lake of fire”. The bottom line for those who cared to respond was that if you didn’t believe whatever they believed, you were in a cult.
            Obviously, every religion can’t be right if exclusivity to the key to the Pearly Gates is part of their programs. But how can we know which one is the correct one? It would be awful to get to The Hereafter after a life of pious devotion to Buddha and see Saint Peter wearing dreadlocks telling all the newly ectoplasmic that only Rastafarians are allowed inside.
            Of course we talk about the so-called ‘Great Religions’; Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, as being on some higher level than your average wedding tackle-removing Solar Temple types. Still, sheer numbers of followers can’t be the criterion. When every follower of Christianity could all be portrayed in a picture dining together, you know they could use a major membership drive. But even with their humble beginnings, to those that came after who called themselves Christians, it wasn’t a cult even then.
             So what is a government to do? Unlike individuals who generally just pick one path to follow (rather shakily in many cases), governments must recognize many paths. It would be very difficult nowadays for a government to select one religion and outlaw the rest. Western world leaders pride themselves on religious tolerance, sometimes bending over backward to accommodate groups that neither require nor appreciate it.
             But Jedi-ism? I can picture them meeting in their parents’ basements where they are still living at the age of 35. To me, someone who devotes their life to a fictional faith that sprang from the mind of a cheesy sci-fi writer has got to be a half a bubble off. These people have about as much credibility as those lunatics that spend hours learning conversational Klingon.
             As disgusted as I am about the situation, I don’t know what can be done to rectify it. It may be better to allow every new religion that comes along than to lose the precious right of religious freedom. There is no government we trust enough to pick our religion for us so we must allow even the fringes. If it’s good enough for God to give us free will, surely it should be good enough for a government. It has to be ‘prayer beware’.
              Just so you know where my bias lies, by the way, I am a devout Frisbeetarian.

Taking a Vow

My darling wife and I were doing something totally different together last week. We were having a quiet evening at home and it wasn’t due to Cupcake giving me ‘the silent treatment’; my favourite form of punishment. We were sitting on our tolerance seat (it used to be a love seat but we’re older now) enjoying a respite from our busy day. She was reading a Max Haines crime thriller (CSI was, amazingly, not on any channel on TV at the time and she needed her murder and mayhem fix) while I was surveying the inside of my eyelids hoping to catch a few winks before bed-time.
I was just sliding into the warm, comfortable arms of Morpheus when Cupcake barged into my consciousness with one of those ‘women’ questions the fairer gender favour so much. I call them ‘women’ questions because no fella worth his power tools would ever even think to make such a query.
"What are you thinking about?" she wanted to know, staring dreamily into my eyes.
This line of questioning from Cupcake always stumps me. In my view, it’s rather presumptuous of her to assume I’m actually thinking something at any given minute. Apparently she thinks thoughts constantly and unbelievably, believes I am similarly afflicted. However, I've come to learn from bitter past experiences that if I say something like "Nothing, Sweetheart," or any variation on that theme, Cupcake accuses me of evasiveness and I spend the balance of the day convincing her I'm not hiding anything.
I've also found responses like "I was just thinking how much I love you and how special you are to me," doesn't really cut the mustard, either. She feels this is an automatic response I've rehearsed just for such occasions (which, of course, it is, but it did work a couple times).
Instead I responded with another tried and true gambit; a quick response on a neutral subject and a return of the conversation ball back into her court.
"I was just thinking if I ever got nailed for a DUI while driving around with a carload of hookers and blow, I’d want to hire the same lawyer Rahim Jaffer did. Why, what are you thinking about?"
“I’d say if you get caught drunk driving with hookers and blow, the court system would be the least of your concern,” she snorted. “After I got finished with you, there wouldn’t be much left for the legal system to pursue. But that’s not what’s on my mind, frankly. I have something more important to discuss. “Uh oh”, I thought, my mental ‘red alert’ klaxon blaring. Here it comes.  “I was thinking how nice it would be if we were to renew our vows. Don't you think that would be romantic?"
I didn't answer immediately. Instead I quickly reviewed my limited range of options knowing each would have their own specific ramifications. If, for example, I shot down the idea out of hand (which was my gut reaction) I would be viewed as unloving and obstinate. If, however, I showed the slightest interest whatsoever, she would immediately begin hiring caterers and renting a hall.
Still, it had actually occurred to me recently we could use another wedding. After this many years of marital bliss, our dish cloths and bath towels are worn thin to the point of transparency and we're down to our last toaster. Plus, I rather enjoy parties where people bring me gifts.
Conversely, however, I also realized how much another wedding would set us back. It would be a ton of cash and for what? It’s not like our current marriage license had expired. Believe me, I check frequently. But “I do's" are good for a lifetime and you only need renew your vows if maybe you’ve reneged on a few during the interim. Since this isn’t the case, I couldn't see the point, other than replenishing our linen cupboard. I needed a way out.
"You know, dear, that may not be a bad idea," I began. "In fact, just the other day I was thinking of some of the vows I forgot to throw in there in the first place. This might just be the ticket!"
She sat up and eyed me warily.
"What kind of extra vows were you thinking of throwing in?" she asked suspiciously.
"Nothing major," I responded breezily. "Just stuff like vowing not to leave your underwear on the shower curtain rod to dry, keeping the ironing caught up a little better, that sort of thing. Heck, maybe I could even work in something about not having headaches at bedtime. This vow idea is sounding pretty good!"
As I explored the subject, her eyes narrowed. “I mean, that ‘love, honour and cherish’ thing is okay but it doesn’t cover replenishing my socks and undies drawer in a timely fashion,” I continued.
"Well, let's not be hasty," she interrupted. "If we do it, I want it to be just right, so it could be a little expensive. I can think of a few things we need more than renewing a piece of paper that doesn’t need renewing. Maybe we can do it for our 50th. That will give us a couple decades to save up."
We both lapsed into silence after that. I don't know what she was thinking but unlike her, I didn't want to ask. All I was thinking was that Rahim and I just got away with one.

