Time for the old polar switcheroo

3/27/2007

One fluffy little polar bear cub has managed to stir up a bear-sized fuss this month.
The first baby polar bear to survive at the Berlin Zoo in over 30 years was abandoned recently by his grumpy mother, a 20-year-old former East German circus bear who put him out to die on a rock in the zoo’s bear pit.
Zookeepers saved the bear by feeding him human milk and cod-liver oil. He has lived a pampered life since, but now German zoologists say he has become too dependent on humans, and should be given a lethal injection.
It hardly seems fair to purposely snuff out one little bear, when so many of his wild brothers and sisters are struggling to survive. If the experts are right, polar bears are treading on thin ice, losing their advantage over seals, and either starving to death or drowning in warm water.
Polar bears, like sharks, are virtually unique in the animal kingdom, because everything they see in their world is something to kill and eat. Factor in global warming, the encroachment of society, and the odd animal rights activist, and polar bears have it pretty rough these days.
There is even worry that polar bears are facing extinction, like the white rhino, blue whale and golden eagle.
I, however, have a solution to the polar bear dilemma.
All we need to do is round up a few dozen healthy, happy polar bears, preferably good breeding stock, and ship them down to Antarctica. Once there, they will find more than enough succulent treats to kill and eat, and they all come dressed for dinner in neat, little tuxedos too.
Polar bears would thrive at the South Pole, feasting on penguin after penguin like a 24-hour KFC buffet, minus the herbs and spices. The penguin population would probably sustain itself for the first little while, due to sheer numbers.
There are millions of the pudgy, little snacks waddling around down there on happy feet; and they would not be entirely at the polar bears’ mercy either, thanks to their distinct advantage in speed and agility in the water.
On land, the penguin is fat, lazy, and without enemies. Trying to escape the clutches of a 900-pound bear, might force the penguin to evolve. They will either learn to adapt, run faster, jump higher, or become the daily appetizer.
It wouldn’t hurt the penguin to get off his ice and regain the ability to fly. Think of the bears as doing him a favour.
The best part is the sustainability of my plan.
As the South Pole bear population expands, and penguin populations become threatened, all we need do is round up a few dozen healthy, happy penguins, preferably good breeding stock, and ship them up to the Arctic.
By the time penguins are on the endangered species list, there won’t be enough polar bears left up north to be even the slightest threat to the penguin population.
If it ever becomes a problem again, all we would have to do is switch them back to their original habitats. The system could go on that way forever. Problem solved.
We might as well make that cuddly little German orphan the first to go south. He is being raised by humans, and I haven’t met a human yet who doesn’t like a buffet.

