also known as Ray...

Sometimes it’s easy to get scared

2008-11-07T12:48:00.003-05:00

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...

2008-11-07T12:48:00.001-05:00

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

2008-11-07T12:40:00.003-05:00

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

2008-11-07T12:40:00.001-05:00

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

2008-11-07T12:39:00.000-05:00

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

2008-09-27T21:10:00.001-04:00

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

2008-09-17T15:59:00.002-04:00

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

2008-09-15T12:18:00.002-04:00

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

2008-09-04T13:10:00.001-04:00

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?

2008-08-22T11:36:00.001-04:00

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

2008-08-08T10:47:00.001-04:00

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

2008-07-23T13:12:00.001-04:00

“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

2008-07-23T13:07:00.001-04:00

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

2008-07-16T09:51:00.001-04:00

The riding mower’s last ride...?

2008-07-09T13:05:00.001-04:00

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

2008-07-04T12:59:00.001-04:00

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

2008-07-02T23:02:00.002-04:00

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’

2008-06-21T17:13:00.001-04:00

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

2008-06-11T12:53:00.002-04:00

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

2008-06-04T16:04:00.002-04:00

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

2008-05-22T09:03:00.002-04:00

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

2008-05-22T09:00:00.002-04:00

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

2008-05-09T09:29:00.002-04:00

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

2008-05-09T09:23:00.002-04:00

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

2008-05-09T09:17:00.002-04:00

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

2008-04-16T15:45:00.002-04:00

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

2008-04-10T14:48:00.003-04:00

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

2008-04-03T10:43:00.002-04:00

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.

You are what you eat... pigface!

2008-04-01T13:59:00.002-04:00

March 26th, 2008

There was a time, not too many generations ago, that getting old was considered a privilege. Today, as more and more people are reaching a ripe old age, we value youth above everything, and try to hide the ravages of old age as if it were a life-sucking monster in the closet. Many of the scariest monsters can be found in Hollywood, where nips, tucks, peels and stretches are more common than a two-dollar cup of coffee.

The ghoul formerly known as Joan Rivers, for example, has had so much work done she looks like a Lizzie Borden victim. Cosmetic quick fixes, however, are not limited to the rich and famous. Spending on cosmetic surgery is soaring, with stores pushing more varieties of anti-aging creams than Baskin-Robbins has ice cream. Everybody wants to be rid of their wrinkles, sags and bags, but it isn’t easy.

Fear not.

The solution may be simpler than you think, because the latest anti-ageing food is good old pigs' trotters. In New York, the most talked-about opening of the past couple months has been a restaurant called Hakata Tonton, where 33 of the 39 dishes contain pigs' feet. According to owner Himi Okajima, the reason for all the hog hocks is that they are rich in collagen, the protein responsible for skin and muscle tone, and recognizable to beauty addicts in the form of face creams and fillers. Okajima, who already owns a chain of restaurants in Japan specializing in collagen cuisine, says collagen helps the body retain moisture. He claims your hair and skin will look better and, if you begin eating collagen in your thirties, you will look younger in your forties, and beyond.

Not all nutrition experts agree with Mr. Okajima, but there is one silver lining to his entire plan. Anyone who eats pigs’ feet as a way to bone up on collagen and retain their youth can, literally, be called pigface. It would be worth a trip to New York just to stand outside Hakata Tonton and ask everyone “Did you enjoy your supper... pigface?”

Of course, eating the right foods, in the right way, is still the simplest, long-term way to remain looking and feeling younger. You might say grandma was right all along, that you are what you eat. Although we can't turn back the clock when it comes to aging, we can slow things down. In order to keep your cells in good condition, eat fruit and vegetables that contain vital anti-oxidants like vitamins A, C, E and zinc.

Maple syrup contains everything the body needs to sustain itself, except vitamin C, and an apple a day still gives you plenty of vitamin C, and fibre. The key is to remember that we are omnivores. Too much pig foot can be bad, but none at all is worse. Women tend to age more rapidly than men, because they don't eat enough protein. The body can't store protein, but needs it for cellular production and function, so the days you don't eat protein are the days you age. Think about that, pigface.

Some experts suggest up to 40 per cent of wrinkles are caused by sugar, which causes collagen to become stiff, and brings on wrinkles. It seems, if you want to keep the face of your youth, don’t stuff it with so much sugar. And don’t forget to enjoy a few hog trotters... pigface!

It was a three George weekend

2008-03-21T10:37:00.002-04:00

Without any real forethought on my part, I recently spent a weekend visiting three Georges in three days.

It all started with a stop to see George M, to return a roasting pan I had borrowed. It is a family heirloom, large enough to cook a 24-pound turkey every Christmas, and tough enough to dance a jig on. They don’t even make cars that tough anymore, let alone a lowly roasting pan. George M loves that roasting pan, and I can’t say as I blame him. If a cyclone ever hit the old farmhouse, the first thing I would crawl under is that old roasting pan. So, if you’re a bird at or under 24 pounds, watch out for George; because he will cook you and feed you to his family, with great gravy and little or no remorse.

Further on down the road, George P was having a birthday, three days before mine. He’s a fair shot older than me, but I wouldn’t remind him of it, unless you want a shot to the jaw. Sharing a birthday is a perfect excuse to get together for a drink, and it’s always an interesting visit with George P and his younger brother; who plays an old Gibson guitar and tries to sell new Harley Davidsons. He is much better at writing songs than selling Harleys, but has the charm to tackle both. The brothers often get together with Jim and Moe, who live a few doors down, and spend the bulk of their days sitting at a picnic table on the slim chance it is lighter than air and might float away. One used to be a bouncer and a cabbie, and the other is a dead ringer for Archie Bunker. Jim and Moe are old friends, and usually have about a dozen cigarettes, and half as many teeth, between them. All four like to play cards, and tell stories, and smoke until their eyes bleed. It would be quite a sight, if you could see through all the smoke.

From there, I met up with George F, who was marrying the woman he loves; which, if you think you need to get married, is an excellent place to start. George F is a great guy too; full of life, or beer, or a combination of both. He also makes a killer pot of baked beans, which fills everyone up with something else. He invited his closest friends and family to the wedding, opened the bar, and let the laughter and love come rushing in. The meal was exquisite, and lasted longer than some marriages.

George P and George F both live in Windsor, or ‘Sor as some of the locals call it. Parts of that town are still an open ‘Sor, but a lot are closed now, such as the places that used to make cars. I feel sorry for our border towns, where manufacturing jobs have dried up and died, and taken a good chunk of the city’s vitality with them.

What these towns need is a whole new attitude, and I would start by electing George and George and George to the ‘Sor city council and let them try and right the ship. George P could put people to work rolling cigarettes, while George F could take all the contraband collected at the bridge and sell it in stores at a reduced rate. George M could then take the surplus and buy roasting pans and turkeys for all the out of work auto makers.

I haven’t mentioned all this to the Georges, but I might, as soon as I get back down that road for a weekend.

Storm days need not be snow days

2008-03-14T13:37:00.002-04:00

March 14th, 2008

Imagine another typical winter morning, a morning where blinding snow is whipped into a frenzy by howling winds, where visibility is limited, safe travel is unlikely, schools are closed, and no buses are running. It is a snow day—but it is anything but typical.

There was a time, before this age of safety first, when responsibility’s ugly cousin liability didn’t reek like wet boots over everything we see and do. Snow days used to be reserved for the worst of storms, when the roads, the ditches and the fields all looked the same. White. Today we err on the side of caution, and hold children home from school at the slightest sign of a storm. It doesn’t even have to be a storm anymore. Since the new year began, local students have enjoyed a day away from their desks for a snow day, an ice day, even a fog day. What students were doing home last Wednesday is anyone’s guess. Perhaps, with all that sunlight and bright blue sky, children were in danger of snow blindness. It is not the first time buses have been cancelled on a marginal storm day, and it certainly won’t be the last.

The problem is obvious. The people in charge of school cancellations are getting up way too early to make sensible decisions. Snow day storms often level off by midday. If everyone was encouraged to sleep in, weather wouldn’t be nearly as bad, and the world would run a little better. If the school day started at noon, students and teachers could get to class more often. Kids could sleep half the day away, which is something they might enjoy anyway; and working parents would no longer have to scramble to get supper ready, because school would get out at six. Of course, this is only a partial solution to the problem.

For the benefit of all young people, I assembled a top research team, and determined there are far more winter storms in the months of January and February in Canada than occur in July and August. Take a look at the data. It speaks for itself. You couldn’t make it up if you tried.

As snow days begin to pile up, students run the risk of falling behind due to missed time. This would not happen if classes were held in the summer, and “summer vacation” stretched from Christmas through to March break. Imagine how happy our young people would be if they were home all winter, eating junk food and playing video games, which is something they might enjoy anyway. Their days would be free for such old-time favourites as ice fishing, snow shoveling, icicle tasting and flagpole licking. Conversely, classes all summer would get them out of such arduous tasks as mowing the lawn, taking the dog for a run, or swimming in the pool.

