Sometimes it’s easy to get scared

Hallowe’en has always been a favourite of mine, because it is that special time of year when people are actually expected to scare the daylights out of each other. The first time I can remember being truly terrified was back when I was still in diapers, and afraid of the barking, growling dog next door. It was a Doberman guard dog, and its breath smelled like half-digested children. Or so I thought, because I never got close enough to that snarling, unholy menace to be sure. At least I had no trouble filling my diapers when the beast was around, and I sleep well at night now knowing that I outlived that four-legged freak. As I got older, Mrs. Webster was the scariest monster in town. A hollow-eyed hag with wrinkled skin and a wispy beard, she was well known as the crazy lady who took in all the township’s stray cats. One year, we stumbled upon her house on Hallowe’en, and she loaded us up with so much candy we were sure she was fattening us up to feed to her 300 or so pets. She was actually a nice old lady, but we never realized it at the time. It was just too hard to see the kind and generous person behind that beard. I remember being too scared to sleep after watching an episode of The Incredible Hulk for the first time. After the show became a hit, they basically turned the Hulk into a big green baby; but the opening credits, where he goes berserk and tosses his own car into the ditch, were plenty scary. The scariest movie I ever saw was The Exorcist, the one where a seemingly innocent young girl is possessed by the devil and totally freaks out everyone around her; including a freckle-faced kid who should have been in bed, but wasn’t, because his babysitter was too busy talking to her boyfriend on the phone. Thirty-five years later, that film still stands up as one of the scariest ever made, and is my top pick for anyone who says they never get scared at the movies. In high school, getting chased by the cops (for a crime I didn’t commit, of course) was always a scare, but real terror was getting escorted out of town by the police because the locals were upset you had eliminated their team from the playoffs. It is hard to remember exactly which town that was, but most of the people in it were chewing tobacco, throwing bottles and dating their cousins, if that helps. You might think that scary situations would ease up a bit in a person’s adult years, but there is always something lurking around the corner to put the fear in a man. Losing control of your car on a slippery road, standing in front of a crowd to sing Have You Seen the Muffin Man, swimming in a pond infested with leeches, sitting in an airplane as it bounces through turbulence, watching a funnel cloud appear above your house, spotting grandma’s ghost in her old rocking chair, or watching as your son strolls home with a girl from a town where everyone chews tobacco and throws bottles, can all be pretty scary. The last time I was really and truly scared was on a date when a woman held my hand in hers, looked deep into my eyes, and said all she really wanted in life was to settle down and get married—and no Doberman, Hulk, Exorcist or funnel cloud can prepare you for a fright like that.

I heard tell of a fella...

Every little once in a while, you hear a story that leaves you scratching your head; a story that sounds so fantastic it just has to be true, because no one in their right mind would make up such ridiculous nonsense. Such a story usually begins with something like “I heard tell of a fella...” and ends with something along the lines of “Who’d a thunk it.” Maybe you hear stories like that all the time, and love them. Maybe you don’t, and get to hear them all anyway. I heard tell it happens. I also heard tell of a fella who tried to make a few bucks raising free range cattle. He had the land, and the notion there was a market for all-natural, farm-raised beef, but the money never did come rolling in. The only thing that always came rolling in was neighbours at meal time. What also came rolling in was moose hunting season, and every fall a few of his animals would be wandering the hills and lowlands and inadvertently end up dead in the sights of a rifle. No one ever felt good about the situation, but rather than aggravate the issue with complaints, the farmer invested in a can of blaze orange spray paint. Now, each fall, his cattle all sport a giant C O W in bold letters across their sides. The cattle don’t seem to mind, and there are fewer accidents, so the system appears to work. He even offers a discount for hunters who wind up empty handed at the end of the season. Who’d a thunk it. Then I heard tell of a fella who can’t wait for ice fishing season to start, so he can try out his latest find, FishTV. Imagine a submersible camera in the shape of a fish, connected to 50 feet of cable, and broadcasting a live picture to a nearby video monitor. That’s FishTV. It even has an infrared light on the front for added visibility, making it useful enough to spot anything from minnows to Loch Ness. Rather than stare off into space, or down the hole, the fisherman plans to watch FishTV a lot this winter. He even plans on dumping a bag of bright, white dolomite down the hole to ensure a nice contrast in the picture, sort of like an underwater movie screen as the fish sniff around the bait. The entire rig is also well suited for the inside of a boat, and for eyeballing fish who might be trailing the lure on the end of your line as you’re out trolling. Who’d a thunk it. I also heard tell of a fella who is looking for a permit and a special season designed to bring a new northern nuisance animal under control, the dump deer. Apparently, northern communities are being plagued by herds of smart deer; animals who have figured out that a lot of people do a lot more recycling than composting, and garbage bags can be stuffed with such deerly delicacies as apple cores, potato skins, lettuce leaves and carrot tops. With little or no shame, deer are now hanging out in landfills and, with little or no work, are ripping through the plastic they find and dining on the contents. Factor in the dump bears and reduce-reuse-raccoons, and the landfill begins to look like a woodsy cafeteria. Who’d a thunk it. I also heard tell of a fella who accidentally spilled spot remover on his dog, and now he can’t find him. Oh, you’ve heard that one? Who’d a thunk it.

It’s go take a flying leap day

The days are getting shorter, the nights are colder, and even the sun seems farther away. There can be no doubt that summer is done. Yet, there is no point in being sullen. Today is October 22. Today is go take a flying leap day. It was on this very day, way back in 1797, that André-Jacques Garnerin made the first jump with a parachute. The French were true pioneers when it came to getting off the ground. They basically invented the hot air balloon, and were the first to fly them with any real success. It only stands to reason, then, that a Paris inventor would also come up with the first useful frameless parachute. Garnerin’s early experiments were based on umbrella-shaped devices. The umbrella did work well in the movies for Mary Poppins, but not quite as well for my uncle, who landed in the lawn with a heap trying to sail off the garage when he was a boy. He eventually went to work in Silicon Valley in California, where I always assumed he made miniature robots, or bombs, or robots with miniature bombs. I never did learn the truth, because eventually my uncle’s boss told him to go take a flying leap. Garnerin made his first leap with a silk parachute, jumping from a hot air balloon while floating over a park in Paris. After a descent of almost a kilometre, he landed without injury in front of an admiring crowd. His wife Jeanne-Geneviève was the first successful female parachutist. According to historians, Chinese texts described a primitive form of parachute 15 centuries ago. In the 9th century, a daredevil named Ali Ben Isa created one of the earliest versions of a parachute, described as a huge winglike cloak to break his fall when he decided to fly off a tower. The visionary Leonardo da Vinci sketched a pyramid style parachute in the 1400s. It was intended as an escape device to allow people to jump from burning buildings. The older style parachutes were little more than cloth and sticks, while modern varieties are often nylon and quite maneuverable, much like a glider. Folding a parachute requires a high degree of skill, and an improperly folded parachute will not deploy, which is never a good thing. Over time, parachutes need to be replaced as they do deteriorate. Failing to replace your chute in time is never a good thing. If you are considering making your own parachute to celebrate go take a flying leap day, be aware that designs have improved since André-Jacques pioneering days. Garnerin did invent the vented parachute as well, which improved the stability of his falls. Continual improvements have been made over the years, and this is a good thing. Exact numbers are difficult to estimate, but approximately 1 in 1000 main parachute openings malfunction. This means you could go take a flying leap every day for about three years, and not likely encounter a problem. Most skydivers feel those odds just aren’t good enough, and that’s why the “reserve chute” was invented. The average fatality rate is considered to be about one in 80,000 jumps, so be sure to quit while you’re ahead. You don’t want to end up like Garnerin either, who died while making a balloon in Paris. He was hit by a beam.

The People, the Sun, the Food and the Suds

The people. It could be because people come from all sorts of places to enjoy the beaches and the life that Australia has to offer, or maybe it is all the sunshine, but Australians sure seem to be a happy folk. Everywhere I wandered, the people were friendly, cheerful and courteous; and just about every conversation ended with a “Cheers, mate!” or “No worries.” By and large, Aussies are an unworried people. They work, they play, and they live, love and laugh. There is a real sense of community “downunder”, probably because it takes such an effort just to get to this magnificent island. And it is worth the effort. The food. If I lived and ate in Australia for a year, I could easily weigh in at 400 pounds. The food is that good. Then again, you don’t see too many whales wandering the sidewalks, because the food is that good. The climate allows Oz to grow just about anything, and there are Product of Australia stickers on just about everything. With fresh and tasty food constantly coming in and out of season, there is no reason to eat crap, and not too many of the locals do. Because of the country’s diverse culture, visitors belly up to more Chinese, Thai, Indian or Lebanese eateries than greasy burger joints. You can snack on sushi, shwarma or salads as easily as fried chicken and chips, and chefs take pride in their work from the rooftop terrace to the streetside take-away. The weather. It gets hot in Australia. Blazing hot. Surface of the sun hot. But, like grandpa used to say, it is a dry heat. Even a 37-degree day, when you should be pouring enough sweat to float a boat, doesn’t seem all that bad when the humidity is low. On the days when you start to melt like plastic in a microwave oven, a beach and some cool ocean breezes are never far away; unless you are in the Outback, where only the hardiest of souls dare to tread. The sun can be harsh, to be sure, but hats and sunglasses are more common than shoes. Instead of complaining, you can always go surfing. The beer. Liquor and wine is pricey, way too pricey, but the beer makes up the difference. Because two major beer companies don’t dominate the Australian market, labels and tastes are diverse. Two of the best brews I found were Little Creatures from Perth and James Squire from Sydney, but the best you’ll discover is the cold one in front of you on a hot day. I especially love the notion of the traveller, where no one looks twice when you carry an open container down the street or on the beach. Abuse that privilege, and you’ll be fined, but nobody seems to think less of you if you like to crack a cold one. With such weather, food and people all smiling on you, who can really blame you.