The hurrier I go, the behinder I get

3/20/2007

A lot of wisdom emanated from my Dad’s shop.
Amid the sawdust, tools, clamps and glue, a young man might even absorb some of it, and a few new swear words, if he hung out long enough. Pop would often say such things as “measure twice, cut once” and “haste makes waste” and “never trust an electrician with no eyebrows.”
No doubt he learned these pearls of wisdom from his own father, who had two ashtrays in the house that I will never forget. The one said “the hurrier I go, the behinder I get” and the the other warned, “behind every successful man, there is a woman telling him he is wrong.”
Dad and granddad were both right. The faster you try to go, the more mistakes you tend to make. I learned long ago not to rush a newspaper on deadline day, especially after a weekend of black beer, songs of cigarettes, whiskey and women, and toasts about the road rising to meet you.
St. Patrick’s Day can be a lot of fun. It is a man’s reward for enduring the torture of St. Valentine’s Day one month earlier, and enjoying a pint or two of Guinness is a must.
The black stuff is a rare treasure for beer drinkers.
When someone asked me what Guinness is like, I said it is a lot like getting slapped in the face by a girl you really like. Once the initial sting and bitterness wears off, you are left with a warm feeling, and an overall pleasant memory.
Get slapped too many times, and it’s your own fault.
This has nothing to do with newspaper deadlines, other than the fact I tried to “measure twice and cut once” this week while writing for the fine community newspaper you now hold in your hands. If I get off without any major errors, I will consider myself one of the lucky ones.
Rush the job of writing headlines, and you vastly increase your chances of printing duds such as these:
“Police begin campaign to run down jaywalkers”
Jaywalking may be illegal, but it is nothing compared to crimes such as bank robbery or punching someone in the dark. Running them all down is taking things too far.
“Panda mating fails, veterinarian takes over”
As far as bears go, pandas are the cute and gentle ones, but that goes well beyond the usual veterinary job description. My hat is off to anyone who goes that extra mile.
“Miles of red tape holds up new bridge”
Any community project—say, a sports complex, for example—comes with its share of red tape. I guess we can take some comfort in the fact it is stronger than duct tape.
“Man struck by lightning faces battery charge”
The poor guy probably is the battery charge. After he gets his day in court, he could moonlight as a night light.
“Hospital sued by seven foot doctors”
With doctor shortages everywhere you look, no wonder you don’t see too many seven foot surgeons. Perhaps they were trying to get more than their salaries raised.
“New study of obesity looks for larger test group”
I guess the initial volunteers just weren’t fat enough.
“Miners refuse to work after death”
What no-good, lazy sods. Talk about bringing laying down on the job to a whole new level. I envy them today.

The only change is the climate of fear

3/14/2007 The verdict, apparently, is in. Climate change is a reality. Whether mankind is the cause, or not, is still open to debate, but experts are pretty much in agreement that Earth’s mercury is on the rise. Are we ready to do something about it? No. Not yet. While politicians continue to toss the word Kyoto around like a sun-baked hot potato, the general public is still not taking global warming seriously—and no one will, until it begins to directly affect them personally. The average person walking this globe will continue to laugh at the warnings, unless it gets too hot to play golf, hens lay hard-boiled eggs, or a storm huffs and puffs and blows their own house down. Until that day comes, most of us will welcome the idea of global climate change. Truth be told, there are many benefits associated with a warmer climate. Plants love greenhouse gases, and warming would extend or enrich growing seasons, increasing agriculture and the world’s ability to feed itself. Arctic shipping lanes could be opened, rising sea levels pose little real threat, people will be healthier, etc. etc. etc. The bottom line is that we are unwilling to make the changes necessary to halt, or reverse, climate change. The world is getting more and more complex, and our problems are getting more complex right along with it. Several hundred years ago, the greatest problem facing a person in the middle of the night was how to keep their candle lit while hurrying to the outhouse. No one cared about how hot it was, because they were too busy trying to live past the age of 25, or not go crazy from eating mouldy bread and sheep’s stomach off plates made of lead. You can’t ask civilized nations to go backwards. No sane person is going to give up on satellite TV, jumbo jets and plastic packaging to go roaming the countryside eating green apples and riding on the back of a cow. We live in a world of instant gratification, where self worth is found in the amount of accessories and material possessions a person is able to accumulate. We want the world and we want it now, and it all comes with a price. New technology will evolve to fight climate change, and it won’t be found in any new outhouses or candle power. No one is going to go back to the days of hunting and gathering for the sake of a few degrees. We encounter or create new problems every day, and our success as a species lies in our ability to rise above these problems. And I have no doubt that we will. Time teaches us that species either adapt or fail on this planet. Take a quick look around. Humankind doesn’t appear to be failing, and only a pessimist would suggest that it is. Climate change is simply that; change. Change is good. Breeding fear of change is not a solution. It is cowardice. Right now, however, it is fun to care about climate change. Socially and politically, it is our new cold war, if you will pardon the pun. All the doomsday nonsense amounts to little more than hot air, which, ironically, is the problem in the first place. So, you won’t see me crying over the heat this summer. I’ll be too busy planting trees.