Just think of how happy children would be every July, staring out the classroom window at sun-dappled fields, knowing the weather was not going to hinder them from receiving an education. Sure, there is always the risk of a storm in August, but only the tallest kids would have to worry about being hit by lightning, which is something they might enjoy anyway. Whatever the solution, we recognize that this is Canada, and snow days are a part—a big part—of our lives.

A blues man, jazz wizard and inspiration

2008-03-07T01:54:00.003-05:00

“Steady and strong I still hold on, waiting for my chance to come.” - from the song Someday, Someway off the Jeff Healey Band 1988 debut album See the Light.

If life gives you lemons, make lemonade—and if life gives you the blues, make music. Jeff Healey, one of the finest and most distinctive guitar players this country has ever produced, died on Sunday after a lengthy struggle with cancer. He was 41.

Life was never easy for Healey, and he was handed a hard dose of lemons at an early age. Robbed of his sight as a baby due to a rare form of cancer, he started playing the guitar at age three. Due to his small size, he held the instrument across his lap, and forged a trademark playing style that continued throughout his musical career. What the young man lacked in eyesight (his eyes had to be surgically removed, and he was given artificial replacements) Healey more than made up for in musical skill. Rather than cry the blues and shut himself off from the world, he became a performer.

His band’s debut See the Light was an instant success and Grammy nominee. Audiences couldn’t get enough of the guitar virtuoso. Often quiet and reserved away from the stage, he liked to close his concerts by leaping out of his chair, jumping up and down, and searing the room with an energy and talent that few performers would attempt, let alone equal. He landed a supporting and memorable role in the movie Road House, and earned a Juno Award in 1990 as Entertainer of the Year. As the ‘90s progressed, so did Healey’s music, and he turned to his real love, classic jazz from the 1920s, ‘30s and ‘40s. He hosted a radio jazz program, and was known for playing rarities from his personal collection of more than 30,000 vintage 78-rpm records. In recent years, Jeff Healey’s Jazz Wizards saw the versatile musician regularly play acoustic guitar and trumpet on Saturday afternoons at his music-based club Healey’s, situated in Toronto. He eventually moved on to a larger location, and named it Jeff Healey's Roadhouse.

Early last year, Healey underwent surgery to remove cancerous tissue from his legs, and later from both lungs. Despite the disease, he continued to tour the country. Jeff Healey’s Jazz Wizards played The Old Roxy not so long ago, and he joked during the show that he had never seen a finer theatre.

I even had the good luck to sit in on drums, when a local band opened for Jeff Healey a couple years earlier, at a show in the community centre. It was a far cry from a sold out 70,000 seat arena, but Healey didn’t care. He played with his usual fire and flair, and was nothing but a professional and a gentleman. With a new blues rock album, Mess of Blues, set to hit the shelves this spring, it is clear that Healey’s work and music was by no means done. He lived for the music.

Ultimately, Jeff Healey lived life the way it should be lived, never losing his sense of humour or his musical playfulness. Whether he was playing the blues, blowing jazz on his trumpet, tending bar, or talking with his many fans, he was always steady and strong—and an true inspiration.

Don’t begrudge the nuts you get

2008-02-28T11:42:00.002-05:00

February 27th, 2008

It isn’t every day you see someone ask for free nuts. And get them. Making his way home on Family Day, a man found himself in a restaurant that sells a lot of ice cream. Having just eaten a sandwich, he was looking for something to wash away a lingering taste of olives; which, from the looks of things, was the closest he had been to a vegetable in weeks.

So, he ordered a hot fudge sundae. When the person taking the order asked if that would be all, he said “Not unless you feel like sprinkling some nuts on top of that syrup.” Once again, he had vegetables on his mind, and nuts certainly qualify. To a man like that, there really are only three food groups—animal, vegetable, and mineral—and if you get a mix of all three on a regular basis, you will live a long and healthy life. The employee understood this man somehow and, impressed with his good manners and jovial nature, asked what kind of nuts he would like. He enquired as to his choices, and she rhymed off about three or four varieties of peanut, with enticing names like Spanish and Jumbo. When she moved on to the pecans, the man stopped her in her tracks. “Hold your horses right there,” he said, “because pecans it is.”

Pecans, however, it wasn’t. Two spoonfuls into that sundae, he laughed and said: “These are clearly walnuts.” “What?” was the incredulous response. “Walnuts. There are walnuts in this sundae, not pecans. The management must be informed of this hoodwink.” No one uses a word like hoodwink anymore, and it was a good choice, given the circumstances. Without a hint of embarrassment, the employee said she couldn’t really tell the difference, on account of her allergies. She explained that she was terribly allergic to nuts, and didn’t like to get too close to them, if possible. The man understood.

Anyone who spends a lifetime avoiding nuts probably wouldn’t know a walnut from a pecan, kind of like the person allergic to seafood who can’t tell the difference between a lobster and a crab. He decided, after putting this innocent person in peril over a simple hot fudge sundae, that his walnuts would certainly do. They were actually pretty good walnuts, he assured her; not at all like the bitter and neglected ones you often find at the bottom of the mixed nut bowl at Christmas time. He thanked her gratefully, and decided the moral of the story, if there was one at all, is to never begrudge the nuts you get.

With the amount of food allergies cropping up these days, people who love a vegetable with their ice cream may one day find it hard to get any nuts at all. The secret is to avoid white ice cream, and go for the ones with plenty of added colouring. A number of the dyes poured into ice cream these days are vegetable based and, for my money, that counts as a serving of vegetables. Find an ice cream with a dairy ingredient or two, and you’ll have a serving from the animal food group as well. Yes, eating a balanced diet is easier than you think, and healthy food choices don’t have to drive a person nuts.

There’s nothing like a bag of nails

2008-02-21T00:20:00.002-05:00

February 20th, 2008

One of these days, before too much longer, I’m going downtown to buy a bag of nails. There really is nothing in this world quite like a little paper bag filled with a few nails, and I’ll miss it when it’s gone. When MacDonald’s Home Hardware clears out some shelves next month, a bit of history will disappear with them.

We live in an age where packaging is everything. It’s not about what you sell, but how you sell it; and it is getting harder and harder to find anyone who will sell “some” of anything. A few still do, and I appreciate that.

I appreciate being able to go into a store on main street that sells lengths of chain. When they ask how much chain you need, and you say enough to fit around my neck, and they say chain for the neck is it? getting married? you say no, it’s for a costume, and all I need is some to do the job.

I appreciate being able to go into a store on main street that sells tubs of sugar. When they ask how much sugar you need, and you say about ten pounds or so, and they say ten pounds is it? baking pies? you say no, it’s for an apple cider recipe, and all I need is some to do the job.

I appreciate being able to go into a store on main street that sells bowls of meat. When they ask how much meat you need, and you say about the size of your fist or so, and they say deli mix is it? early lunch? you say no, it’s more like a late breakfast, and all I need is some to do the job.

I appreciate being able to go into a store on main street that sells pieces of fabric. When they ask how much fabric you need, and you say about the size of a pocket or so, and they say fat quarter is it? going quilting? you say no, it’s to put patches on the patches of my old blue jeans. Well, they used to be blue, and they used to be new, and they used to clean, and all I need is some to do the job.

I appreciate being able to go into an establishment on main street that sells cold beer. When they ask how much beer you need, and you say enough to quench a powerful thirst, and they say pitcher of draft is it? late breakfast? you say no, it’s more like an early lunch, and it’s twelve o’clock somewhere, and all I need is some to do the job.

Basically, I can appreciate any place that doesn’t feel the need to wrap everything up in a pretty little package. There has been a push in various circles lately to ban plastic bags, to keep them out of landfills, and make the world a cleaner place.

India, for example, has started to seriously crack down on its use of plastic bags. It seems that cows, which are sacred there and free to wander anywhere they like, have been strolling into landfills and munching on plastic; and there is nothing sacred about a cow with 50 kilograms of plastic clogging its digestion. Plastic bags are only one small part of a larger problem, but it certainly couldn’t hurt if we also tried to cut down on the dizzying amounts of packaging we cram into them.

One little bag of nails is not going to solve the world’s waste management problems, but it is going to fix my squeaky floorboards and loose pieces of trim—and I won’t need 100 or 500 or 5,000, or the packaging that a handful of nails now comes in. All I need is some to do the job.

Just slip out the back, Jack

2008-02-13T14:47:00.002-05:00

Ah, St. Valentine’s Day. Can’t you just feel the love. It is that one day out of 366 that love reigns supreme; a day reserved for flowers, candy, lipstick and lingerie; for telling your true love your true feelings; for looking deep into their eyes and wondering what on earth you were thinking when you agreed to get married in the first place. Could you really have been that happy, or that drunk?

Yes, true love is hard to find; and when you get it, you want to hold on tight and never let it go. People fall in love for all sorts of reasons. Finding a soul mate, that person who truly understands you, who has seen the real you and loves you anyway, seems reason enough. Finding a girl with a boat and motor, or a really hot sister, may not be a good reason, but could still work. You never know. In case it doesn’t, and you find yourself falling out of love as hard as you fell in, take heart.