Seventeen years of grinding pays off

When I was a wee bloke, as the locals say, there was a wicked cartoon on television that said the land of Oz is a funny, funny place, where everyone wears a funny, funny face, and the streets are paved with gold, and no one ever grows old, in that funny place called the land of Oz. Australia isn’t actually like that, but it is a place where fairytales do come true. At the Melbourne Cricket Grounds on the weekend, more than 100,000 screaming fans watched the Hawthorn Hawks, bottom feeders of Australian Rules Football, win their first Grand Final in 17 years. It was also the first championship for Hawks captain Shane Crawford, whose personal fairytale came true after 17 long and loyal years, and more than 300 games, with his club. Lasting 17 years in a professional sport is no easy feat, especially in Aussie Rules Football, which is more of a meat grinder than a game at times. Seeing Crawford celebrate the win was like seeing him become a kid again; his loyalty and longevity rewarded with gold, to go with the grins and grass stains. A few hours away at the Sydney Football Stadium, more than 30,000 beer-fueled “footy” fans cheered the Manly Sea Eagles to victory over the Auckland Warriors. Named for the “manly” aboriginals early explorers found on its warm sand beaches, Manly earned their way to the national Rugby League championship in true fairytale style this year. Comprised primarily of players who couldn’t crack starting line-ups on other teams, Manly dominated the game with an unequalled fitness regime, an unstoppable desire to win, and a legendary offensive weapon known affectionately as “the Beaver.” The star of the show, Steve “Beaver” Menzies is officially the oldest active player in the league, and one of its all-time top scorers. He played his entire career for his hometown club, and likely could have made over 0,000 more per season playing for another team, but he was forever loyal to his club and community. Competitive to the final play, the Beav even scored a try in Saturday’s game, and proved to everyone that commitment and drive can power even the most weary of legs. Up in the stands, where a no-longer-wee bloke can get four large beers at a time, a rugby-loving Canadian boy was cheering his heart out, embracing the locals, razzing the Auckland clowns, and doing his country proud. Rugby fans take the game to a whole new level in Australia, and it was exhilarating to sit shoulder to shoulder with them. To soak up the game in Sydney in the springtime, with seaside breezes swirling through the stadium and fans singing songs and spilling into streets and pubs, was a fairytale come true for me. It was the kind of night where, if the light was just right amid all the sloshing beer and slapping hands, you could swear the streets were paved with gold and no one ever grows old.

Hey mate, we’re not that different

There are those who say that Canada is one of the four corners of the world. Surely, the same can be said of Australia. Like distant cousins, Canada and Australia share a great many similarities, although they tend to be opposites. Polar opposites. The Great White North has ice and snow, while the Land of Oz has its sand and sun. Aussies drive on the left side of the road, love to surf, and happily eat an unholy yeast extract called Vegemite. Canucks, on the other hand, drive on the right side, tend to ski, and line their bellies with the goodness of maple syrup. What you might find surprising is how, on a Sunday night in Sydney, I found myself in a throwback, hunchback hockey rink, watching the city beer league finals. At a time of year when hockey is just hitting its stride in Canada, it is spring in Australia and hockey teams are gunning for playoff glory, and giving everything they’ve got. Hockey may seem an unlikely pastime in Oz, where the game of rugby is practically a religion and a sheet of ice is about as common as a man-eating koala, but the two sports are actually quite similar. Hockey is to ice what rugby is to grass, so it should come as no surprise that our national game is part of the Australian sports landscape. It is the world’s game now, and brings us all closer together. It certainly did on Sunday night. The captain of the home team, to no one’s real surprise, was the only Canadian on the roster; a strong and steady defenceman who understood the game. His bench consisted of a number of inspired Aussies, a couple Europeans, and a Mexican goalie whose game plan consisted of flopping around in the crease and hoping for the best. They probably couldn’t beat a Bantam Rep squad in small town Canada, but that wasn’t the point. The point was the game remained the same, and their passion for it was still very much there. Since the rink didn’t have a bar, or popcorn machine, we were forced to make do on our own; and the players seemed to enjoy the loud and generous cheering, as if someone finally understood what they were doing out there. The game itself ended in a tie, thanks to a dramatic last-minute goal, and the fans were treated to a shootout. The players weren’t too thrilled about it, but the hometown Aussie fans were eating it up like Vegemite on a stick. The most telling moment of the night came after the game, as fans mingled with players, hockey bags hit the ground with that familiar clink of bottles, and everyone kicked back with a cold one or two. With the swing of a stick you could hit someone from British Columbia, one from Great Britain, one more from Boston, and another who lived within walking distance of the rink. It was pond hockey all over again, with friends arriving from everywhere, all sharing in the game and magic that is hockey. It was enough to make anyone feel at home - and if that’s what hockey has given the world, then Canada can be very proud indeed.

Sucking up to survivor bees

A couple years ago, an old friend of mine had the good sense to acquire some lands. From his comfortable country home, he watches his children play happily in the grass, listens to coyotes howl under a blanket of stars, and strolls with his wife along streams and tree-lined trails. The best part, he said, is being able to scratch yourself whenever you like, and not worry if anybody is watching. Every spring, in an effort to keep the estate from being totally overtaken by nature, he organizes a work party to clean things up. Later in the summer, he always rewards his workers with a bonfire, featuring the roasted flesh of an assortment of animals, and no vegetables unless they are, at some point, deep fried. He calls it the Man Bash. A Man Bash is different to a man and woman. While a woman might think it is an invitation to gripe about how men have faltered over the past year, men use it as an opportunity to smoke, drink, swear, belch, and do all those other things you can’t get away with in church. This year’s Man Bash involved an old driving shed, and removing the colony of bees that now call it home. Some people enjoy having honey bees around. I knew a frugal farmer who allowed a swarm of bees to live in the south eave of his farmhouse for years. Every winter, he would climb up and steal the honey for his family. The way I see it, those bees were only paying a little rent. My friend had the same idea this summer, but his project ground to a halt when the first board was peeled back and revealed about 20,000 angry honey bees. End of the day, boys. No point in getting over our heads here, when we could be getting into a cold beverage instead. A bee expert was called, and the first question out of his mouth was “are they furry, or are they shiny?” It seems, when honey experts get called out to check on hives, they often wind up looking into a misidentified hornet’s nest. And this is serious business, because a lot of honey bees are dying off, and no one has been able to figure out why. Upon further questioning, the bee man estimated a total of 40,000 to 60,000 bees, perhaps a possible 80,000, would be living in the shed wall by the time fall arrived; and he was ecstatic, muttering something about “survivor bees.” The expert was thrilled the bees were not only surviving on their own in the shed, but thriving, and he wanted to mix them in with his own colony to bolster its numbers. When he got to the wall, however, he realized the swarm overmatched his skill and experience, and pulled the plug. End of the day, boys. No point in getting in over our heads. The last I heard, the bee expert had promised to come back after he had invented a bee vacuum. Invented a bee vacuum. Incredible. I could just picture the man, working over an old electric motor, trying to get the speed and suction just right in order to collect bees by the thousands without harming too many of them. It won’t be easy, and I wish him the best of luck. They say necessity is the mother of invention and, if those bees are as important as he thinks, they deserve to be saved. I just hope I’m there when it gets tested in the field.