Space potatoes and a green cheese burger

3/6/2007

Forget french fries. The time has come for space fries.
Boldly going where no spud has gone before, Chinese space potatoes are now the latest culinary fad to hit the country's ultra-trendy city of Shanghai.
Slightly sweet and purple in color, the potatoes, named Purple Orchid Three, have been bred from seeds that mutated while being carried aboard a Chinese spacecraft.
Grower Haikou Purple Orchid Co. Ltd. is promoting them as a unique food option, and restaurants in the city recently offered them for Valentine's Day dinners, served crispy fried, or in salads, desserts and even iced drinks.
Are we alone in the universe? Is there life on other planets? China doesn’t care. Their ambitious new space program claims to have produced a number of mutated fruits and vegetables, simply by exposing seeds to space radiation, capsule pressure and weightlessness.
Chinese agricultural experts say plants grown from such seeds can be hardier, more nutritious and produce higher yields, although many scientists say similar effects could be achieved in ordinary labs, right here on Earth.
As delicious as a big sweet, purple potato might be, the idea of eating mutant space food is sure to scare people.
Space mutates everything. That’s why there are so few normal astronauts around today. Their time in outer space has left them broken, and a little goofy. Think about it.
Old astronauts should be celebrities, but you never see or hear from them. It’s as if they have all been hidden away from the public eye. Maybe flying into space far enough to see this beautiful, blue marble out your driver’s side window is too profound an experience for the human brain to handle. Maybe they have all snapped like twigs.
Astronauts probably return home speaking gibberish, hopelessly addicted to Tang and sleeping upside-down.
Maybe they have elevated blood sugar and are turning purple. It’s hard to say. If an ex-astronaut moves in next door to you and starts bringing home large sacks of purple potatoes, watch him closely—and lock up your Tang.
Personally, I would be happy to try a big side order of purple space fries, with salt from one of Jupiter’s moons, and a man-in-the-moon double green-cheese burger.
The basic chemistry is the same, and no amount of cabin pressure or weightlessness is going to change that. The only difference is in the presentation, and purple isn’t the colour most people immediately associate with good food. Grapes yes, but eggplant? Forget about it.
I hope the Chinanauts keep going with their mutant space food experiments. It has far more useful applications than trying to determine the gas around Uranus, or how many billions of years ago star 0U812 exploded.
Perhaps they will blast turnips with enough radiation to actually make them taste like food. Get dandelions to taste more like popcorn, and you will conquer world hunger. Top fast food chains have enough money to try mutating more than fries. Maybe that’s what happened to Grimace.
I would even try green eggs and ham. I would eat them with some toast and jam. I would eat them Sam I am.

Not your everyday deejay booth

2/27/2007

“One good thing about music, when it hits you feel no pain. So hit me with music.” — Bob Marley
Another Patriot hockey season has come and gone, and it was a season of highs and lows. There seemed to be more lows than highs at times, but the Jr. Cs managed to rise above the adversity, and finish the season on a positive note. Week in and week out, one of the surefire positives the team had to offer was the music at home games.
A pair of Wellington Heights Secondary School students, Josh McLean and Steve Noble, took up residency in the sound booth, and filled the Mount Forest arena with some of the most varied and eclectic song choices ever blasted over the bleachers at a sporting event.
Filling in their high school community service hours and then some, the deejay duo served up the best music the Patriots have heard in 10 years, since Linda Spahr was up in the booth playing Elvis Presley every third song.
What made Josh and Steve’s work so entertaining was the mix and musical knowledge the mad musicologists brought to the table. It was a downloader’s paradise.
Most of the deejays who play music at sporting events are stuck in a dull rut. There are only so many times you can hear jewels like “Start Me Up” by the Rolling Stones, or “Taking Care of Business” by B.T.O. before the gems begin to lose their lustre. Listening to Stompin’ Tom croon about the good old hockey game, or Ozzy going off the rails on a crazy train, is never a bad idea at a hockey game, but we’ve all heard them about a hundred times too often.
There were songs rolling through the rink at times this season that no one has heard in years, perhaps ever.
After a particularly one-sided blowout, fans filed from the arena to the manic sounds of the old theme music from Benny Hill. It was a perfect case of farce meeting farce. More often, however, spectators relaxed on their way to the parking lot with the soothing tones of “Happy Trails.”
Josh and Steve were particularly hard on opposing teams whenever they scored. Rather than pump them or their fans up, crowds could be subjected, at random, to the whistling theme from Andy of Mayberry, or “Sunshine and Lollipops”, or an excruciating “I Love You” from Barney.
The Patriots fared far better, picked up and carried along by the fist-pumping energy of Pantera, or new artists such as Wolfmother or White Stripes. No DJ worth his turntable goes too long without playing an AC/DC or Who staple, but long before anyone could settle into a classic rock daze, the Goderich Sailors would take the ice and the guys would blast out the Gilligan’s Island theme song.
My personal favourites were the long-forgotten gems or deep-buried classics that only one person in 100 has heard. Just off the top of my head, I can recall hearing “Call Me Mr. In-Between” by Burl Ives, “Stranglehold” by Ted Nugent, “Tired of Toein’ the Line” by Rocky Burnette, “Hocus Pocus” by Focus, and one of the strangest songs to hit the airwaves in any country, “Da Da Da” by Trio.
On nights when the Patriots didn’t, the music always scored a direct hit. Thanks guys, for hitting us with music.