There must be 50 ways to leave your lover. Paul Simon said you can slip out the back Jack, make a new plan Stan, hop on the bus Gus, or drop off the key Lee, to set yourself free. Just don’t do it on Valentine’s Day. That would be really mean. If you find you are yearning for the single life this week, instead of a single red rose, there are ways to soften the blow as you drop off the key and set yourself free. Just be prepared to protect your plums when the apple of your eye doesn’t see things quite the same way as you do. For starters, head on down to your library or bookstore, and pick up one of those Change Your Identity Overnight books. Freedom could be as simple as a new hairstyle or a clean shirt. You could go all the way and send your personal banking information to a rich prince in Nigeria who will assume your identity and spend your life savings. You could always tell your partner that you are going to spend every weekend from now on visiting your parents, or that her parents and their sweater-wearing dog will be moving in by the end of the week. That, of course, is a lie; but you are already very good at lying, and have been ever since you said the dog looked cute in his little sweater.

Open every conversation with “We have to talk...” and finish with a heavy sigh and something like “Relationships take work...” or “Sometimes change is a good thing...” Stop washing, and that includes the dishes, the dog, and the laundry. After a couple weeks the flies buzzing around the room should drown out her favourite television shows. Tell her you are making the world a better place by conserving water, and then wash your car or truck at least three times a week. Begin an aggressive new composting program by vomiting in the backyard every time you come home drunk, which should be more than three times a week, assuming you want to achieve the full effect. Every time you go out and see someone worse off than you, tell her how much you envy the guy. When you meet a former partner, tell her how good that person looks, and then drift off like you are fondly remembering the past.

Either way, it’s going to take work, and no one said it will be easy. Come to think of it, flowers and candy may not be such a bad idea after all. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Balancing a tea cup on an onion

2008-02-06T14:49:00.000-05:00

February 6th, 2008

Back when I was a freckle-faced scamp, and winter’s winds whipped the snow into a frenzy, Mom would make sure I never went outside without a hat on my head. I didn’t really need one, I argued, because Dad used to cut our hair with a steak knife and a bit always fell over my ears; but Mom wouldn’t listen. She was our wind chill warning before the world had ever heard of such a thing. I didn’t want to wear a hat then—and I still don’t. Some people just don’t have the head for a hat, unless they start making them out of hollowed-out pumpkins.

Hats have been around for a very long time, and it is impossible to say when the first small animal was pulled over a head as protection against the elements. I can just picture a mother tugging a rabbit over little Og’s head as he left his cave, trying to escape his neanderthal dad and another haircut with those savage stone hand tools. One of the first hats to be depicted in artwork was found in an Egyptian tomb, and shows a man wearing a straw hat. It is a coolie-style hat, a lot like a lampshade, common in places where people want to avoid the sun. Since its invention, the hat has come and gone as status symbol and fashion statement.

Today, the most popular hat in western culture, as well as Japan, is the baseball cap. Experts estimate the average North American owns more baseball caps than clean underwear. In fact, if you were to place all the ball caps in Canada in a straight line, you would be working for the government. In 1860, a team known as the Brooklyn Excelsiors wore the ancestor of the modern, rounded-top baseball cap. The style was functional and fashionable, and surged in popularity. In the 1940s, latex rubber was used to stiffen the inside of the hat, and the modern baseball cap was born. Still, there are those of us who can not comfortably wear a ball cap.

I know a good natured and rotund fellow named Red, whose head is useless for hat wearing. You could slip a large bowl over his melon, and not find a gap wide enough to wedge a playing card in. He doesn’t even leave his house around Hallowe’en, in fear that all the kids are carving him hat-o-lanterns. Putting a hat on Red’s head is like trying to balance a tea cup on an onion. A person could easily feel sorry for Red, but he made out okay. He met a girl on the internet, married her, and now spends his days in love, hand-in-hand, looking for that perfect pumpkin to hollow out for special occasions. Just about the only hat we the cranially-challenged can get away with wearing is the tuque, generally considered Canada's national winter hat, like the fur hat in Russia.

Countless Canadians have worn a tuque for protection from the cold, but it hasn’t really caught on as a fashion statement with the rich and powerful. The most famous tuque wearers, all leaders in their fields, include marine scientist Jacques Cousteau, movie stars Bob and Doug McKenzie, and Mike Nesmith of the Monkees. U2 guitarist The Edge is also a tuque fan, but he’s no Mike Nesmith. Monkee business aside, I’m glad I have a tuque to wear when I leave my cave. It still beats one of Dad’s haircuts.

Next time you throw a train...

2008-02-04T22:01:00.000-05:00

January 30th, 2008

During the summer of 1970, a series of music festivals took place across Canada. Following the first concert in Toronto, the musicians and their assorted friends and roadies (or was it railies?) traveled by private train to the remaining festivals in Winnipeg and Calgary. They played, partied and boozed it up every mile of the way and, at the end of the line, headliner Janis Joplin and festival organizer Ken Walker exchanged a case of tequila and a quart of Southern Comfort, prompting Janis to exclaim: “Next time you throw a train, invite me, man.”

While certainly not to that bold or bleary-eyed extent, that is how I felt recently when I had the good fortune to join three siblings in a living room as they unearthed their old model train set. I don’t know very much about model trains, only that this one was a Williams relic, and had more metal parts in it than the car in my driveway.

The fun began innocently enough, just as it did so many years ago, with one engine turning a simple oval. That just wouldn’t do, just as it didn’t years ago, and it wasn’t until we raised the corners that the engine hit its top speed. Before long, the train was smashing into a Matchbox tanker truck filled with toxic chemicals, knocking over a plastic grizzly that was clearly rabid and enraged, and toppling a line of toy superheroes stacked up like dominoes. There was even a rock slide of genuine pieces of the Berlin Wall, brought home from a recent tour of Europe. It was obvious the engineer was asleep, drunk, or both, and would soon be looking for another line of work.

In order to properly elevate the corner under the coffee table, and the newly-christened Dead Man’s Curve after the straightaway, a number of old VHS tapes stepped in as building blocks. The faces of the stars on the boxes were like giant billboards for the disaster area in the middle of the track that was once a quiet little railroad town. The action escalated quickly, until it reached a point where the engine began pouring plumes of white smoke thick enough to set off the smoke detector. When the power supply gave up, the train stayed on schedule with a motorcycle battery hauled in from the garage, a few feet of heavy wire, and a light touch on the controls. The boost in power really got things moving.

Someone came up with the idea to add a jump in the tracks, a rare feat for any train, and soon the engine was sailing through the air like Sandra and Keanu and the bus from Speed. For the grand finale, our brave conductor fashioned a flaming hoop out of toilet paper and a coat hanger, and ploughed his locomotive through a deadly ring of fire. Not even the resident hobo and his toy farm animals remained on board for this ultimate spectacle of daring. None of us could remember the smoke detector sounding off so much when we were kids, probably because we didn’t have one, or more likely because Mom would have stepped in well before that point with a wooden spoon and a smack behind the ear, and opened a window or two.

In the end, it was a night of smiles and memories. I just hope the next time they throw a train, they invite me, man.

Cuba can be an intoxicating place

2008-01-24T12:07:00.000-05:00

January 23rd, 2008

Cuba can be an intoxicating place at times, and it isn’t merely the island’s seemingly endless supply of rum. The Republic of Cuba is the largest of the Caribbean tropical holiday islands, and its warm people, culture and customs draw from various sources. Tourism recently surpassed sugar as the country’s main source of income, and today the island attracts a staggering bouquet of people, from a lot more countries than you might think.

Thanks to a political grudge match that is now decades old, the island is still bereft of Americans, which in some small way puts everyone there at ease. It makes the island rather special, as if its visitors share a common bond. People who travel to Cuba go there to make friends, and some of those friendships can last for years. They use words like please, thank you, hello, good night, beer and tomorrow a lot; which gives everyone a sense that, if you stick to that short list, tomorrow can be a better day.

Probably the prettiest Cuban girl I met was Dixandra; the one with the engaging smile and sparkling black eyes, who opened up The Beer Corner each evening. She was the most fun to talk to as well, but no one ever sat too long at Beer Corner. It was just a stop at the crossroads, where people met on the way to someplace else. A little man from Falkirk was one of her best customers, and he liked to sit in her shade, listen to the radio, and read his book. He agreed with me entirely that Keith Moon was the greatest of all the rock drummers, and more than a little mad, as he put it. I decided he knew what he was talking about, after someone pulled the happy Scot from the pool during one of his nightly stumbles back to his room. The guy who moved the most water out of the pool was an intimidating and gentle natured hulk from Colchester, who was there to escape the fog so common to his English home. You picked up his hame immediately, after spotting the tattoo “Tubby” sprawled across his ample back. Particularly intriguing was the auctioneer from Calgary, who started every one of his conversations with a magic trick, moved on to hockey, then to golf, and finally launched into betty’s bitter brick of butter. It was as if he was using his visit to Cuba as a dress rehearsal for something. It was fun trying to talk with a woman who was taking a break from her grocery store in the hills near Labrador; where she makes her own soups, stews, salads and sauces. I was instantly aware of just how much high school French I had forgotten; but I didn’t feel too bad, because the folks from France couldn’t understand her either.