Sweet, clean, tadpole-free water

Right from the start, Mom tried to keep us safe. She would tell us to look both ways before crossing the street, don’t pet strange dogs, keep your tongue out of the electrical sockets, and don’t drink bleach. Bleach was, and is, powerful stuff. Mom was wise to keep it out of reach, bringing it down only for the most important and challenging of cleaning jobs. The smell of bleach was the smell of clean. Bottom line. The power of bleach hit home for me at an early age, when my cousin had us catch a bucket full of little black tadpoles and watch, awestruck, as he dropped them into a bowl of bleach and they disintegrated in front of our very eyes. It was magic, it was scary, and it was science. A sight like that sticks with you, and I would like to mention that to my cousin, but it will be a few more years before he is out on parole. They say it is for the best. Meanwhile, they pour bleach into our drinking water. If it isn’t bleach that keeps my drinking water smelling so fresh and clean, it sure seems like it. I’m no expert when it comes to chemistry, but chlorine is hard to hide. And why should anyone be concerned. There’s nothing quite like the smell of bleach to make a person feel like they are on the right track, eliminating everything from their drinking water the size of a tadpole or smaller. You never know, maybe tap water kills everything, including listeriosis, halitosis and the common cold. I’ve been drinking tap water by the gallon for years, and I can’t remember the last time I caught a cold. Thanks to tap water, and the cleaning power of bleach, I can eat all the luncheon meat I want now, without a care in the world. And, I don’t think bottled water can say that. Many consumers remain suspicious of tap water, and continue to believe that bottled water is safer, despite the environmental impact of plastic bottles, and the fact that municipal water undergoes more stringent testing. Somewhere along the line, water has become a marketing ploy, a product that corporations use to create distrust in municipal tap water and boost profits. Yet, water is not a product. It is a building block of life on this planet, making bottled water redundant, and essentially unnecessary. Water in plastic-wrapped, petroleum-based bottles is the most ridiculous product that has been mass marketed in the last 15 years, especially when we are already paying for sweet, clean, tadpole-free water out of our taps. There has been a push recently to rethink our lust for bottled water, to ban the bottle and prevent some of that plastic from entering landfills. London is on board, along with Charlottetown, St. John’s and a smattering of towns in British Columbia. I would like to see many more places fall in line, and there’s no reason why they shouldn’t. So, the next time you feel a cold coming on, or a headache, toothache or gut ache, suck down a gallon of tap water. I’ll wager you’ll be as right as rain in no time. Keep a jug on the go in the fridge and let all the bleach evaporate out, and there’s no reason you won’t live to be 200 or more. That alone should make your Mom proud.

The summer of the superhero

It’s been that kind of a summer; a summer where everywhere you turn, up pops another superhero. Not too many months ago, The Incredible Hulk was on a big screen rampage. Iron Man showed moviegoers his mettle, and then Batman rewrote the movie record books with the emergence of The Dark Knight. Even Hancock became an unlikely superhero on the silver screen this summer. If you see Hancock, be sure to remind him of his new heroic status. I try to every chance I get. And then I had my own chance to become a superhero. As our vehicle left the IMAX theatre, in which I had just seen Batman kick all shades of evil behind and the Joker set a new standard for film’s best bad guy, the pickup truck screaming down the 401 ahead of us created a small mishap by losing an aluminum stepladder out the back. A normal person would notice this problem and stop on the side of the road to deal with it—but this is the mighty 401, where the FIDO rule (Forget it. Drive on.) is followed to the letter. The ladder skipped along the blacktop in front of us, and our driver leaned on the brakes to avoid it. As the car skimmed to a stop just shy of the ladder, we realized our problems were only beginning. We were now stopped dead in the “slow” lane of the 401, which means the cars behind us were only doing about a buck ten. The moment called for action, so I unbuckled my safety belt, exited the vehicle just like the police and other sensible people tell you not to, and grabbed the stupid ladder. It was heavier than anticipated, but not so heavy that a superhero in training couldn’t fire it unceremoniously about ten yards into the ditch. Problem solved. Under six seconds. As I raced back to the vehicle, a woman in a little car pulled up in an effort to pass. What she didn’t see was the man who so generously cleared her way. What she did see rattled her badly; a sweating, 300-pound ogre running barefoot into oncoming traffic on the busiest stretch of road in Canada. The ogre did the only thing that seemed fitting at the time, and yelled at the woman as he ran past her car: “I am part of the solution, not part of the problem!” I was never properly thanked for my act of selfless heroics, but such is the life of the reluctant superhero. Once the adrenaline wore off, we decided the new hero in the car needed a name. Now, naming a superhero is no simple task, and must be given great thought and care. A name goes a long way to determining a hero’s success. Of course, my friends settled on Burnout. Burnout, in case you are wondering, is the kind of hero who rides around on a motorized lawn chair and carries a lighter and can of WD40 as his secret weapon. His sidekick would be called Lowlife, or Skid Marks, or Scraps, and the two of them would patrol the 400 series highways in an old truck, seeking motorists in distress and collecting useful debris that gets tossed from passing vehicles. Becoming a superhero isn’t something most average folks plan on. Sometimes, it just happens, and you have to be ready to deal with it. Sometimes, you just have to be part of the solution, and not part of the problem.

Where did the twenty years go?

It’s hard to know just what to expect when attending your 20-year high school reunion. When my class of ‘88 gathered at a golf course on Saturday, I expected there to be a few familiar faces, plus a few unfamiliar ones, all rolled up in the warm blanket of nostalgia. I expected there to be a few more chins than there were 20 years ago, a few more foreheads showing, and a few more stories to share amongst old friends. What I didn’t expect was how good everyone else looked. It appears ugly people don’t go to class reunions. It takes a certain measure of self esteem to brush what’s left of your graying hair, suck in your expanding belly, and make an appearance at a reunion. Graduates with no job, no teeth and no prospects can’t be bothered, which is too bad, because they are the interesting ones. Not everyone golfed, but just about everyone made a trip or ten to the bar, where regular reunions with old friends Johnny Walker and Captain Morgan helped ease any old nerves and bridge those gaps in the conversation that two decades of separation can create. By the time supper was ready, we were all one big happy family. Many had families of their own, such as a guy named Mark who said in the yearbook he was going to become a dirt farmer. When he arrived with a newborn baby in tow, he laughed and shrugged his shoulders and said that at least he’d “had 38 good years.” A guy named Ron, who said his probable fate would be a career at the dump, almost won the baby lottery for his clutch of four children. The prize winner was a girl named Jennifer, whose yearbook predicted a life of nursing, but said nothing about raising a family of five children. There were a number of happy couples in attendance; those high school sweethearts who are still married to each other and living the fairy tale, and those who have been married so long they’ve lost count of the years. There were also those unfortunate few who were once married, but aren’t anymore. A girl named Ruth, whose yearbook listed “success” as her future plans and “becoming a wayward nun” as her probable fate, actually married a man, divorced him, and then married him a second time. The reunion also featured those sensible graduates who, for whatever reason, decided marriage and children and a white picket fence just isn’t for them. Jeff, whose future plans were to open a chain of restaurants, spends his days running a restaurant. Chris, who said all he wanted to do was run away with a rock and roll band, actually played drums in a band, and now tries not to make spelleng mistakes each week in a newspapur. Another Jeff had plans to be a teacher and became one, and the guy who was nicknamed Stoner is also a teacher. I wonder if his students know his old name, or that his pet peeve was “the only sleep you get all night is at the wheel.” In the end, it was a rare treat to see so many old faces in one place, hearing about where life has taken them, and the twists and turns that got them there—and that life, like school, is more about the journey than the destination.

Don’t neglect the Olympic ladies

When you are watching the Olympics this month, do yourself a favour, and don’t neglect the ladies. I plan on keeping a keen eye on two in particular, pole vaulter Yelena Isinbayeva and high jumper Blanka Vlasic. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why would anyone want to watch a pole vault competition. The whole sport seems rather ridiculous. Back in the day, presumably, the pole vault was a useful skill for clearing castle walls. It seems a little dated now, what with the ladder being invented and all, but it is still a treat to watch. Especially Yelena Isinbayeva. The 26-year-old Russian is clearly the best female pole vaulter in history. She won gold at the 2004 Olympics with a new world record, has gone unbeaten since, and is already an eight-time Olympic and world champion. Watching Yelena clear the bar is like watching poetry in motion. She has, literally, raised the bar to new levels when it comes to competition, and shows no sign of letting up. She recently cleared the five metre barrier with a vault in Monaco, earning her 23rd world record. What makes Isinbayeva so much fun to watch, is the fact she appears to be having so much fun. She often poses for photographers, and has said it is “important that there are women who bring glamour to sport.” Enter Blanka Vlasic. Most people, when they say the word Vlasic, conjure up images of a jar of pickles. Nothing could be farther from young Blanka, one of the most entertaining elite athletes competing on the track and field stage today. Named after the city of Casablanca, the 25-year-old Croatian is the world’s top-ranked female high jumper and current world champion. She is also on an unbeaten streak of 34 competitions. Vlasic first competed at the Olympics at age 16, and she will be at her best this month in China. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why would anyone want to watch a high jump competition. The whole sport seems rather ridiculous. The high jump might have been a useful skill for clearing fences, and does seem a little dated now, but it is still a treat to watch. Blanka Vlasic and her fellow jumpers know how to put on a show. Like Isinbayeva, Vlasic is another athlete who loves the camera, and a little attention. She is becoming well known for striking a pose or doing a cute little dance each time she successfully clears the bar, which is often. That alone makes the Olympic Games worth watching. Do yourself another favour, and watch the women in the pool. You can’t go wrong there, and the Canadian team will be fun to cheer this year. If you’re really feeling brave, and want to listen to some interesting commentary along with it, check out the female weightlifters. Yikes. All in all, the Olympics are the single greatest sporting event the world has to offer. Don’t be lured into watching any nonsense about politics, culture, or controversy; and don’t be lured into watching any American coverage of the Games. Stick with the CBC, and with Isinbayeva and Vlasic, and let the Games of the XXIX Olympiad begin!