Flowers, candy, and the plague

2/20/2007

In addition to his close association with love, lovers and most other couples, St. Valentine is also the patron saint of young people, happy marriages, fainting, epilepsy, plague, bee keepers and greeting card manufacturers.
He should also be the patron saint of apologies.
Another St. Valentine’s Day has come and gone; that one day out of the year where men lavish flowers, candy and other gifts of love and affection on those they love, all in a desperate attempt to make up for their shortcomings over the other 364 days of the year. If you don’t think St. Valentine’s Day has become a one way street, compare the sale of roses and chocolate on Feb. 14, to the amount of power tools and pork rinds flying off the shelves.
It’s not like I’m jaded. I’m just not young or married, suffering from fainting or plague, or spending my days keeping bees or manufacturing greeting cards.
It also wasn’t a very good year for my secret admirers.
Pamela is in the middle of a divorce, Britney hit the bottle and the skids, Anna Nicole passed away, Lindsay is in rehab, and Rosie is definitely out of the question.
Even Lisa Nowak, my favourite sexy astronaut, crash landed and drove 900 miles across the U.S. in a diaper to fight for the love of another man. It’s all so heartbreaking.
As if that weren’t enough, the Confederate also victimized men on their most vulnerable day of the year, and published a wedding planner in the Valentine’s Day paper.
In case you missed it, the supplement was crammed with 44 pages of hints and ideas, all designed to make your wedding a thing of perfection. Guys and gals have differing views of what perfection is; but, then again, a wedding has nothing much to do with what the guy wants anyway.
For openers, the booklet suggests buying a new bedroom suite, which is something every newlywed couple can enjoy, whether it is your first marriage, or your fifth.
The bride needs a dress, usually white, depending on her level of honesty, and an engagement ring to show how much he really loves her, equal to about a year’s wages.
There is a hall to rent and decorate. Hosting a wedding in your garage may sound good, but it ends up looking just like another Saturday night after a ball tournament.
Salon and spa services seem to be important. While the groom and his chums are out planning an escape, the girls enjoy being scrubbed, rubbed, permed and pampered.
A bride expects to look her best on her wedding day with so many friends, family and cameras around, and this little miracle can take time. That’s why professionals are called in. Pressure like that would kill an amateur.
There are also invitations, decorations, flowers, music, wine, a cake, a caterer, a preacher, a photographer, more wine, a rented tuxedo, a chocolate fountain, a limousine, a honeymoon, the little pillow a little fellow carries the ring on, a shotgun (in some cases), and Tylenol, to consider.
When you add it all up, the average wedding, unless you really go overboard, costs around $475,000.
Suddenly, a few flowers and apologies one day out of the year, or the plague, doesn’t seem so bad after all.