There were people there from near where you live, and people from where you used to live too. When they all get talking, you realize we are more connected than we think. The food and drink is just as diverse, and the staff gets in a hurry for no one; likely due to the heat, which does tend to relax a person. If you venture from town to town on the island, you can find a lot of different people, at a lot of different beer corners, each with their own charm. Cuba’s laid back paces, friendly faces and bare-bones lifestyle is indeed intoxicating—and yes, so is all that rum.

Climbing up the spout again

2008-01-21T12:40:00.000-05:00

January 16th, 2008

The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the waterspout. Down came the rain and washed the spider out. Out came the sun and dried up all the rain, and The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spout again.

Last week’s warm spell had me humming that old rhyme, and smiling, because it suddenly dawned on me that a January thaw essentially cuts the winter in half. When it began raining last week, it was like a halftime show at the big game, even if no one had their nipples out like Janet Jackson tried a couple years ago at the Super Bowl.

The rain gave everyone a chance to stretch, shake out any lingering holiday kinks, and reset the thermostat. A good thaw is a lot like starting winter all over again, except the sun is a little warmer, and the end is just a little closer. Spring seems that much more attainable once all the snow disappears, even if it is only for a few days. Rain also tends to wash things off, and gives everything that little extra shine.

In the old days, January was the time of year you could really use a good bath anyway, so don’t be too quick to complain about a winter shower. I happen to love it when the weather changes. It’s been said that if you live one full year in southern Ontario, you will experience every kind of weather there is at least once; which sounds pretty good to me, because there is nothing like a change in scenery to fill the senses and stir the soul.

Anyone who says they wish it was sunny and warm every day should probably just stay inside, preferably in one of those rooms like in the movie Scarface, where the wallpaper looks like a sunset over a tropical paradise. Spend enough time in a room like that, and you’re sure to go a little crazy, kind of like in that movie Scarface. They were all a little nuts in that one, although it may have had more to do with the cocaine than the constant sunshine. Come to think of it, that movie was about Cuba as much as anything, and everyone knows it is sunny and warm every day on Fidel’s happy island. The earth is closer to the sun down there, and it has a way of scorching reality like butter turning black in a frying pan too long in the fire.

In the space of one week, we had snow, fog, rain, wind and sun. It was hot and cold. It was the reality of Ontario. We really do have it made right here. I’ll take the snow, rain, sun and a flooded basement in January any day, because, before you know it, spring will be here and all the itsy bitsy spiders can start climbing the waterspouts again. It probably can’t hurt to be a little more like a spider this winter anyway. They are nothing if not persistent. I’ve tried training the ones in my basement to shovel snow, but they refuse to get the hang of it, and persist in spinning two cobwebs for every one I make the mistake of removing.

Luckily for me, and the web spinners union Local 101, I don’t really mind shoveling snow. My old man used to hate it, and grumbled every time he saw snowflakes start to fall, until I bought him the flamethrower. If melting snow with a flamethrower isn’t illegal in this country, it should be. That’s why last week’s thaw was such a treat. No one wants to shovel snow, when they can simply watch it melt.

Bigger fingers and smaller buttons

2008-01-04T16:16:00.000-05:00

January 2nd, 2008

I have only one new year’s resolution to make for 2008, and it is to not let my fingers get any larger. Increasing or decreasing digit size usually requires something drastic, so I figure this is finally going to be a resolution I can keep.

Basically, I can’t afford to let my fingers get bigger, because buttons keep getting smaller. There was a time when electronics had knobs large enough to hang your clothes on, and a telephone was so imposing you could dial it with your big toe if you had to. Now gadgets, keypads and controls come with such tiny buttons that a ham-handed lump such as myself has no hope of using them for anything other than mashing. It’s as if the heavy-handed are being discriminated against. Using scissors was difficult enough, but we the pickle-fingered managed to adapt in society.

There is no way a person who can’t even pick a dime up off a table is ever going to function in the future if machines and their buttons continue to get smaller and smaller. Forget cell phones, tiny cameras or text messaging. I’ll be lucky to operate a remote control in the coming year. We are in the middle of a cruel cycle right now, where portion sizes keep increasing, and our favourite toys keep getting smaller.

Not even Jules Verne could have predicted that hamburgers would be larger than telephones. It’s a vicious circle, but one I am forcing myself to live with; because, let’s face it, who doesn’t love a big hamburger. I had a car in high school that fit an entire case of beer under the hood.

Today, I could duct tape four empty cases together and park my car inside it as a garage. With every passing year, I keep getting bigger while everything around me continues to shrink. Experts call this progress. Not only is every hand-held device getting smaller, but they are getting more complex as well. Lured in by words such as “upgrade” and “enhancement,” we are being forced to learn and relearn complicated routines, just to do the little things that used to take no effort at all.

It hardly seems like progress when the devices invented to make lives simpler, actually make it more frustrating. Someone needs to sit down with the queen nerd in the great nerd hive, and rethink the direction we are taking. The way all these electronic gadgets capture, record and transmit information, it won’t be long before everyone will be able to buy and install a back-up brain, capable of storing all the day-to-day information they need to know. It will hold the phone numbers and pictures of everyone I know, update my bank balance and air miles, and tell me what my favourite song or colour is. It will buy my gas and groceries, and leave my real brain wiped clean for such important tasks as trying to pick the next American Idol.

No doubt, some soft-skinned techo-wizard is holed up inside your nearest nerdery right now, working like mad to be the lucky genius who produces the first voice-activated back-up brain to fit directly inside the human ear. It will probably be annoying at first, but I can’t stick my big, fat fingers in my ears right now as it is, so why worry. With a bit of luck and hard work, I will adapt. Again.

Get back on your bike, tubby

2007-12-20T14:25:00.000-05:00

December 19th, 2007

Childhood obesity. Everyone seems to be talking about it, but no one really seems to be doing anything; except that red and yellow fast food joint whose clown lures fat kids in by the billions, and recommends they try a salad. That is what they are going for isn’t it? Perhaps not. And that’s why we have the Fisher-Price Smart Cycle.

Fisher-Price is one of the world’s leading toy makers for preschoolers, and has stumbled onto something many people are saying is long overdue for every lard lad and gooey girlie who is laid out staring at the television all day with sugar-coated eyes and chocolate milk breath. What the Smart Cycle boils down to is a television based interactive electronic entertainment system. More than a game where players break a sweat trying to golf or roll a few gutter balls, the Smart Cycle does make children exercise, and in an educational and fun way to boot. The basic machine is a stationary bicycle meant for preschoolers that plugs directly into your television, and brings up a game called Learning Adventure that features driving, learning arcade games and The Big Race. As the name suggests, the driving mode allows a child to pedal through various environments, while picking up interesting tidbits of information along the way. The learning games are actual educational arcade games in which kids use a joystick to play and learn about letters, numbers and shapes.

The Big Race is the most fun of all, with a fast paced race against a friend or other vehicles on the screen. It would seem sensible to pry youngsters away from the television and have them running and playing outside, but this just isn’t possible for some people; and there are always going to be those kids who wouldn’t go outside even if they lived on a houseboat and their pants were on fire. If obesity in our society really is such a problem, why stop at a Smart Cycle for preschoolers. The concept should be extended to all corners of our gadget universe.

Imagine if every young person who sticks a cell phone in their ear had to charge its battery while riding a bicycle. Most seem perfectly capable of walking while talking on the phone, so why couldn’t the motion be used to power all their little phones, music players and digital cameras. Bicycle-powered televisions, DVD players, hair dryers, and chat rooms might even work; but why pick on our young people.

Obesity is an ugly cousin that visits most of us at some point, although I didn’t really begin to swell up until Mr. Molson and Mr. Labatt lured me and my friends in by the billions, and recommended we try a cold one. I would even volunteer to test the new Panasonic Smart Cycle microwave oven, provided it came with a healthy supply of popcorn, pizza pops or pork chops.

What a world it would be if the fatter you ate, the fitter you got. Before long we would be watching each other on bicycle-powered satellite TVs, winning gold medals at the Olympics. On second thought, that probably wouldn’t work, and the level of obesity in children is not going to melt away. Still, Fisher-Price's Smart Cycle, poised to be the next big thing in the toy world this year, is a healthy start.

The daredevil who refused to die

2007-12-10T18:02:00.000-05:00

December 5th, 2007

“If it is possible, it is done. If it is impossible, it will be done — and that is what I live by. The only thing that can get in my way is fear, and fear is not a word in my vocabulary.” — Robert Craig “Evel” Knievel

It isn’t every day one of your childhood heroes dies. And no, I’m not talking about the urban peasant James Barber; although he was an interesting old fart, who knew his way around a kitchen, and was actually pretty entertaining on his daytime cooking show, in odd sort of uncle who always gets talking and burns supper kind of way. My hero was Evel Knievel, and he died on Friday at age 69, after fighting a three-year battle with lung disease.