Singing a different hockey song

“We grew up with that damn thing. It’s part of our history, part of our life, part of the enthusiasm for the game. When you heard that, you thought Canada, you thought hockey, you thought CBC. What the hell are they trying to do? Who’s running the CBC?” — former NHL player and broadcaster Howie Meeker, now 84, on the demise of the Hockey Night in Canada theme on CBC. There is a general unrest rippling through Canadian hockey fans these days. In case you haven’t heard, the CBC, the home of Hockey Night in Canada since before Wayne Gretzky was in diapers, recently opted to no longer pay for the rights to use “The Hockey Theme” to open its broadcasts. The decision enraged hockey fans, who see the song as an integral part of their sport in this country. A staple on Saturday nights for 40 years, and one of the longest running theme songs in broadcasting history, the jazzy tune has been called Canada’s second national anthem. It was written in 1968 by Dolores Claman, a commercial jingle writer who also penned “A Place to Stand (Ontari-ari-ario)” more than four decades ago. Ms. Claman’s agent said she was paid $800 for the job, but retained the rights to the song. During the 1970s, she received royalties of about $1,000 a year. More recently, Claman earned $500 for each broadcast that featured the theme. Apparently, though, it wasn’t enough. The CBC offered nearly $1 million for rights to the piece, but Dolores wouldn’t budge. Ensuring the popular tune will not die, rival broadcaster CTV negotiated with the song’s 80-year-old composer and quickly purchased the rights for a reported $3 million; which is an awful lot of tea and biscuits for one little old lady now living in England. Instead of being seen a Canadian hero with a sense of pride and tradition, Dolores Claman has come across as a greedyguts more interested in a payday than patriotism. Conversely, the CBC looks like a cheapskate. But you can hardly blame them. Paying $3 million for a TV theme song is a ridiculous notion, especially considering the composer hasn’t put in a day’s work for the CBC in 40 years. Ms. Claman should be disgusted with herself. The song is good, but it’s not that good. Such arrogance is shameful. In an effort to salvage their end of the situation, the CBC is currently hosting a contest to find the next Hockey Night in Canada theme song. The winning songwriter will pocket a bargain basement $100,000 prize, and almost surely retain no rights to the song thereafter. If the CBC had any sense, they would plunk Dolores in a net in front of a garage door, and have hockey fans line up to fire foam pucks at her. Even at a dollar a pop, the stunt would eclipse her bloated $3 million price tag in no time. As a Canadian, and proud CBC viewer, I actually have no problem with Hockey Night in Canada sounding a little different this fall. Tradition is good, but so is change, and the NHL and hockey broadcasts are not the same as they were when Howe and Hull were king. Perhaps the CBC will pay $100,000 for Howie Meeker to go on a red-faced, profanity-laced rant every week.

The tragic end of the in-law suite

There is a story up in the Haliburton highlands that no one dares tell too often, a tragic story that appears to be so fantastic and so incredible that it may actually be true. The tale of the in-law suite is rarely repeated because no one wants to admit guilt by association, and no man worth his right boot would want word to spread too far, especially as far as the in-laws. In the event you happen to be an in-law, consider this your final warning. Fish the shores of any cottage country lake, and you will find a myriad of camps with a little shack or shanty down by the water. These secondary dwellings often pale in comparison to their larger cousins up the hill, but are no less quaint and comfortable for a short stay at the lake. They usually come equipped with a small but agreeable bed, curtains for the windows, and perhaps an old puzzle or board game. They also usually come with the odd mouse or bat, but it’s all part of the cottage experience. The in-law suite is perfect for parents, drunks or any other annoyance overstaying their welcome. Down by the lake, they can find quiet time and still be part of the fun. An in-law suite overlooking the water is particularly valuable, especially during sunset or an all-day rain. Due to the unforgiving nature of most shoreline terrain, many an in-law suite has been built on a steep slope and held level by a number of posts, beams and buttresses. This is usually a small number, and also where the story picks up. The first night the in-laws visit, they will probably begin to complain about the price of gas, the traffic, and how long it took to get out of the city. They will remind you that you live so far away, that you never come and visit them, and they are missing seeing their grandchildren grow up. After hearing all this over barbecued steaks that you heard were too rare, too burned and too tough to chew, you politely excuse yourself for an evening fish. With rod and reel in hand, you disappear down the steps to the lake, pausing only once to grab the hand saw from the shed. On your way past the in-law suite, you quickly, quietly saw through most of the first post, and then go fishing. For day two, the in-laws are telling you to get a new job, a new car, and a new barber to trim the hair in your nose. Smiling, you excuse yourself from the table for the evening fish and cut through most of the second post. By day three, the in-laws are reminding you that your wife would have been better off marrying the guy she was seeing before she met you, their kids would have been much better looking, and your breath would make an excellent paint stripper if you ever refinish the cabin. You thank them for their kind words, tell them what a pleasant stay you are having, and ask if they can’t please stay just one more night. And then you cut the final post. That night, with the in-laws just settling into bed, you quietly walk down to the suite and give it a swift kick. By the time they realize what is happening, the old shack should have fallen like a house of cards, slipped down the rocks and be bobbing in the lake. And your in-laws will never bother to visit again.

The tragic end of the in-law suite

There is a story up in the Haliburton highlands that no one dares tell too often, a tragic story that appears to be so fantastic and so incredible that it may actually be true. The tale of the in-law suite is rarely repeated because no one wants to admit guilt by association, and no man worth his right boot would want word to spread too far, especially as far as the in-laws. In the event you happen to be an in-law, consider this your final warning. Fish the shores of any cottage country lake, and you will find a myriad of camps with a little shack or shanty down by the water. These secondary dwellings often pale in comparison to their larger cousins up the hill, but are no less quaint and comfortable for a short stay at the lake. They usually come equipped with a small but agreeable bed, curtains for the windows, and perhaps an old puzzle or board game. They also usually come with the odd mouse or bat, but it’s all part of the cottage experience. The in-law suite is perfect for parents, drunks or any other annoyance overstaying their welcome. Down by the lake, they can find quiet time and still be part of the fun. An in-law suite overlooking the water is particularly valuable, especially during sunset or an all-day rain. Due to the unforgiving nature of most shoreline terrain, many an in-law suite has been built on a steep slope and held level by a number of posts, beams and buttresses. This is usually a small number, and also where the story picks up. The first night the in-laws visit, they will probably begin to complain about the price of gas, the traffic, and how long it took to get out of the city. They will remind you that you live so far away, that you never come and visit them, and they are missing seeing their grandchildren grow up. After hearing all this over barbecued steaks that you heard were too rare, too burned and too tough to chew, you politely excuse yourself for an evening fish. With rod and reel in hand, you disappear down the steps to the lake, pausing only once to grab the hand saw from the shed. On your way past the in-law suite, you quickly, quietly saw through most of the first post, and then go fishing. For day two, the in-laws are telling you to get a new job, a new car, and a new barber to trim the hair in your nose. Smiling, you excuse yourself from the table for the evening fish and cut through most of the second post. By day three, the in-laws are reminding you that your wife would have been better off marrying the guy she was seeing before she met you, their kids would have been much better looking, and your breath would make an excellent paint stripper if you ever refinish the cabin. You thank them for their kind words, tell them what a pleasant stay you are having, and ask if they can’t please stay just one more night. And then you cut the final post. That night, with the in-laws just settling into bed, you quietly walk down to the suite and give it a swift kick. By the time they realize what is happening, the old shack should have fallen like a house of cards, slipped down the rocks and be bobbing in the lake. And your in-laws will never bother to visit again.

The riding mower’s last ride...?