Think it’s cold out? Think again.

2/13/2007

No matter how cold it seems to get, it will never be as cold as it was “back then.” How far back good ol’ back then might be depends on who you are talking to.
I will tell young people that it was so cold back in my day, we kept a bucket of salt beside the toilet, and on really cold days I walked to school with the toaster in my pants.
My Dad used to say it was so cold back in his day that they hauled all the food out of the freezer, and huddled inside it to keep warm. He said, on those really cold days, you had to kick a hole in the air just to get outside.
My Grandfather used to say it got so cold back in his day that words sometimes froze in the air. If you wanted to hear what someone said, you had to grab a handful of sentences and take them inside by the fire. It got so bad that Grandpa’s shadow once froze to the ground and, when he took his next step, it snapped right off.
Around the turn of the century, a young writer named Jack London penned a classic short story “To Build a Fire” about a man who ventures out into the bitter cold of the Klondike. Here is the Reader’s Digest condensed version:
Despite warnings about travelling alone in the extreme cold, a young man and his dog make for camp in the middle of deep, dark winter. It is so cold on the trail that every time he spits his tobacco it freezes into his beard, and forms a shelf of hard, yellow ice on the front of his chin.
The man ignores the old timers who know better, and takes the trail that winds along the riverbank. Not surprisingly, he soon slips down the bank, breaks through the thin ice at the edge, and almost instantly freezes his feet.
His only hope of survival is to build a fire, which isn’t easy, because his fingers become numb and useless after mere seconds of exposure to such unforgiving cold. Our hero isn’t completely inept, however, and soon has a warm fire blazing for himself and his trusty husky.
Unfortunate in his haste, the man builds his fire under a tree. The heat from the flames melts enough snow on the branches that a huge drift comes tumbling down and smothers his fire. Not good. It’s over, and he knows it.
He tries to start another fire, but his fingers are so numb that he ends up burning all his matches in one burst.
He also burns his fingers until they are black, but it hardly matters now. He can’t feel anything anyway.
The man decides camp can’t be that far away, and tries to make a run for it, hoping his blood will thaw him out and he will still be able to salvage half of his frozen face.
His will is strong, but he quickly stumbles on his frosted feet and careens into the snow. Not even his dog will go near him at this point, and his daylight is nearly done. The sun will not be up for a long time, and neither will he.
“To Build a Fire” is considered one of Jack London’s finest stories. It paints a starkly realistic portrait of life in the north; a life where it gets so cold you swear you really could kick a hole in the air. It should be required reading for anyone who thinks it has been a little chilly of late.
Read a story like that, and you will never complain about the cold again.