Growing up with two brothers, I led an active life, full of bumps, scrapes, stunts and scabs. We managed to climb on, jump off, and basically destroy every nice thing my mother ever owned. We had a steep driveway, and raced down it on a regular basis atop toy trucks, go karts and, in the winter, anything that would slide at top speed. For all the trees we fell out of, bicycles we jumped, forts we built, and races we ran, none of us ever came home with broken bones. Mom did buy a lot of milk back then.

What made Evel Knievel my number one hero was how he could turn thrills into disaster, break more bones than I thought a body had, and come roaring back for more. His courage was unmatched, and his only enemy was fear. One of his first stunts was to “pop a wheelie” with an earth mover, while working at a mine near his home in Montana. He was fired when one of his wheelies knocked out the town’s main power line. To make ends meet in those lean, early days, Knievel was a struggling rodeo rider, ski jumper, pole vaulter, hockey player, burglar, insurance salesman (who sold several policies to mental patients) and a hunt guide who guaranteed success by taking his clients hunting in Yellowstone National Park. Finally finding his calling as a stunt rider, he began by jumping rattlesnakes and mountain lions. He soon graduated to cars and trucks, and started breaking bones. One of his first mishaps came while trying to jump over a speeding motorcycle. He jumped late, got smashed in the groin by the handlebars, and was thrown 15 feet in the air.

Knievel still holds a world record for 40 broken bones. In the end, the world’s greatest daredevil fought through 40 years of constant pain for all those broken bones, plus the trauma from some of the most spectacular crashes a human body has ever endured. In addition to his numerous surgeries, Evel also overcame the obstacles of diabetes, hepatitis, a liver transplant and two strokes.

For a while there, I was convinced he couldn’t die. Although he certainly should have. His 1967 jump at Caeser’s Palace in Las Vegas is legendary, and still difficult to watch as his body crumples inside his leather suit, leaving him in a coma for 29 days. Only four months later he was at it again, breaking a leg trying to clear 15 Ford Mustangs. The man lived hard, and fought hard to live.

Evel Knievel called himself the last of the gladiators. And that’s how I’m going to remember him.

Tough times don’t last, but tough fans do

2007-11-29T17:24:00.000-05:00

November 28th, 2007

The Canadian Football League’s Grey Cup game brings our fine country together like no other sporting event. Hockey has the Stanley Cup to galvanize the nation each spring, but the CFL is the one game and professional sport, with the possible exception of lacrosse, that is truly our own. It fosters a sense of regional pride like no other league in professional sports in this country.

This year’s Grey Cup game was especially endearing, because the two combatants represented the capital cities of our prairie provinces, places that are well away from the spotlight and have woefully little else to cheer about, unless you count potash, wheat and mind-numbing cold. It was refreshing to see the Saskatchewan Roughriders outlast the Winnipeg Blue Bombers in this the 95th Grey Cup, and tear the spotlight, even for one fleeting Sunday, away from the usual Canadian supercities of Vancouver, Montreal and Toronto, who all compete for the right to be gazed upon and admired as the centre of the universe. Regina and Winnipeg are not hip, or cool, or known as the places to be in Canada; but they do love their CFL.

The first time I ever visited Regina, I found myself in a downtown bar on an average Tuesday night, drinking an average beer called Pilsner. You know, the one with the cheap red and green label with the chuckwagon on it. It was the kind of bar where the jukebox was still three plays for a quarter, and a game of pool still cost 50 cents.

The man next to me was clearly a regular, and making regular trips to the bathroom. Without too much work, we were both outnumbered about six to one by bottles with red and green labels, and the talk fell easily to the CFL. It was 1995, and the Grey Cup was in Regina that year. Rider pride was hitting its stride, and the town was gearing up for a party that would be the envy of the entire country. What struck me was not the man’s civic pride, not the memorabilia dotting the walls, but the fact that CFL football was the only topic of conversation the entire night.

Happily isolated from Canada’s cultural corners, prairie towns love their football teams in a way few other cities can understand. When your jukebox only has one record in it, you might as well learn to love the song it plays. There is a saying on the prairies, that tough times don’t last, but tough people do. It might as well be the motto of the CFL fan the world over, because to love the Canadian game is to know hard times.

The game itself is a winter sport, with some of the most memorable matches played in muck, slime and snow. There have been playoff games in Regina where the wind chill clocked in at -35 Celsius. With no sugar coating life on the Canadian prairies, it is said the games to remember are played in November.

For this fan, Sunday’s dull game was still one to remember, where the middle of Canada got its day in the spotlight. As Saskatchewan won, they snapped a Grey Cup drought dating back to 1989. The only other time the Cup has gone to the Riders was 1966. It may be 20 years before they win it again, but who’s counting. The tough people will still be cheering. Suddenly, I wish I had a Pilsner.

Praise the lard... and Perk Rinds

2007-11-21T11:23:00.000-05:00

November 21st, 2007

There was a time, a time not too long ago, that lard was banished to the health food basement, somewhere between lead paint gravy and asbestos pancakes. Not anymore. Lard is back, and gaining momentum. Quite simply, lard is rendered and clarified pig fat. The best of it comes from around a pig’s kidneys, but most of what your grandmother put into her blue-ribbon pie crust was harvested from a pig’s back; which means lard is back in a somewhat literal sense as well.

Experts are beginning to tell us that lard is a healthier alternative to hydrogenated oil, and contains mostly unsaturated fat. It’s not as good for you as a glass of water and a jog around the block with a piano strapped to your back, but, as it turns out, lard isn’t all that bad after all. It certainly is your best friend in the pan when it comes to frying chicken or fish. Take a peek in any old cookbook, and see how often the author has you melting a little lard and adding a touch to your favourite recipe. You might be surprised, just as you might be surprised to learn that the lowly pork rind is enjoying a surge in popularity.

The pork rind, or pork crackling, is the fried skin of a pig, and more and more people these days are turning to pork rinds as their snack food of choice. And why not. There are more letters in the word polyunsaturated than you will find in the list of ingredients on a bag of pork rinds—pork, lard, salt—which, for my money, classifies them as health food.

Compare that list to the ingredients in a chocolate bar, frozen pizza or tub of ice cream, and decide for yourself what might be better for you. You can find pork rinds in just about every grocery store now, and at nearly every snack counter at a highway service station or rest stop. Most often, you will find them nestled beside the energy drinks, another product whose popularity has surged by leaps and bounds in recent years. The energy drink market has exploded, and there are more brands than you can shake a stick of butter at.

An awful lot of money is being made in drinks that can give you a kick in backside, and I have personally sucked down Accelerator, Battery, Crunk, Shark, Blue Ox, Venom, Red Devil, Whoop Ass and Pimpjuice, just to name a few. Most of them are loaded down with guarana, a stimulant similar to coffee that quickens perceptions, delays sleep, impairs appetite, aids endurance, increases the heart rate, and sends you more frequently to the toilet.

My dream is to market an energy pork rind. By adding one more simple ingredient, guarana, to the holy trinity of pork, lard, and salt, I hope to invent Perk Rinds, the world’s first snack food to perk you up as it porks you up. Had too much turkey and feel a little sluggish? Try a Perk Rind. Been on the road all night, and don’t feel like driving anymore? Grab some Perk Rinds and you’ll be on your way in no time. No time for a coffee and cigarette with your bacon and hangover? Well, start your day with Perk Rinds, and you’ll be ready to take on the world.

I would be happy to meet with anyone willing to invest in such a venture—just don’t forget to bring pork rinds.

The fabulous life of Moolah

2007-11-14T15:05:00.000-05:00

Wrestling fans were saddened the world over last week with the news that one of the all-time greats, the Fabulous Moolah, passed away at the ripe old age of 84. Although Moolah never reached the level of fame that the great showmen like Hulk Hogan and The Rock have enjoyed, she was a rare and precious gem in a world of men, maniacs and mayhem.

She was truly one of a kind. Moolah was well known as the first WWF women's champion. She held that title for an astonishing 28 years, a record for the longest title reign by an athlete in any professional sport, assuming wrestling counts. And it sure did for Moolah. Wrestling was her life.

Born Mary Lillian Ellison in 1923 in the small South Carolina community of Tookiedoo, she was the youngest of 13 siblings, and the sole girl. As if that wasn’t tough enough, she was only eight years old when her mother died. By age 10, Lillian was working on a cotton farm. Moolah’s dad tried his best to raise her, taking her to Tuesday night wrestling matches to cheer her up. It did, and she soon began to idolize champion Mildred Burke. After getting married at age 14 and giving birth to a daughter, Moolah ignored her dad’s pleas to stay home with the baby, and set out for a wrestling career of her own. By the late 1940s, she was wrestling for Mildred Burke’s husband Billy Wolfe, a top promoter of the day.

Moolah said she came up with her trademark name because she was in wrestling only for the money. By the early 1950s, she was a valet for "Nature Boy" Buddy Rogers, providing eye candy for the male audiences. The Fabulous Moolah won her first championship in 1956, and quickly established herself as the heir to Mildred Burke’s throne. Her first world title reign lasted over ten years, and she successfully defended the belt against the top female wrestlers in the world.