The Goal

         My pal Randy called last week. He had a question every Canadian could answer.“So where were you when The Goal was scored?” he asked.
The Goal. I didn’t have to ask which one. It was the shot heard across North America. When Syd the Squid popped in the winner in the gold medal game against the US, 80% of our nation was watching and the rest were listening with the TV in the other room, unable to stand the tension. Even with The Goal fresh in my mind, my first reaction was to recall what was known as The Goal before Syd claimed the name for his own. It was, of course, The Goal Paul Henderson scored back in 1972. I will never forget it as long as I live.
I was in Grade Seven at the time, attending the old Calmar Junior/Senior School building. It was a creepy place with a basement that housed broken desks, old files and, intermittently, the Calmar Cadet Corps (where I rose to the lofty rank of “latrine detailer”). It was during my favourite part of the day; lunch time, and hockey was far from my thoughts. It would be long over when school finished so I focused on more scholarly pursuits, like lugging around five tons of books in a time before backpacks were cool.
As I neared the stairwell to the basement, however, I was surprised to hear noises emanating from the depths. I followed the sound down and found about twenty kids and a few teachers watching the game on an old TV someone had rigged up on a high shelf. I stood in awe at my good fortune, and the fact it was getting far too crowded to sit on the floor as more and more people jammed into the cavernous basement.The action was intense and when the bell rang to signal the end of the lunch break, no one moved including, most importantly, the teachers. A ripple of heightened excitement moved through the crowd but no one mentioned classes as not to break the spell. More teachers had joined the throng and we all watched the rest of the game with the joy of having something really terrific, added with guilty pleasure of getting out of school to do it. Being 12, it was more thrilling than girls.
When Paul Henderson scored The Goal, cheers shook the concrete pillars of the basement. Jet engines at a metal concert create less noise. Then we all sang “Oh Canada”. It amazed me it mattered so much to us all. But it did.
My experience with The Goal Syd scored was very different. I had play practise that day. They had considered cancelling rehearsal due to the game but with opening night of Devon’s talented East of 60 Players presentation of ‘Moon Over Buffalo’ less than two weeks away, a compromise was struck. Those not actively involved in rehearsing a scene could follow the action on the assistant director’s laptop. Finally the pretend curtain came down and we huddled around the 14 inch screen groaning loudly when the determined US team scored the tying goal.
“I gotta go,” I said. “I want to watch the rest at home. If I hurry, I can catch the overtime period.” My plan was to speed like mad knowing most cops would be watching The Game back at headquarters under the guise of ‘doing paperwork’. Common sense prevailed however and I kept it under 110 as I consoled myself by flicking on the radio to listen to the game.
Unfortunately, none of the buttons on my radio presets had the game on. I frantically fumbled for the ‘search’ feature on the radio but don’t ‘dial surf’ and had no idea how to figure it out and still avoid the ditch and/or oncoming traffic. As far as the game was concerned, I was in ‘radio silence’ mode and it sucked.
As I jounced up the driveway, I hoped the period hadn’t started.  I felt confidant I was in time. Slamming the car door, however, I heard a roar emanate from our neighbour’s backyard that sounded like a throng of people just matched all six numbers in Lotto 649.
“At least we won,” I sighed. “There won’t be another revolting ‘Miracle On Ice’ movie made.”
Cam and Cec next door had set up a TV on their washstand to watch the game and still be outside in the long-awaited sunshine. I spied Cupcake and the boys in the group and as I walked over to join the celebration, my buddy, Grant thrust a beer in my hand.
“We won!” he crowed.
“That’s my boy!” Cec enthused in her tell-tale Cape Breton accent. “I knew Syd would do it!” We all cheered some more and hugged and slapped each other on the back and then broke into a passionate, if not out of tune rendition of Oh Canada.
“Another precious moment for the memory bank,” I marvelled. “What is it about Canada and hockey?”