May the Godfather rest his soul

2/6/2007

“I don’t know karate, but I know crazy.”- James Brown
Soul Brother Number One. Mr. Dynamite. The Hardest Working Man in Show Business. Minister of The New New Super Heavy Funk. Mr. Please Please Himself...
Man, do I miss the Godfather of Soul, James Brown.
The master of funk music, renowned for his shouting vocals, feverish dancing and long and intense concerts, scored hits in every decade from the 1950s through the 1980s. He often worked himself to the point of exhaustion in concert, usually losing several pounds and requiring glucose injections and oxygen to recover afterwards.
Love him or hate him, James Brown is universally recognized as one of the most influential figures in modern music. He was one of the first inductees into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and Rolling Stone magazine ranked him #7 on its list of the100 Greatest Artists of All Time.
James Brown died a month ago, on Christmas Day, and still has yet to be laid to rest. His burial, or lack thereof, is just another strange twist in the long and winding web of craziness that was James Brown’s extraordinary life.
Brown was raised by his aunt in a brothel, picked cotton and shined shoes, and was jailed at 16 for armed robbery. He was married four times and, from these and other relationships, fathered five sons and three daughters. He was arrested more than once for drug possession, assault, and domestic violence, and was even accused of charging at an electric company repairman with a steak knife.
My favourite James Brown misadventure is the tragic tale of how he unleashed his mighty wrath on a few poor souls who were using his bathrooms without permission.
In 1988, James stormed into an office building he owned in Augusta, Georgia, carrying a pistol and a shotgun. A class was in session, and Soul Brother Number One ordered everyone out. Witnesses said Brown looked dishevelled and mumbled incoherently about people using his bathrooms. He raised his guns, locked the bathrooms in question, and fled the scene in a pick-up truck.
The police gave chase and eventually shot out two of the truck’s tires, but Brown continued driving on the naked steel rims for more six miles, before crashing into a ditch.
The singer maintained he was only protecting his property. “Well, I came to my office, and I found somebody using my bathroom facilities without my consent,” he said.
Mr. Please Please pled guilty to 11 charges, and was sentenced to six years in prison. He served two.
Today, the real reason the Hardest Working Man in Show Business has become the longest lingering man in a casket is rather simple. His children want to get rich.
Apparently, the kids are planning to put the body in a mausoleum, and convert the singer's South Carolina home into a museum that would include his grave. Family members plan to consult with the Elvis Presley family on how they opened Graceland, Presley's mansion in Memphis.
Graceland attracts 600,000 visitors each year, and has made more money for Elvis in death than he made while alive. You might say, James still has some work to do.

Music to keep you warm

1/30/2007

“This is the warmest place I’ve been all day.”
—Blue Rodeo’s Jim Cuddy, at The Old Roxy last week
It was cold last Thursday night, the kind of crunchy cold where you hear every crackle, creak and groan; the kind of cold where you’re careful not to go outside and lick any aluminum, not that you would in the first place.
It was considerably warmer inside The Old Roxy, where the great Canadian band Blue Rodeo was heating things up on stage. The oldtimers might say the band was “really cooking”, but that would make you sound too much like a “hip cat”, or someone who licks aluminum.
Blue Rodeo is no stranger to The Old Roxy, and the band seems to really enjoy a good January concert in the intimate and friendly confines of our local theatre. It almost seems as if the boys use it as a tune up for the year; a way to shake off the holiday dust, put the music machine in high gear, and take aim at the long months ahead.
You get a little bit of everything at a Blue Rodeo show, and the band has been playing well enough long enough to really know how to fill a stage with sound and energy.
They know how to wring emotion out of song, and make the listener feel it. They know how to rock, and how to lift a crowd up and carry it along. They also know how to throw in a few country twangers, with a slice of levity, to ensure there is a little bit of something for everyone.
The band even read a note addressed to a Mount Forest principal, asking him to excuse young so-and-so from school on Friday because he was up late at the concert. If there is a better reason than that for a young person to lose some sleep, or his homework, I would like to hear it.
They even threw in a jazz number or two last Thursday, for those out there who think jazz is important. It isn’t, unless you happen to be playing jazz, and then I’ll bet it is wonderful fun for all the hip cats and aluminum lickers.
When Greg Keelor toned it down for a quiet solo, the addicts took it as their cue to huddle together outside for a smoke break. The band didn’t even seem to mind, as if they were clearing their throats for the night’s big finish.
And what impressed me most was the remarkable work of Blue Rodeo’s longtime bass player Bazil Donovan.
Front men Cuddy and Keelor get the lion’s share of Blue Rodeo’s spotlight, and always have, but Bazil is the spine that props that band up and keeps it humming along. His contribution should not be overlooked.
I have had the good fortune to see Blue Rodeo perform live and in concert before, and they never fail to impress.
The strange part is, I don’t even own a Blue Rodeo CD or have any of their music rat holed away in my collection, save for a few live cuts. They are the type of band that really should be seen live, as most of the good ones are.
The Tragically Hip. Great Big Sea. Sam Roberts. 54 40. On a good day, maybe even Stompin’ Tom Connors. Acts like these are born and bred to play live music. If you have a chance to see them, think twice before passing it up.
Winter in Canada can get pretty hard sometimes.
Good thing we have our music to keep us warm.