Mowing the lawn, for the most part, is a boring and tedious job. Unless you are in the habit of carving messages in the grass for low-flying planes, the job is routine. Sometimes, however, there’s a break in the routine. A good man I know, just for example, has been cutting his grass the same way for about 30 years. For the sake of protecting the innocent, we will call him Yard-Man. Every once in a while something exciting happens to Yard-Man, such as running over a snake or a nest of bees, but most often his circuits around the yard are uneventful. Not so this month. In the middle of a routine afternoon of mowing the long grass around the edge of the pond in the backyard, Yard-Man was startled into action when the steering linkage on his riding mower let loose. Finding himself suddenly careening out of control, Yard-Man fought hard to gain command of his now runaway mower. At the time, he had no way of knowing the steering was finished, and the mower was on a direct downhill race to the pond. By the time Yard-Man stomped on the brake, his riding mower was in the drink. And him with it. All Yard-Man could do was hang on for the ride as the machine plunged over the bank and into the water. He said it actually sank rather slowly for a tractor of its size, and he easily floated away from the mower to the safety of the shore, his heart leaping like the nearby frogs. It had been years since Yard-Man had been swimming in the pond, and he wasn’t too happy about it this time. Words like refreshing and invigorating did not cross his mind. Plenty of his favourite four letter words did, but were drowned out by the sloshing of his shoes as he walked back up to the house to ask for some assistance. Armed with nylon straps, he was quickly back in the pond and tying a knot suitable for towing. He considered leaving the whole mess underwater, for a watery memorial like the Titanic, but managed to get everything fastened to the trailer hitch of the car. With a steady pull, Yard-Man soon had his riding mower back on dry land. Once he confirmed the steering was shot, he set about fixing the problem. He then drained all the gasoline and oil from the engine, and began drying the whole fiasco out. After a couple days, Yard-Man had everything back together, and had settled his blood pressure enough to give the machine a try. It wouldn’t start, so he grabbed a beer and sat down beside the pool, half expecting deer to come wading through the lush, long leaves of grass in his yard. On the fourth day of trying to start the lawn mower, the engine sputtered, caught, and began running. Yard-Man smiled, and decided the best way to work out any lingering kinks was to give the machine a good workout. In defiance of everything the mower had thrown at him, brave sir Yard-Man finished cutting his lawn without incident. It has been a couple weeks now since the accident, and Yard-Man has had to endure a lot of ribbing, such as being asked if he now cuts his grass with flippers on. Personally, I have to hand it to him. Come hell or high water, literally in this case, there is just no stopping a good Yard-Man.

Mosquitoes like summer too

Chances are, like any good Canadian, you will spend at least some of your summer in the great outdoors. When faced with this country’s two seasons, winter and July, enjoying time outside in the sun and surf is a must. It is a part of who we are. Of course, mosquitoes see our country in much the same way, and like to take advantage of us at a time of year when we are most vulnerable, and most likely to have a patch or two of exposed skin. Scientists estimate it takes 1,200,000 mosquitoes, each sucking once, to completely drain the average human of blood. This is difficult to test, unless you’ve gone camping without a tent, or passed out at a picnic table, or both. It is hard to even imagine what it might be like, to be drained and tortured so slowly you could swear it was a career. Arctic researchers who bared their bodies reported as many as 9,000 bites per minute from swarming, newly hatched mosquitoes. At that rate, an individual could lose half his blood in two hours. It is even harder to imagine what that might be like, to be drained and tortured so quickly you could swear it was your wedding day. Mosquitoes use their distinctive whines to attract mates, and can match the pitch of a potential partner. Most males and females can relate to each other in a second or two, which is often the same length of time it takes a human female to reject a potential mate in a crowded bar. The mosquito can even mate in midair, often in as little as 15 seconds from initial approach to kiss goodnight. This is roughly the length of a beer commercial. Some humans have been rumoured to attempt the same workrate, although research in the field is limited, even among naked researchers running through the arctic tundra. Running from mosquitoes is counterproductive. They prefer larger targets and are attracted to movement, so offer your largest and loudest guest a skipping rope or live badger to play with. Mosquitoes use your exhaled breath to track you down, but hit a top speed of only 2.5 kmh. Most people can eclipse this with a steady walk, unless you happen to be a large, panting man with a skipping rope. Many mosquitoes are active at dawn and dusk, but will still find you for a snack at any time of the day or night. Looking on the bright side, millions of years ago the little buzzers were several times larger than they are today. Experts say there are are still more than 2,500 varieties of them whining from the tundra to the tropics, including a unique strain that lives only in the London subway system and feeds on rats and other underground morsels. Most of the surface of a mosquito’s head is eyes, capable of picking up infrared images and heat patterns emanating from a body, just like the alien in the movie Predator. To avoid being detected, you can cover yourself in mud, like Arnold did in the film, and consider saving the world. If mud doesn’t suit you, there is always the mosquito net. The world’s largest net is in Nigeria, and capable of protecting 200 children at a time. I recommend rigging one across your backyard, or trying anything that will get you out and enjoying another great Canadian summer.

If you throw a pie, make it rhubarb

It’s hard to turn down a good piece of pie—even if that piece of pie happens to have rhubarb in it. There are people out there who love rhubarb. They mash it up in jam, squeeze it into juice, or dip the stalks in sugar and eat it like pandas gnawing on bamboo. These are also the kinds of people who love vinegar, the sound of teeth grinding, and can spend a day wearing wet socks. My own grandmother was a rhubarb fan, and could grow it half as high as the garage, which was helpful whenever we jumped off her garage and needed a place to land. We always thought it was a weed. I still think it is. The plant came from Asia, where historians believe it was eaten by Mongolians and the tribes of the Gobi Desert. This explains a lot, because there isn’t typically a lot of food one can enjoy in a desert, and rhubarb does taste slightly better than dirt, especially when baked in a pie. It also helps explain why early marauders like Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun were so bent on exploring and conquering the world. They were probably just looking for a better piece of pie. Can’t say as I blame them. If Attila or Genghis had ventured far enough to find peaches, I doubt they would ever have returned home. The plant is prized by pie makers, because it turns red and fools them into thinking it is some type of fruit. It is also one of the first food plants to be ready for harvest in cooler climates, well before apples and blueberries, and all the other assorted plants that are actually pleasant to eat. Rhubarb use didn’t really catch on until the rise of affordable sugar. Before that, not even the dogs would sniff a rhubarb pie. Fast forward to today, and East Sussex, England, where organizers hoped to break the world pie fighting record. The previous record was 70 pie-throwing participants, but word soon spread and an estimated 1,200 people indicated they were willing to join in the fun. Local police stepped in to stop the event at the last minute, saying they were worried they would be unable to control a pie fighting mob of that size, and couldn’t prevent innocent bystanders from being accidentally struck by flying pies. Authorities eventually relented and said the event could continue, but with reasonable numbers. What you and I both know, and no one has the guts to say, is that the police most likely shut the pie fight down because no one was going to be throwing rhubarb pies. Throwing any other kind of pie would be a waste. If you are the type of person who would throw a rhubarb pie, here’s a hint. Gather up all the rhubarb you can, save yourself the trouble of baking a pie, and then throw all the stalks into a river or over a steep cliff. There might even be a world record in it for you. With so many food choices at our disposal today, there really is no excuse for anyone to be baking rhubarb pies. Strawberry-rhubarb pie can be delicious, and I had one on Sunday that was excellent; but I’m a trooper, and am ready, willing and able to wait until the peach pies, apple pies, raspberry pies and blueberry pies are ready. Or until I find myself stranded in the Gobi Desert.

Time for some pickin’ and a grinnin’

After years of talking about it, and talking about it, my old man finally got a banjo. It was a Father’s Day present I picked up at a yard sale, from a young man who claimed bluegrass is the only kind of music worth listening to. I happen to like bluegrass, but saying it is the only music out there is like saying blue cheese is the only item worth putting on a pizza. Sure, it may be tasty in small doses, but it doesn’t take long to get sick of it. We talked about bluegrass, how the banjo was invented by slaves stolen from Africa, and how the two most famous banjo pickers anyone can think of are Roy Clark from Hee Haw, and that dirty little inbred hillbilly from the movie Deliverance. We would have talked longer, but the guy said his roadkill barbecue was just about done, and he still had to help his girlfriend find her teeth. I remember watching a lot of Hee Haw when I was a kid, especially Misty Rowe’s “jug” band, but I’m by no means an expert on how to tune a banjo. It needed some work and I needed some help, so I set out to find a music store; which isn’t easy when you don’t know the terrain. I finally found one tucked away in a quiet corner, like so many music stores are, with a big drum kit in the window, guitars hanging on the walls, and words like Gibson, Godin, Gretsch and Green Day splashed everywhere. It was getting late at this point, just about 4:20 in the afternoon by my calculations, because there was a sign on the door that the person inside was on a five minute break. Sure enough, five minutes later, the lock on the door clicked open, and the banjo and I ventured inside. The proprietor was hard to find behind the stacks of amplifiers, sheet music and microphone stands. He would also have been hard to find in a police line-up of homeless drifters. He looked like a rat. If a rat had slits for eyes. With long, stringy hair sticking out from under his ball cap, and two long, stringy arms sticking out of a sleeveless Black Sabbath concert shirt, he looked like the kind of man who stayed up all night playing guitar, woke up hungry, and ate his belt because he thought it was beef jerky. He said he liked the banjo, and held it like it was a baby. And I knew immediately I was in the right place. Ratman said the repair job was simple, that all the banjo needed was a few screws, and he had just the thing. From under the counter he produced a plastic bowl full of screws, and began sifting through them like he had all the time in the world. He certainly had most of the screws. In a miracle of hand-eye co-ordination, he actually found three suitable pieces, but they were too long. Not to worry, he said, and from further under the counter he brought up a clamp, a hacksaw and a grinder. There were a lot of things rushing through my mind at that point, but worry wasn’t one of them, and he cut the screws to fit. In the end, in that little one stop machine shop guitar shop, I ended up with a dandy five-string banjo. When I told him it was a present for my dad, he winked at me by opening one bloodshot eye, and said “No charge”. All that’s left now, is to start the pickin’ and a grinnin’.