In 1972, she became the first woman to wrestle at Madison Square Garden. Thanks to her fame and engaging personality, Moolah managed to befriend some of the biggest celebrities of the day, including Elvis Presley and Jerry Lee Lewis.

She even dated country music legend Hank Williams for a year.

And then along came Vince McMahon, and the WWF. When Vince expanded his WWF nationally in the 1980s, Moolah was a big part of its early success. She became the first female wrestler to enter the WWF Hall of Fame, and appeared from time to time in comedic roles on WWF broadcasts even as she entered her eighties. Her last run with the world title came when she was 76 years old.

Throughout it all, Moolah never lost her passion for the business. She loved to tell tales of life on the road, operated her own wrestling school, and shared a house for more than 40 years with an adopted daughter, Diamond Lil, a midget wrestler she trained to wrestle when Lil was 17. There will always be those who deride wrestling as fake, foolish and cartoonish, but in the world of women’s wrestling, there will always be one irrefutable legend that stands head and shoulders above the rest. She was as unforgettable as she was fabulous. She was Moolah.

Fifty things to do with sour wine

2007-10-24T15:59:00.000-04:00

October 24th, 2007

The word vinegar comes from the Old French vin aigre, meaning “sour wine.” Vinegar itself comes from a fermentation of alcohol to produce its key ingredient, acetic acid. It has been used since ancient times, and is a valued addition to cuisines around the world.

Your grandmother probably used it to clean windows, or add a little zip to her cole slaw, but there is so much more vinegar can do.

Sprayed full strength on walks and driveways, vinegar will starve and kill grass and weeds, deter ants and keep cats away as well.

Sprinkle vinegar on any area you don't want the cat walking, sleeping, or scratching on; such as your favourite chair, or your side of your girlfriend’s bed.

It has been used to remove skunk smell from dogs, and can keep them from scratching their ears when applied with a clean, soft cloth.

A little vinegar in their drinking water can keep chickens from pecking each other.

A vinegar marinade will tenderize meat, and a good soak after adding a tablespoon to a bowl of water can freshen wilted vegetables.

Adding a splash to the water will keep eggs from cracking when you boil them.

It will soothe mosquito, bee and jellyfish stings, along with sunburn and dry, itchy skin.

If you suffer from all of the above, vinegar will probably come up short as a solution to your problems, but is still worth a try.

A touch of vinegar will remove sticky residue left by shampoo, and it has been used to fight dandruff as well.

Soak your daughter’s hair and clothes in vinegar before she goes on a date, and it will help you sleep at night.

For the handyman, vinegar will polish car chrome and is a moderately effective rust remover as well.

Medicinally, a brief gargle and swallow will soothe a sore throat. It offers relief for sinus infections and chest colds, and a teaspoon of cider vinegar in a glass of water, with a bit of honey added for flavor, will take the edge off your appetite and give you an overall healthy feeling.

Rub it on your fingers, and vinegar will remove onion and fruit stains. It cleans and deodorizes all sorts of kitchen areas, from cutting boards to sink drains, will clean your teapot or fridge, and cut grease in dishwater.

Pour it down a clogged drain with baking soda, and enjoy the show.

Soak a piece of bread in vinegar and let it sit, and it will freshen a lunchbox overnight. Use the bread for a big, soggy vinegar sandwich the next day, and no one will want to trade lunches with your child ever again.

Boiling a solution of a quarter cup of vinegar to one cup of water in a microwave will loosen splattered on food and deodorize it. The cat probably won’t go near it either.

A half cup in the rinse cycle will get rid of lint in clothes and brighten fabric colours. Immersing your clothes in full strength vinegar before washing will help hold the colours. You can even get the smoke smell out of clothes, by adding it to hot water and hanging the clothes above the steam.

Because I don’t have a cat, a lunchbox, or problem with jellyfish, I haven’t actually tried half of these helpful hints. I have found vinegar extremely useful, however, in keeping my Dad out of my french fries. He hates the sour wine.

Relax honey, it’s for the children

2007-10-17T16:11:00.000-04:00

October 17th, 2007

“Cigarette?” “No. No. I never touch them.” “Well, I suck ‘em down like Coca Cola. Here’s to feeling good all the time.” — Cosmo Kramer, from Seinfeld

If someone you love is thinking of quitting smoking, give them a helping hand, and buy them some cigarettes. Don’t buy just any old cigarettes, mind you. Buy your friend a bag of loose tobacco and some rolling papers. Buy them the kind of cigarettes you have to roll yourself. Given the choice between taking the easy way out, and actually working for something, just about everyone you know is going to prefer the lazy solution.

Smokers are no different. If all tobacco was the roll-your-own variety, a vast number of smokers would pass up a puff or two or ten, rather than go to the extra effort of rolling one up. If cigarettes weren’t so adorable and available, most smokers would probably give them up.

Although roll-your-own smokes would not stop everyone, it would certainly slow them down. Such a move, however, could enrage a few addicts—but there would be no real cause for alarm. The worst of the bunch would probably chase you for a block, block and a half at most, before stopping to lean against a post, suck down another dart, and curse all the pink-lunged health nuts passing them in the street.

Since such a complete shift in how our nicotine is delivered is most likely not going to happen, and smoking is not going to go away, we should make the system work for us.

We should be selling cigarettes as a fundraiser. Let’s say, just as a random example, that a town is building a new sports complex. If all the proceeds from the sale of tobacco in that town went directly into the building fund, the new arena would be paid for in no time. Smokers have had it bad lately, forced outside or into pens to enjoy their habit, yet fundraising makes everyone feel better.

The best part of the plan is the sense of accomplishment and community spirit every smoker would feel, knowing that with every puff of sweet, sweet smoke, they would be making their town a better place. Anytime a person heard “You really shouldn’t smoke so much, dear” they would be able to proudly say “Relax honey, it’s for the children.”

The same system could be set in motion if marijuana ever becomes legal, which may actually happen before the end of this century, or when the Toronto Maple Leafs win the Stanley Cup again. The odds are about even at this point, so there is no real cause for alarm just yet.

While the image of children going door-to-door selling pot and cigarettes isn’t exactly the look a responsible community might be going for, the idea behind the fundraiser is sound. As governments tighten their purse strings, the big dollars just aren’t there any more for small towns. Communities are being forced to look after their own infrastructure, and a few million here and there for a new arena, swimming pool, sewage treatment plant, downtown restoration, or hospital, is an awful lot to ask. It shouldn’t be so terrible, then, to ask for a new direction in revenue generation.

Just keep telling yourself, it’s for the children.

Play nice, or don’t play at all

2007-10-17T16:09:00.000-04:00

October 9th, 2007

Once upon a time there were two little boys. One of the boys, Little Johnny, liked to wear blue and talk about how people are different and should look after themselves. Little Johnny didn’t really get along with Little Dalton, who liked to wear red, and talk about how people should be equal and how things have to change. It seemed the two boys were always fighting.

They would often sit down together in the sandbox and argue. But not too often. There were plenty of days when they wouldn’t be seen at all, and a playground supervisor could swear they spent their time accomplishing nothing.

The sandbox was usually filled with other children too, those who liked to wear orange, and green, and all sorts of fancy colours; but they never seemed to be as popular as the two wearing all the red and blue, for some reason. Every once in a while, just to keep things exciting for everyone, the children in the sandbox would get together to try and determine who was the fairest of them all. The children didn’t have a magical mirror to look into, so they all washed their faces, smiled, and tried to talk it out.

Apparently, sensible talk doesn’t get you very far in a sandbox and, before long, the children were screaming and yelling and throwing dirt at each other. They probably would have started hair pulling too, but too many of the other children were watching them at this point.

So, they decided to employ more subtle tactics. Little Dalton began by talking about his popularity, about all the good things he has done, and how the world is a better place with him in it. This upset Little Johnny, and he quickly told everyone that Little Dalton doesn’t keep his promises, that he lies, and can not be trusted.

No one can keep all their promises, said Little Dalton, but with hard work and more time, things will get better. He said if Little Johnny was in charge of the sandbox, he would split it up, and half would have to pay to play there.

This upset the other children. The one in green stopped cleaning all the sand, the one in orange stopped dividing it equally into little piles, and the rest ran around without any real direction. Before long they were all shouting, saying terrible things, and hoping someone would start crying.

Whether or not they all lived happily ever after remains to be seen, but it doesn’t look too likely at this point. The problem with the sandbox is not the quality of the children playing in it, but the quality of their behaviour. Instead of shifting attention to how dirty one end of the sandbox is, the children should be spending their energy looking after the whole thing. If Little Dalton and Little Johnny spent as much energy on positive change as they did complaining, the sandbox would be a far better place. My teachers taught me that pointing out someone else’s faults does not erase your own shortcomings.

It is disappointing that any child, whatever colour they happen to be wearing, sinks so low as to only point out the negatives. Instead of allowing such behaviour, and rewarding it, we should start looking into the sandbox, right into those dirty little faces, and tell them all to clean up their act.