Congratulations, you lazy pigs

1/23/2007

If you were born in 1923, 1935, 1947, 1959, 1971, 1983 or 1995, go ahead and celebrate. This is your year.
This is the Year of the Pig.
The Chinese lunar calendar is based on a 12-year cycle, and uses animal signs to mark each year in the loop. The animals represent a cyclical view of time, and not our commonly accepted linear approach, with the beginning of the year falling in late January or early February.
The pig is the last animal of the Chinese lunar cycle.
According to legend, the twelve animals quarreled one day over who would head the cycle of years. The gods were asked to decide and held a contest: whoever reached the opposite bank of the river would be first, and the rest would receive their years according to their finish.
All twelve animals gathered at the river bank and jumped in. Unknown to the ox, the rat had jumped upon his back. As the ox was about to jump ashore, the rat jumped off the ox's back, and won the race. The pig, who was very lazy, ended up last. That is why the rat is the first year of the animal cycle, the ox second, and the pig last.
Congratulations, you lazy pigs.
People born in the Year of the Pig are said to be honest and forthright. Whatever they do, they do with all their strength. For a pig, there is no left or right, and no retreat. They have tremendous fortitude. They don't make many friends, but they make them for life; and anyone having a pig for a friend is fortunate, as they are extremely loyal.
The piggies don't talk much, but have a great thirst for knowledge. They like to study, and are generally well informed. Boar people are quick tempered, yet they hate arguments and quarreling, and are kind to their loved ones. No matter how bad a problem may be, the gallant pig will try to work it out as honestly as possible.
Pig folks are creatures of habit. They dislike travelling too far from familiar surroundings, unless it is a trip to the countryside. They love nature and are never happier than when they are out somewhere, far from the city.
People of the pig type are the most admired by others.
So, you see, it is good to be the pig—unless, of course, you prefer not to put any stock in Chinese lunar hogwash.
The animal signs are also useful for finding out people’s ages. Instead of asking directly how old a person is, simply ask for his or her animal sign. This places that person’s age within a cycle of 12 years and, with a bit of common sense, you can deduce the person’s exact age.
If your friend winds up being a pig, take the next step and ask their true age—and see if they are still as honest as the broad-shouldered boar is supposed to be.
Famous old pigs include Alfred Hitchcock, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Lucille Ball and Humphrey Bogart. There is also Henry Ford, Elton John, David Letterman, and Ernest Hemingway; along with Los Angeles Lakers Magic and Kareem, rappers Snoop Dogg and Tupac, plus a wide multitude of others from all walks of life.
It may be worth mentioning the next time someone calls you a pig. You are in rather good company.