The Kenmore Obit

        Kenmore (Kenny) Dryer.  This family addition was adopted in the fall of 2001 at the age of five. From the beginning, Kenny was a great help in the laundry room. He would take anything Little Miss Moffat would throw at him. Kenny overcame a few crippling health problems; he survived a belt transplant in ’04 brought on by getting loaded too much, as well as a serious Downy habit. He managed to overcome those issues until last weekend, poor Kenny sadly, finally, shed his heating coil. He is survived by a jug of Liquid Tide and a stack of Bounce sheets.
I was sitting on the couch when I got the news. Cupcake’s mellifluous tones came blaring from our laundry room shattering my peaceful reverie like petrified wood on a band saw.
“We need a new dryer,” came the piercing report.  “Ours just crapped out... again”
Her tone was icier than nitrogen on a stick.
“Now let’s not be hasty,” I cautioned, from the couch. “Last time it stopped working it wasn’t that bad to fix. What’s it doing, anyway?”
“When you press the timer knobby to make it go, it makes this noise... ‘GNGGNGGNGGNGGNGGNGGNGG’,”
  Cupcake did her best ‘faulty dryer’ impression. It wasn’t bad!
“That was a pretty fair approximation, Hon!” I enthused.
“I was pressing the timer knobby again, you ninny,” she responded in clipped tones. “Now quit trying to change the subject. We have four baskets of wet clothes that need drying.”
I winced at the prospect. Appliance repair is, apparently, ‘men’s work’ and therefore any suggestion of using the laundromat would be tantamount to volunteering to do it. Why Cupcake would exacerbate the problem by going on a washing spree was beyond me but I suspected it was to crank up the pressure in the decision making process.
“Okay, okay,” I capitulated. “I’ll call Darcy the appliance guy.”
The phone call was brief.
“It’s making a bad noise when you press the timer knobby,” I explained. “It sounds like, ‘NGGNGGNGGNGGNGGNGGNGG’.”
“That noise is the sound of a seized motor,” he assessed. “You’re looking at around $300.00 to fix it. You can probably get a new one for four or a used one for two fifty or so...”
I thanked him for his candour and sighed mightily. New it is, I sighed. Cupcake had already stated categorically she would not accept another used machine.
Arranging delivery began badly. I had called my dear brother, Scouter Bob, who owns a truck.
“I’ll do it, but breakfast is on you on Saturday,” he advised.
“Okay,” I sighed.
“And you’ll have to bring me my coffee,” his enjoyment was obvious.
“Fine,” I said through clenched teeth.
“In bed,” he chortled.
“Forget it,” I snapped. “I’ll pay to have it delivered first.”
“I was just funnin’,” Bob guffawed. “You don’t have to buy me breakfast... unless you want to...”
  The trip to the Major Shopping Decision was tense. Cupcake was practically drooling about an energy-efficient, large capacity wonder with more bells and whistles than a pinball machine in a rail yard.
“There no such thing as a ‘fold clothing and put it away’ feature,” I pointed out.
“I can dream, can’t I?”  she said wistfully.
Personally, I was taking a wait and see approach. This involved waiting helplessly to see what Cupcake would do to my bank balance.  I’ve tried other approaches but they’ve all ended badly. ‘Happy wife, happy life’ I reminded myself.
Then we saw the prices.
After much whispered discussion (It’s amazing how heated whispering can get!) we settled on their least expensive offering. A floor model from the previous year’s stock.
“We could buy three or four of these for the price of one of their higher end ones,” I enthused.Cupcake was non-committal. Either that or she was giving me the silent treatment.
Back home I quickly hooked up our newest acquisition. After a minor mishap with the new vent hose which required a trip back to Leduc (apparently, the metal foil ones don’t bend as easily as their toxic-gas producing plastic brethren) I carefully slid the unit into place. I stuffed some damp towels into the cavity, chased it with a Bounce sheet and pressed the button. Suddenly the entire room was brilliantly illuminated from the blue light of an enormous electrical arc and the dryer emitted the dreaded  NGGNGGNGGNGGNGGNGGNGG noise.
Cupcake stood watching, her arms folded as I gingerly poked at the dryer to turn off the power. I wasn’t keen on being jolted out of my jammies but didn’t want to risk an electrical fire.
“I’ll order the one I suggested,” she said with smirk. “Better call Pete to see if he would be would be willing go to Leduc to fetch it. Bob would want our first-born.”
“The problem being?” I answered snidely.
“Chris!” came the sharp retort.
“All right, all right,” I acquiesced.  I’d forgotten Cupcake’s sense of humour was in the same shape as our expired dryer.
The following day, with Cupcake’s new dryer running non-stop, I thought life was as back to normal as it gets here. Then I heard Cupcake’s voice from the kitchen.
“I don’t think our fridge is keeping things very cold,” she announced.
P.S. Used Kenmore Dryer for sale. Cheap. Needs some work.