No cover charge in the Ralph Klein Room

An old friend flew in from Calgary for the weekend, and we honoured his visit with the opening of the Ralph Klein Room. No cover charge. No dress code. No problem.

Ralph Klein is a former premier of Alberta, and was fairly popular with many of the fine folks of that province. King Ralph was the type of politician who had a knack for getting the job done, and wasn’t afraid to throw a few drinks into the mix to get there. Maybe a few too many.

The Ralph Klein Room, or RKR, as it quickly became known, is an old post-and-beam drive shed, with a rusted tin roof and gravel floor. There is a sign on the side telling pedlars not to bother stopping, splashes of old motor oil in places, and an atmosphere that had you thinking a cow might wander past the door at any moment. Amenities for the weekend included a few comfortable chairs, a table made out of an old door, a television and DVD player, and an AM/FM radio with a short wave setting to pick up southern gospel, a pow wow, or one of those nuts you know is out there, living underground in an old bus, warning everyone about alien invasions. The chill box was filled with ice and tasty beverages, and there was a five gallon pail nailed to the wall, just in case anyone felt the need to impress everyone with a Kobe Bryant or Kevin Garnett inspired jump shot. The fire pit consisted of an old kitchen sink elevated on blocks, a grill, and more than enough sausages to go around. Ralph Klein himself would have been impressed. Talk and suds flowed freely, interrupted only by the odd flash of lightning, crack of thunder, and hammering of rain on the rusted tin roof. There was a crazy mariachi concert coming through the short wave, but the lightning (or was it the aliens?) kept wreaking havoc on the reception.

Conversation drifted from playoff hockey, to the value of Van Halen bootlegs, to how there must be a reason why so many people are afraid of clowns. Is Dr. Phil really a doctor? Red meat isn’t nearly as bad for you as green meat is. Eagles soar, but rats don’t get sucked into jet engines. If you spill beer on the lawn, will your grass come up half cut? What was the best thing before sliced bread? A shark will only attack you when you’re wet. And so on. Then someone said they had just seen the best beer commercial of all time, about a man who doesn’t always drink beer, but when he does, he prefers Dos Equis. The police often question him, just because they find him interesting. His beard alone has experienced more than a lesser man’s entire body. His blood smells like cologne. He is the most interesting man in the world. And Ralph Klein himself would have been impressed.

The nonsense continued all night, until the blue light of dawn started to poke through the trees. It felt good to be back in such good company, enjoying the warmth of a summer night, and the warmth of friends and family. As friends age, and the complications of their lives and schedules compound and limit them, it gets increasingly difficult to make time for such nonsense. It also gets more important to make that time—so stay thirsty, my friends.

Taking time for a little sit down

If you think that someone you love is spending too much time in the bathroom, think again. Making headlines in western Kansas, a 35-year-old woman sat down in her boyfriend’s bathroom, and didn’t get up again for two whole years. You might think she was stranded in there, but she wasn’t. Not at first anyway.

The dedicated boyfriend checked on her every day, asking if she was ready to come out. Her answer, for two whole years, was ‘maybe tomorrow’. When the man finally reported that something was wrong with his girlfriend, police arrived to find the woman almost fully clothed, sitting on the toilet, otherwise none the worse for wear. Except the woman’s skin had grown around the seat. The muscles in her legs had so severely atrophied she will likely need a wheelchair to get around for a while. She initially refused emergency medical services, but was finally convinced by everyone that she needed to be checked out at a hospital, toilet seat and all. Police initially thought she had been glued or tied to the throne, but soon determined she was physically stuck there by her body alone. The boyfriend reported bringing in food and water, but the woman did not want to leave the bathroom. He never explained why it took him two years to call police, and no one has been able to explain the couple’s bizarre behaviour. Authorities said she wasn’t cooperative, kept saying she was okay, but seemed “somewhat disoriented.”

The entire twisted tale has left everyone scratching their heads. Police feel someone should be charged for something, but they can’t seem to find anything illegal about a person who decides to sit on a toilet for two whole years. It turns out it’s not against the law. It’s just wrong.

In other news, a New York man is suing the commercial airline jetBlue for $2 million, saying he suffered “extreme humiliation” after he spent his trip in the bathroom. The man claims he was denied a seat on a five-hour flight, because the plane was full. He was allowed on board when an attendant offered to give up her seat, but 90 minutes into the voyage the pilot said the flight attendant was uncomfortable, and he was now welcome to “hang out” in the plane's bathroom for the remainder of the flight.

After reading this, I was haunted by the feeling I had heard the story before. And then it dawned on me. It is the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. In that cautionary tale, a little girl busts into a cabin in the woods and eats porridge that is too hot, too cold, and then just right. She sits in a chair that is too big, too small, and then just right; and sleeps in a bed too hard, too soft, and then just right. I can’t remember the ending, except the one my babysitter told me that the bears dipped the girl in honey and spent the rest of the winter eating her.

The point is, the girl from Kansas and the boy from New York need to meet in the middle, just like Goldilocks did. Whether you want to stay seated for two years, or get out before your five hours is up, the key is moderation and being able to make the choice for yourself—and if you have any sense at all, it shouldn’t take two years to make it.

The dandelion will outlive us all

Without weeding, seeding, watering or worrying, I plan on having a bright, green lawn again this summer. Because, I happen to like dandelions. When everything else is toasted and brown, a good dandelion will still stand proudly green, as if telling the world that it is tougher than anything you can throw at it.

Dandelion fans never get enough credit. We don’t put a burden on the well or water tower, and we don’t spread harsh chemicals around. It is easy to tell who does, because their lawns look like golf courses and all the local squirrels have laser beam eyes and missing teeth. Instead of fighting the most successful flowering plant on the planet, I have learned to live with the little yellow marauders.

Dandelions evolved around 30 million years ago in Africa, Asia and Europe, and have been widely introduced nearly everywhere else. They are not going anywhere, and will probably outlive us all. If you think you can get rid of them, think again. Dandelions produce seeds asexually, without pollination, that are genetically identical to the parent plant. There were some families like that where I grew up, but they were never as successful as dandelions, and nowhere near as pretty.

Over 250 species of dandelion have been recorded in the British Isles alone. They win. Every time. A single plant will produce over 100 seeds per head and more than 2,000 seeds a year. It has been estimated a dense stand of pissenlits can crank out nearly 100 million seeds per hectare. Your grass just doesn’t stand a chance. The English name is a corruption of the French dent de lion, meaning lion's tooth, due to its coarse leaves. In modern French the plant is named pissenlit, or "urinate in bed", for its diuretic properties. There were no Pissenlit families where I grew up, but I still have my doubts. In parts of Italy, the plant is known as pisacan, which translates to "dog pisses", referring to how common they are at the side of pavements. There aren’t too many plants who can take a sidewalk crack and make it their own.

Although commonly known as weeds, the yellow terrors happen to have many uses. They have been used by humans for food and medicine throughout history. Dandelions are useful as a leaf vegetable. Bitter when raw, the greens are suitable in salads and often served with hard boiled eggs. The leaves are high in vitamins A and C, and carry more iron and calcium than spinach. If your kids won’t eat vegetables, try serving them pisacans. The flowers can be used to make dandelion wine, and a dynamite dandelion jelly. Ground roasted dandelion root can be used as a coffee substitute, and the plant’s milky sap has been used as a mosquito repellent.

So, you see, dandelions are our friends. If the day comes that you get sick of all the yellow in your lawn, send the kids outside armed with a few tubes of coloured paint, and tell them to start painting the flowers different colours. Just imagine how surprised mom or the neighbours will be when they get home. Who knows, a few of the plants might even die in the process. But don’t hold your breath.

Trout tails and tall tales

Trout are an elusive fish. The odds of going out and catching a stringer full of fat ones is about the same as winning a new car on a game show, dating a famous supermodel, or having a piano fall on your head. Despite those odds, intrepid anglers venture out every spring, ignore the rain and cold and personal hygiene, and search the depths for almighty trout. If you still think intrepid means brave, you’d be wrong. It means bonehead.