All show, and plenty of go

2007-09-26T09:44:00.000-04:00

September 26th, 2007

Football was a lot of fun on Sunday night, especially the Dallas game where the Cowboys made fools of the Chicago Bears by running up a 34-10 victory on the strength of three interceptions; which are always fun, unless your favourite player happens to be the one throwing them.

The best part of the show was Terrell Owens, the new poster boy for the “performer first, athlete second” plague that continues to infest professional sports. Terrell Owens is a talented, productive, outspoken and controversial wide receiver for the Dallas Cowboys, and has a real knack for letting his mouth, and flamboyant touchdown celebrations, get him into all sports of trouble.

You may remember Owens as the player who was fined one week’s pay—a tidy $24,000—for scoring a touchdown, pulling a black marker out of his sock, signing the football, and passing it into the stands to his financial adviser. He was also fined $7,500 for taunting an opposing coach by mimicking the motion of a movie camera; and used a towel as a waiter might, when he served a football to the opposition after scoring his 100th touchdown.

Whatever he has done, it is obvious the fines he pays aren’t making a lick of difference. And why should they. Pay a person millions of dollars to play a game, and you can expect them to toss a few thousand back at you for the privilege of acting like an immature jerk from time to time. The beauty of watching a maniac like Terrell Owens is that he has the talent to back up his shenanigans. The guy is flat out amazing. He holds the NFL record for the most catches (20) in a single game, led the league in receiving touchdowns in 2001, 2002 and 2006; and put together five straight 1,000-yard seasons from 2000-2004. He also wrote a children’s book entitled “Little T Learns to Share.”

Terrell Owens brings the goods—like Barry Bonds.

Say what you want about Bonds, his drugs, his legacy and his controversies, but he has clobbered more home runs than anyone else in baseball. Period. There is no denying that. We might as well make drugs legal in professional sports. Science and technology being what it is, cheaters will always be one step ahead of those trying to catch them.

Drugs should not only be legal, but encouraged. Just imagine what a hoot it would be to see a yellow eyed, foaming at the mouth, jacked up, drug addled, 315lb freak with two per cent body fat step up to the plate, grunt once, and hit a ball so high it knocks satellites out of orbit. Just imagine how much fun Sunday would be if the NFL featured running backs spliced with rhino DNA, fed an all protein diet of raw meat and steroid gravy, washed down with energy drinks, strong coffee, and a few bee stings. I would buy a ticket to see that, and bring the family too.

Who wouldn’t? It’s all about entertainment, you see. Die hard fans will follow their favourite sports, teams and players no matter what. The real money lies in attracting the casual fan, and spotlight seekers such as Terrell Owens and the many others who are all show, and plenty of go, are the ones who are truly filling the stadiums. You might as well sit back and enjoy it.

Where’s Ed Sullivan when you need him?

2007-09-20T09:28:00.000-04:00

September 19th, 2007

Years ago, when television was still black and white and Elvis Presley was still a skinny hick, there was a weird old man on TV every Sunday night named Ed Sullivan. With his hunched shoulders and nasal delivery, Ed was an odd duck, but it didn’t matter much. Television was so new back then you didn’t have to be beautiful to be a star.

Ed was the host of a variety program that brought music, comedy and a dizzying array of other entertaining acts to the viewing public each week. It was called The Ed Sullivan Show, and audiences ate it up like candy. The Ed Sullivan Show was a Sunday night staple in the 1950s and 60s, and the affable host was a respected star maker, because of the number of performers that became household names after appearing on his show.

He had a knack for identifying and promoting top talent, and often paid a great deal of money to secure that talent. Virtually every type of entertainment appeared on the program. Opera singers, rock stars, songwriters, circus acts, comedians and ballet dancers were all regularly featured.

Ed Sullivan brought the world to television viewers. Unlike many other shows at that time, Sullivan asked his acts to perform their music live, rather than lip sync to their recordings. He promoted country when it wasn’t cool, broke the colour barrier by promoting black acts, and had a knack for finding what the “youngsters” wanted to see, no matter how out of touch it made him look.

If only Ed Sullivan were alive today, because we need him now—more than ever. Television today has been assaulted by “reality TV”, a relatively new phenomenon where everyday folks are thrust into the limelight to fight for the spotlight. Some of it actually makes for compelling television, but the bulk of it is a bombardment in much the same way a manure spreader bombards a farmer’s field in the fall.

On any given night on television, seemingly average mullet heads can be found trying to survive in a hostile environment, trying to get rich, racing across the globe, or gobbling down horse intestines. You can watch them become a model, an idol, a comic, rich, married, popular, or all of the above. You can watch everything but talent.

The latest assault on television viewers is the new game show “Don’t Forget the Lyrics”, where ordinary citizenry can go home with million, provided they accurately guess the words to a selection of well-known songs. It might seem like a good idea, until the poor saps start singing, and you could swear a flock of geese were drilling holes into your skull.

Ed Sullivan would never have let this happen, and neither should we. Television should be a showcase for the talented, a place where the best of the best can be recognized, and duly appreciated. When Ed Sullivan brought Elvis, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Doors, James Brown, Tom Jones, and hundreds of others to a nationwide audience, you knew you were watching the best of the best.

Today’s viewers deserve the same courtesy. Instead of reality TV, we deserve quality TV and, right over here, I think Ed Sullivan would agree.

There is always a bigger fish

2007-09-12T11:41:00.000-04:00

September 12th, 2007

There really are only two kinds of anglers in this world; those who catch the fish, and those who release them. Now, I enjoy a fresh fish dinner as much as the next person, perhaps more, but I’ve never been one to keep a lot of fish. Just a taste here and there is enough for me.

This summer, I had the good fortune to fish a lake near Kingston. It was supposed to be an angler’s paradise, full of all kinds of fish; big and small, fat and tall. The kid chewing tobacco at the gas station, the girl with the tight shirt scooping ice cream, the guy in the beer store, and the old gummer sitting outside of it, all told me so.

As I paddled out across the water, my thoughts drifted to the fish dinner I was going to produce that evening. My host, who doesn’t know his bass from a hole in the ground, was no help at all. He seemed distracted, disinterested, and the conversation somehow kept swirling back to ice cream, and how some people can really scoop it.

Undeterred in my mission, I fished every corner of that useless lake, under every dock and around every rock. I tried the weed beds, dead heads and lily pads. Nothing. At one point the wind died down, and I could hear laughter coming from the beer store. As it turns out, it was only a loon, who appeared to have no trouble catching his own fish dinner. I even followed the bird for a while, thinking he knew where the fish were, but it was fruitless.

Eventually, we reached the far end of the lake, and the public boat launch, which looked like it hadn’t been used in years, and I could certainly understand why at that point. Getting out for a stretch, I decided to try a few casts off the dock, along a line of weeds, where the water started to get deeper. Surely, this would produce fish. And it did! On about the third cast, a fish hit my lure like it hadn’t eaten since Red Fisher was alive. It fought and thrashed, as if it somehow knew the end was near. When I finally spotted the great whale, however, all hopes were dashed. It was a perch, an energetic little perch to be sure, but one so small you couldn’t set it on the dock, for fear it might fall through a crack.

My host, who found the whole scene rather comical, was drying his shirt on the dock; so that’s where I threw the fish, just to keep it safe, of course. It flopped around like a fish out of water (hence the expression) until my friend gently scooped it up, placed it oh so tenderly back into the water, and then shot me a look like I had just fire bombed his favourite orphanage.

The fish gave a couple little kicks and, for a split second, we both thought it was going to be fine; until a big black bass shot out from underneath the dock, and ate the miserable little thing in one lightning gulp. It was incredible.

Once the initial shock wore off, my friend was rattled by what happened, as if he had been cheated out of an act of kindness. For a moment, I was able to ape the motions of a sensitive human being, but I couldn’t hold it in, and started rolling around the dock, laughing like a cartoon loon. I assured my friend that everything he saw was normal, that there is always a bigger fish; but he didn’t start smiling again until I said we were headed home—for ice cream.

Be glad you’re not on the wagon

2007-09-05T12:57:00.000-04:00

September 5th, 2007

For many people, the Labour Day weekend officially marks the end of summer; a time to put away the short pants and tank tops, and generally clean up your act. Other people prefer to ignore the subtle signs of fall. They wear shorts and bare feet until it snows, barbecue in the dark, and couldn’t clean up their act if you dipped them in detergent and hit them with a pressure washer.

I have one old friend who says fall arrives with the brrr months (Septemberrr, Octoberrr, etc.) and marks the occasion each year by switching from beer, over to any drink that doesn’t require lugging a cooler around. One year, he even went so far as to say he was “on the wagon”, using the old term to suggest he was avoiding the demon alcohol altogether for an unspecified length of time.

After recently hearing the story of the origin of the expression “on the wagon”, I told him I had no intentions of ever being caught on the wagon, or even near it, ever again. It seems, in turn of the century Ireland, when a condemned man had been sentenced to be hanged, he would be led to his place of execution in a horse drawn wagon. The man would stand in the wagon, with the hangman leading the horse. They would customarily stop at the local pub on the way to the place of execution, where the condemned man was permitted to drink one last pint. He would have his last pint before his death, with the hangman standing next to him at the bar. In true human compassion, the bartender was required to say, “Can I give him another?” to which the hangman would reply: “No. He’s on the wagon.”