$1 million a week for playing tag

1/17/2007

Proving yet again there is always someone out there with more money than brains, the L.A. Galaxy of Major League Soccer is shelling out $250 million to bring English soccer sensation David Beckham to North America.
Forget that $250 million—which will work out to a weekly salary of around $1 million or so—is an obscene amount of money for any individual, even one so talented and charming and lovely, and lucky, as Mr. Beckham.
Forget that the world’s biggest soccer star, along with his posh and pretty Spice Girl wife Victoria, and three sons Brooklyn, Romeo and Cruz, are probably a perfect fit for the freak show that is Los Angeles and Hollywood.
Forget that the move to buy Beckham is much more entertainment and marketing than it is pure sport.
The real issue here is if soccer in North America is actually going to get the boost that $250 million can buy.
Major League Soccer’s brains are expecting Beckham to transcend the sport, and bring the game to a whole new level of awareness and appreciation in North America.
I wish them all the luck. It isn’t going to be easy.
Soccer is more than a game in countries all over the world. In Europe and South America, “football” is part of the very fabric of the culture. Most North Americans simply do not see soccer on this same level, and never will.
For a vast majority of average Americans, soccer is a boring pursuit, played by crybabies who do little more than run a glorified game of tag, and then tear off their shirts and go goofy whenever they score a goal, which happens about as often as an ice age or a hit Ben Affleck movie.
David Beckham is the epitome of the modern celebrity athlete, but he will have a long row to hoe for his weekly $1 million if he thinks he is going to be soccer’s messiah on this side of the pond. So, can he turn the tide of apathy?
If history has anything to say about it, the answer is no.
What the Galaxy organization may be forgetting is that North American soccer tried buying stars and recognition 30 years ago, and the movement failed miserably.
In 1975, Edson Arantes do Nascimento arrived in the United States to play for the New York Cosmos. The world knew him better as Pele, the holy king of all footballers.
Pele was revered for his passing, pace and power on the field, and was not only the greatest Brazilian soccer player of all time, but the world’s greatest goal scorer.
Although newly retired and well past his prime, Pele helped the Cosmos draw 40,000 fans to his games, when other clubs were averaging less than 5,000 per night. New York signed Pele for just over $1 million, what was then an astronomical, unthinkable amount for a single athlete.
Bringing in Pele forced other teams to follow suit, and the league could not sustain the bloat. It crumbled into dust within ten years. Pele, who could hardly run with all that money in his pockets, was the only one laughing.
Last week’s deal with Beckham seems strangely reminiscent of Pele’s arrival 30-plus years ago. The climate and motives are the same, and I suspect the result will be as well. Only Beckham will come out ahead. Tag anyone?

Canada’s greatest invention is not poutine

1/10/2007 Last week, the CBC culminated its recent search for the greatest Canadian invention of all time. No need to worry, though. It’s not poutine. The search was by no means scientific, as the top 50 was determined solely by votes from whatever Canadian felt compelled to do so. While some of the top votes were not surprising, some were. Poutine, a purportedly edible slop of fries, curds and gravy, that someone first discovered on the bottom of a Quebec shoe, actually made it to #10 on the CBC list. How this invention has helped shape or improve the world will forever escape me. Then again, the drunks also had their say, and voted the caesar into the #13 position. Clams and tomato juice never had it so good, while such important inventions, such as the ardox spiral nail (#46), plexiglas (#42) and self-propelled combine harvester (#38) were largely ignored by voters. Not surprisingly, the telephone and light bulb finished in the top three, second only to insulin. The list did have its surprises, shedding light on the fact that the caulking gun, green garbage bag, instant mashed potato flakes, paint roller, pablum and alkaline batteries are all Canadian inventions. My own vote for the top ten is as follows: 10 - Electric oven. In 1892, Thomas Ahearn served a 15-course meal to guests, and they were shocked to learn it was cooked by electricity. His invention forever changed the way we cook meals. 9 - Robertson screw. Peter Robertson’s “square head” screw was the best in 1908, and still is. 8 - Electron microscope. In 1939, James Hillier and Albert Prebus opened a gateway to how we look at the world, changing science and medicine. 7 - Pacemaker. Wilfred Bigelow, John Hopps and John Callaghan started saving lives with it in 1950, and today millions are living full lives because of it. 6 - Wonder bra. In 1964, Louise Poirier unveiled her underwire plunge and push bra. It remains one of Canada’s most popular and uplifting discoveries. 5 - Zipper. Gideon Sundback’s simple 1913 design is still a part of everyday life, everywhere. 4 - Insulin. In 1921, Banting and Best knew they had a miracle on their hands. Today, 17,000,000 people take insulin every day to combat diabetes. 3 - Telephone. When Bell made his first call in 1876, little did he know the world would shrink as never before. The phone is the first real invention of the modern world. Many can’t live without it. 2 - Standard time. Sandford Fleming’s efforts to create time zones in 1878 synchronized the planet. The world works today because of standard time. 1 - Light bulb. Matt Evans and Henry Woodward invented it in 1874, and then sold it to Edison. Like rediscovering fire, the light bulb touches and benefits every aspect of life today, across the globe.