Between the rare moments of excitement when a trout actually does tighten a line, an angler has to find something to do. Some spit sunflower seeds, some spit tobacco, and some spit out fish tales. Sometimes those fish stories are harder to swallow than the cup of tobacco juice. Most of the boasts are rooted in reality, with a kernel of truth buried in there somewhere. Over time, however, they become twisted and grotesque and take on a life of their own, like the celebrities who love plastic surgery.

Last week, I ventured north to sit in a boat in the rain, sleep in a tent in the rain, stand under a tree in the rain, and start a fire in the rain. I even tried a little fishing. Lesser anglers might have complained about the raw weather, but trout hunters are made of more sandpaper than sugar. None of my fellow boneheads were complaining either, and at times it was so tranquil on the lake I thought I could hear fish laughing underneath the boat. And then the stories started.

Our local experts, Al and Jim, have been fishing together since Burt Reynolds had his own hair, and both are masters of the fish tale. They will tell you, for example, that years ago they were fishing together in a derby. Their only gear in the boat that day was a pole, line and bobber each, plus a case of ginger ale between them. What went into the drinks, and in what amount, differs depending on who is telling the tale, and how much ginger ale he has downed when he tells it. While the pros were throwing lures such as the Chubby Darter, Rocket Chad and Ugly Otter at the waves, Al and Jim were fishing with worms, drifting aimlessly, and sipping ginger ale.

Between the tall tales and laughter, they actually pulled in a pair of fish large enough to win prizes. It’s a classic tale, and may even seem true, to the intrepid. And then there’s the story of the time Jim was out and the trout were biting. He caught his limit, but couldn’t stop, and quickly filled his stringer with tasty fish. The game warden he met on the way home was not as impressed, and asked Jim what he was doing with so many fish. Jim told the warden that they were his pet fish, and he liked to bring them down to the lake to swim around. All he had to do was whistle once and they would swim right back onto the stringer; and he could prove it. The intrepid government employee watched as Jim set his fish free. After a few minutes of silence he asked when the fish were coming back. “What fish?” was Jim’s reply.

It’s hard to know what is fact and what is fiction when you hear a story like that. You want to believe it, and maybe it really is true. Just be careful, and look up. Because a piano just might be falling on your head.

Cold water fish taste better

May 7th, 2008

It is a rare occurrence, for me at least, to be fishing in water too cold to swim in. The bulk of my angling, and the bulkiest fish I’ve hooked, have been in warm water. If you can’t swim, you can still fish, and if you can’t fish, you can still go for a swim. The two are linked, like popcorn and butter, socks and shoes, or stock car racing and chewing tobacco.

It has been said there really is no such thing as a bad day of fishing. Even those days when you push a hook through your thumb (and it does happen) are better than a day at work. If you can punctuate that day with a good swim, and cap it all off with a fish dinner, even better.

Spring fishing, however, requires more discipline. Any old fool can climb into a boat and drop a line over the side. If the water is warm, you can drop yourself over the side as well, no worries. The colder the water, the more careful you have to be. A conservation officer once told me that most male drowning victims are found with their fly down or pants undone. This may seem strange, unless you’re the type to lean out of a boat yourself.

A smart person knows enough to never get in a boat unless they can survive falling out. Spring fishing is worth the risk, mind you, because cold water fish taste better. Ask anyone what their favourite freshwater fish is, and nine out of ten will say pickerel or trout. There is a reason for this. The trout and the pickerel are cold water fish, and stay down low. The bass and pike don’t mind a little warm or shallow water and, while still quite delicious, can wind up tasting somewhat stronger on the dinner plate.

Trout fishing in the spring is like shopping in the frozen food section. You might say, the trout benefits from staying refrigerated for most of its life. It makes me wonder what the fish at the bottom of the ocean taste like, because it’s plenty cold and dark down there, in the deep with all the heavy stuff. I’ll wager those fish taste like metal, or a cut lip, because human blood and sea water are alike in many ways, after all.

I have never caught a fish from the bottom of the sea, and don’t want to. Unless library books have lied to me all my life, those fish are scary, and should be left alone. Down where the water temperature is near freezing and sunlight can’t penetrate, you’ll find such undersea monsters as the angler fish, gulper eel, fangtooth, dragonfish and giant oarfish. Find pictures of these saltwater demons, and you’ll be glad you don’t see them every day.

Fish living in the ocean’s twilight zones don’t eat every day, and have to rely on food that falls down from above. They also eat each other whenever possible, and many have developed long, sharp teeth and expandable jaws and stomachs, sort of like a few of the anglers I’ve met. Some fish, like the primitive hagfish, gather around a floating corpse with surprising speed and devour it by burrowing into the animal and eating it from the inside out. That alone should be enough to keep an angler in the boat instead of the water. It is a sacrifice I am willing to make this spring, and I hope the trout will understand.

There’s nothing wrong with being #2

April 30th, 2008

Basically, there are three different types of people in this world. There are those that do not, those that do, and those that do too much. If you are looking for a type to call your own, don’t be afraid to choose type two. Type one do little, and tolerate even less. When you ask a type one what they have done, or would they like to try something, their answer is most often nothing, or no.

Type one have trouble sleeping at night, because they are usually fussing over what other people are doing. Type one wash their hands a lot, worry about what might be hanging around too long in their colon, and have probably never drunk out of a puddle on a dare. Type one say things like your jacket smells funny, or that’s going to hurt or you’ll shoot your eye out, kid. Type one think they have seen everything, and that’s enough. They need to let their hair down, and relax a while.

Type two, on the other hand, will try anything once and, if they like it, try it twice. They have done a few things, and probably a few things they shouldn’t have. More often than not, type two had fun doing it. Type two will eat food off the floor if no one saw them drop it, worry if there will be a beer strike, and have probably dropped their pants in public at least once. Type two say things like I’ll never drink like that again, or that was the best or oh yeah, good times. Type two are always looking for something new, and usually find it. They live life in the fast lane, but know when to stop for a nap.

Type three, on the other hand, do more than you, and then do some more. When you look at type three, you see a little bit of yourself, if you were the type to stay up for three days eating nothing but gravel and gasoline, fight with the knots in your shoelaces, and argue with the dog. Type three dive in head first, with warning or without, and don’t care who knows it. They think hazard is where the Duke boys live, think helmets are for miners, and suffer from hypothermia because they urinate out of doors. Type three say things like dude, you gotta try this or this is awesome or hey, I can’t feel my legs. Type three think life is a race, and they are gunning for the lead. They are sometimes told to get a haircut, and get a real job.

None of this would be a problem, except that type one hates type three, type three hates type one, and type two prefers to stay out of everyone’s way. If you still don’t know what group to call home, try this simple test: If you have ever walked down the street and said just don’t look at those people, you are probably a type one personality. If you have ever heard someone say this about you, then you are likely a type three. If you have never seen anything like this happen, you are sitting in type two. The worst of it is, type three are such a danger to themselves and others that the people of type one try to put a stop to everything, and ruin it for everyone in group two. Type two can’t do anything with type one calling the shots. Whether it is smoking or drinking, singing or dancing, speeding or breeding, the best place to be is in type two. There really is no shame in being number two.

Revenge of the funnel cake

April 23rd, 2008

Irony can be a hard concept to pin down at times. Popular singer Alanis Morissette tried a few years ago with a tune called Ironic, where she sang about rain on your wedding day, a traffic jam when you’re already late, and ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife. She should have titled her song Unfortunate, because none of what she mentions is actually ironic.

If you were a city planner, and got stuck in a traffic jam that left you late for a meeting of city planners, who were getting together to discuss city traffic problems, that would be ironic. The fact that Ironic contains no actual irony, is actually kind of ironic. See what I mean?

It can all get confusing. But fear not, for I have stumbled upon a perfectly delicious illustration of irony, one that you can use the next time someone asks you to define the term. I recently read that a ride at Disneyland is due to be shut down for months and revamped, because it keeps bottoming out when full of passengers. This can mean only one thing; that the people who visit Disneyland are bigger and fatter and heavier than ever before. Bottom line. And, what is the name of this ride? It’s a Small World. Now, that’s irony. I would buy a ticket just to watch that ride, and listen to the rails scrape and gears groan, as it tries to haul all the fun loving fat loving families wedged into the seats.

Maybe the people who go to Disneyland are eating too many of those delicious funnel cakes that are still so popular. A funnel cake is made by pouring sweet batter through a funnel into hot oil, in a circular pattern, and deep frying it until golden brown. It is often served with powdered sugar, jam, or other toppings such as icing or a heart attack. It gets its name from a specially-made pouring pitcher with an integral funnel-like spout, instead of a separate funnel. The round cakes are also known as elephant ears; not pig’s ears, which are the ears that perk up when a person hears “Funnel cakes for sale! Get ‘em while they’re hot!” It is also rather ironic that the very food sold to make money for Disneyland may wind up costing the park a bundle in the long run. Then again, they probably make far more money on cake than a ride with poor suspension.

The average funnel cake sells for a few bucks, and costs roughly 17 cents to make. Incidentally, this is exactly the number of pounds the average person gains every time they eat a funnel cake. Even Alanis will tell you this leans a little more towards the unfortunate than the ironic. Sadly, the cruel reach of the funnel cake has extended all the way to Japan, where researchers have designed a robot capable of identifying wines, cheeses and meats. Upon being given a sample, it speaks up and identifies what it has just been fed. The idea is that wineries can tell if a wine is authentic without even opening the bottle. When a reporter placed his hand in the robot's clanking jaw, he was identified as bacon. A cameraman tried, and was identified as prosciutto.

Humans beware! Robots think we taste like bacon. It will only be a matter of time before they consume us all. You might say even that’s ironic.

Head and shoulders above the rest

April 16th, 2008

Charlton Heston, who passed away on April 5 at the age of 84, was a giant among men. My earliest memory of the great American actor was his signature role as Moses in The Ten Commandments. He looked to me to be ten feet tall in that movie, and it wasn’t the only time he played it up big. It didn’t matter if he was portraying a biblical character, an astronaut or a mountain man, Heston always seemed so much larger than anything else that was around him.

Hollywood has always been filled with little people in fancy little clothes. Tom Cruise. Brad Pitt. Bruce Willis. Johnny Depp. You could pile all of them into a burlap sack, and still have enough room for 50 pounds of potatoes. But not Charlton Heston. He was square-shouldered, stood around 6’3”, and stood out from the start. The performances that stick with me most are his work as Moses, as Taylor in Planet of the Apes, and as Ben Hur. For the bulk of those films, his bulk was shirtless, sweaty, dirty and wrestling with someone or something. You don’t see too many major movie stars willing to do that anymore. And there was nothing little about the way Charlton Heston acted either.

Appearing in some 100 films, he was big enough to race chariots, fight apes, and be the last person on earth. He played heroes, kings, saints and sinners; got down to business, and commanded respect. In 1959, Heston won the best actor Oscar for his work as Judah Ben-Hur. Stephen Boyd, the actor who played his boyhood friend Messala, was reputedly told to act as though the two were more lovers than brothers. Hollywood legend has it that Heston never figured it out, or perhaps he did. Whatever happened, it worked, and Ben-Hur went on to win an unprecedented eleven Academy Awards. In 1971, he starred in the science fiction film, Soylent Green. A complete bomb in its day, the film is now considered a classic of apocalyptic horror, proving once again that having Charlton Heston on your stage somehow made it bigger. Just ask Mike Myers. In 1993, Heston appeared in a cameo role in Wayne's World 2, in a scene where Myers requests that a small role be filled by a better actor. Heston went on to host Saturday Night Live later that year.

He campaigned for civil rights and fought racism, opposed the Vietnam War, fought for the rights of gun owners, and once said: “Political correctness is tyranny with manners.” As his years progressed, Heston had a hip replacement, battled prostate cancer, and was diagnosed with symptoms consistent with Alzheimer's disease. For all his remarkable accomplishments, Charlton Heston was married to one woman for 64 years.

Even in wedlock, he went big. Lydia Heston said of her husband: “Charlton Heston was seen by the world as larger than life. He was known for his chiselled jaw, broad shoulders and resonating voice, and, of course, the roles he played. No one could ask for a fuller life than his. No man could have given more to his family, or his profession.” And, when I remember him, it’ll be as head and shoulders above the rest. So let it be written. So let it be done.

The return of the bottle pickers

April 9th, 2008

Water in the basement, sand and slime on the lawn, and dog droppings on the sole of your shoe. The return of spring means the return of many wonderful things. It also means the return of the bottle pickers.

I was out for a drive on the weekend and, in three different ditches in three different counties, spotted people searching for returnable bottles. For my money, the bottle picker is as welcome a sign of spring as green grass and a robin’s red breast. Bottle picking is recycling at its best, and it is comforting to see the process in action. As long as a bottle is worth something, there will be someone willing to step up and claim the reward.

These fine, ambitious folks are called scavengers, and they deserve our thanks for making the ditch a cleaner place. The person who throws a bottle into a ditch, ignoring the few cents it is worth, thinks they are making the world a better place by providing income for someone else. These fine, frivolous folks are called litterbugs, and deserve more than thanks. They deserve a job walking in a landfill separating dirty diapers from rotten potatoes. I wouldn’t mind seeing even more bottle pickers. Scavengers get a bad rap from time to time, but what keeps this planet healthy is that, sooner or later, something always shows up to clean up someone else’s mess. Imagine the state we would be in if it stopped happening.

My brothers and I did a lot of bottle picking when we were young. You might say it was our first job. We would bike into town, collecting bottles along the way, and spend whatever we collected on junk food like Bottle Caps, Fun Dip and Sweet Tarts. On a good day in the spring, we could make enough to buy chocolate bars and a can of pop. The best day was the one where I found a dirty magazine in the ditch. Melting snow caused the colour to run on a few pages, but you could still see some of the things the other kids were only dreaming about. I hid that magazine under a rock, and went back to check on it every day for a month, to make sure it hadn’t corrupted any other impressionable young minds. I never got any credit for that.

People throw away perfectly good stuff all the time, and any bottle picker worth his ditch will tell you that. While we are at it, we should bring back the garbage pickers too. Perhaps the most effective recycling program there is, garbage picking is generally frowned upon, discouraged, or flat out illegal; which is nonsense. Anyone who can help reduce the amount of garbage in a landfill should be applauded, not apprehended. Years ago, the man who ran our township dump had only one leg. It wasn’t a job you would find on everyone’s top ten careers list, but I never heard him complain.

It seemed to suit him, until they told him he couldn’t bring the dump home anymore. I would hate to be the politician calling the shots if a perfectly good wooden leg came in, and the dump guy wasn’t allowed to take it for a run. Seeing bottle pickers this spring means that recycling is working. We owe it to ourselves to clean up our act a bit, and a step into the ditch is a step in the right direction.

Enough green to turn you green

April 2nd, 2008

Earth Hour. Earth Day. Earth Week. Earth Month. What on earth is going on? I feel like a big new bully has moved into the neighbourhood, and plans to keep smacking me in the head until my green teeth rattle loose. This bully loves green, and greets you with a smile while telling you over and over again what a terrible person you are. The bully’s name is Greenwashing, and I’ve had just about enough already. It’s time to hit back.

Green is everywhere now, and if you aren’t putting it on your product or in your home, you are made to feel like subhuman scum bent on killing the planet. The new push to see everything green has given rise to Greenwashing, a term that describes the act of misleading someone about the environmental benefits of a product or service.

Green is such a go-to word now, people are lying about their environmental efforts just to stay popular and appear as if they are doing the right thing. Whether you are putting a tree on a bottle of chemicals, claiming to be environmentally friendly without proof, or ignoring harmful effects in favour of clean ones, you are still Greenwashing.

The problem is, it isn’t easy to change the world. Just ask the activist who sat in a tree for two years to keep it from being cut down. The logging company cut down every other tree on the hill, but I’m pretty sure one big one is still standing, and there is one happy zealot up there looking for a little congratulations, and a bath. We should be directing our energies at the real abusers, not the individual.

Just as an example, every time the wind blows across China’s industrial area, it picks up toxins and debris, and knocks down a few Koreans living down the line. Leaving a light on above the sink suddenly doesn’t seem so bad, when you stop to look at that big picture. I’ve noticed the LCBO has gone back to paper bags, which is a step in the right direction. With a little care and a lot of time, trees are a renewable and valuable resource, so I guess I’ll continue to shop there.


Apparently, it is the right thing to do. Believe me, anyone who enjoys a drink on the sly prefers a brown paper bag to plastic any day. I’m trying to take a step in the right direction by walking more, any time of the day or night, any day of the year. Most people still prefer to drive everywhere, and they have that right, but walking can be a lot of fun at times. If you haven’t walked over the river lately, be sure to give it a try this spring. You won’t regret it, and it is better for the environment than sitting at home burning styrofoam.

The key is to set small, attainable goals, like Bill Murray did in “What About Bob?” when he was baby-stepping his way through one of his best performances. What we don’t need is someone badgering us every step of the way, telling us we’re not doing enough, and are not green enough.

I’ve already heard so much about Earth Month I’m ready to turn green, and not the good green either. It’s more like the green you turn when you are car sick. April has always been Earth Month, except when I was a kid they had a different name for it. It was called Spring. And I can’t wait for it to get here, paper bags and all.