When you take into consideration a story like that, it makes perfect sense to want to be off, rather than on, that wagon. No one says you have to abuse that privilege, but who in their right mind would ever want to be caught on the wagon. You only get one stop, for crying out loud.

There are those who have no respect for being off the wagon. These people should be avoided, like anyone trying to sell you a velvet painting, or the loudest person in a bus terminal, or anyone who says they love clarinet music. For some people, a tumble off the wagon takes them right back to the behaviours that put them on it in the first place.

One of the best cinematic examples of a person falling off the wagon, is the film “Leaving Las Vegas”. The chilling tale depicts Nicholas Cage falling so hard it rattles him. It is a compelling story, and not all that bad of a film, actually. It did win Cage the Academy Award, after all. Apparently, it isn’t easy to play sloshed. Lee Marvin won an Oscar for his work as a drunk in Cat Ballou, Burt Young did an expert job in the Rocky movies, and Dean Martin made a career of being off the wagon. Bad girl Lindsay Lohan is on her way, but still has a lot of work do to yet.

On the wagon or off, dragging a cooler or a corkscrew, or staring a pressure washer in the face; what is important is that, with summer’s light fading, falling leaves and cool night air, we can take the time to slow down and enjoy a good look at things—and maybe even slow that wagon ride down, whichever direction it happens to be headed.

A bad nose breeds fat raccoons

2007-08-23T14:49:00.000-04:00

August 22nd, 2007

It has been said, when a person loses one of their five senses, one or more of the other four will compensate for the loss by becoming heightened. This may hold true for a blind person who develops acute hearing or super sensitive fingertips, but when it comes to a sense of smell, the theory begins to stink like a deer camp bunkhouse after bean night.

Recently, I discovered that an old friend of mine has a rather weak sense of smell. You might think it a blessing, because a person like that can walk into any truck stop restroom without fear, burn all the microwave popcorn, or share a long car ride with a wet dog—but not exactly.

The poor guy does have some sense of smell, enough to know when to change his socks, or carry the trash out to the curb, but not enough to develop any superpowers. The best way to test someone’s sense of smell is the old fish in the door trick, which has been a lake lodge favourite for years.

Begin by choosing a victim, preferably one you don’t like, or the person who annoyed everyone all week by accidentally hooking people in the back of the head. Catch a small fish, a sunfish or perch is ideal, and secretly hide it in the pocket at the bottom of the driver’s door in their car. If your victim has a long way to go, or a well developed sniffer, they will usually find it before they arrive home. If not, they are in for a smelly surprise.

Results vary by the individual, but you can usually determine your friend’s sense of smell by the length of time it takes before they phone you up and rhyme off every obscenity they know. When you finish laughing, apologize to the person, and make a mental note to lock your car doors the next time you visit that fishing lodge.

When it comes down to sensory superpowers, my friend does have one gift: the ability to read best before dates. I’ve never seen anything like it. His fridge is crammed with food; deli meats, chicken wings, cheeses, vegetables, breads and rolls, and some thick mystery paste that smells like the entrance of a shopping mall food court. Everything is in its original packaging, and the only way he can tell if the contents have gone bad, or even a little gamey, it to check the best before date on the labels. Anything that gets even close to the due date is watched closely, and once the date on the calendar exceeds the date on the label, into the freezer it goes.

Most people use their freezer to store food, yet his is used to store garbage, where no one is allowed to touch it until it is time to once again take that long walk to the curb. I didn’t have the heart to tell this man that his garbage isn’t garbage, and doesn’t stink, not even to a person with a normal nose.

Best before dates mean simply that, and not “this product turns to poison upon the printed date”. If his nose worked as well as his attention to best before dates, he would be able to sniff out bad food at ten paces, with the fridge door closed. He did try burying old food in the yard, but the local raccoons kept digging it up. Now they don’t even bother. They’re too fat, and prefer to wait at the end of the lane for the next “garbage” day.

Questions across the fence

2007-08-15T13:41:00.000-04:00

August 15th, 2007

Hit the road for a week, and you are bound to see and enjoy a wide array of new experiences. You are also bound to see and enjoy a wide array of bathrooms, and the assorted reading material that comes with them. Not everyone enjoys a good book while they pause for the cause; however, some people feel almost compelled to read something whenever they have a seat. In a pinch, die hard bathroom readers will read your toothpaste tube or shampoo bottle, and have the ingredients memorized.
Having toured Ontario’s southern shores this summer; from whitewater rafting in Ottawa, to cottaging in Kingston, to a wedding in Windsor; I have been able to brush up on a dizzying array of reading material.
The most interesting reading I found was a dog-eared old copy of Birds & Blooms magazine, and the “Questions Across the Fence” section, where readers could submit questions in the vague hope other readers could forward an answer. The following are just a few examples of the mysteries that plague those individuals who seek beauty in their own backyard, and my best attempts at answers.
Who can tell me the best way to remove the outer shell from black walnuts? — Jacob from Bally, Pennsylvania Jacob, sharp knives and blowtorches can be dangerous. Dynamite works, but you have to keep your distance. Try freezing them, and hitting them with a sledgehammer.
I would like ideas for building a simple and inexpensive backyard pond. — Priscilla from McKinney, Texas Priscilla, find someone with a black walnut tree in their backyard, and ask them if they have any extra dynamite.
We have a beautiful squirrel house, but this spring the starlings came and chased the squirrels out. How can I keep the starlings out? — Tracy of Edwardsville, Kansas Tracy, find some old speaker wire, and a speaker that will fit inside the squirrel house. When you see a starling go inside, blast Celine Dion music at top volume. That racket will drive anything away, including your neighbours.
Where can I order cassette tapes of bird calls or frogs croaking? — Barbara from Arlington, Washington. Barbara, find someone with a squirrel house in their backyard, and ask to borrow their Celine Dion collection.
Does anyone have a proven method for keeping raccoons out of their backyard? — Grace from Charlotte, NC Grace, move into an apartment. It works every time.
How can I keep algae to a minimum in a recirculating birdbath? — Geri from Swansea, South Carolina Geri, fill your birdbath with vodka. The birds will love it. The grasshoppers are eating all my flowers.
Is there something I can use to keep them away that won’t hurt my geese? — Patty from Canton, Oklahoma Patty, skunks will eat grasshoppers, and have no effect on flowers or geese. If you decide to bring skunks into your backyard, I recommend you plant a few more flowers.
My geese all smell like skunk. — Patty from Canton. Patty, I can’t help you there. Your best bet would be to visit Geri in Swansea, and stick a drinking straw in her birdbath. Have you ever considered using dynamite?

Here’s your new cause, Mr. Suzuki

2007-08-09T14:55:00.000-04:00

August 9th, 2007

Dear Mr. Suzuki;

Let me begin by saying, I’m a really big fan, and have been watching your show, the Nature of Things, for years.

My all-time favourite episode was the one where you had a really tiny camera roaming around the human reproductive system. Never seen anything like that before. It was so real you could feel it, but didn’t really want to.

I also loved the one about the giant Japanese hornets that slaughtered all the little bees, and then stole all their honey to feed a whole new generation of super giant killer hornets. Wait, that was a National Geographic special.

But, don’t worry, Mr. Suzuki. The hornets can’t hurt you. Your body of work speaks for itself. With shows about toxic waste, forestry clear cutting, and the destruction of coastal marine life, you have become our own distant early warning system. The world is a better place with you in it, even though the big oil companies really hate you.

Good job with the new light bulbs, by the way. You know, those funky, curly ones with the mercury in them. Soon everyone will be switching over, and switching on.

The television commercial where you invade that man’s home, and tell him to buy more beer with all the money he is saving, is sheer brilliance. Don’t worry about your other ad either, where you light the street up like a carnival. Those new bulbs are so pretty, I’ll bet no one even noticed.

What I really wanted to say, Mr. Suzuki, is that I have your next crusade all picked out for you. Now that we have the light bulb problem licked, we can get down to business.

I think you should tell everyone to turn off their air conditioners, for good. For good. Get it? Anyway, go talk to the government, and get them to make air conditioners illegal, except in hospitals, nursing homes, and places where people have to stand really close together, like city elevators.

By cooling the air inside a building, an air conditioner actually heats up the outside world. I’m not a scientist like you, but even I can see this is only compounding the original problem. If it’s hot out, we shouldn’t be making it even hotter. If you can’t stand the heat, you get out of the kitchen. You don’t stand there with the fridge door open; and you don’t have to be David Suzuki to figure that out.

If global warming is a reality, and you and most of your peers keep telling us that it is, then we should be meeting it head on, and not hiding from it. Instead of crying about the heat, and the damage we are doing to our planet and ourselves, we should be living with it, and learning from it.

If people are serious about making a difference, they should be out riding this heat wave, walking in it and talking in it; and not hiding from themselves in air conditioned cars and icy boardrooms with refrigerated bottled water.

Until we decide to get back in touch with the world, and back to the nature of things, pardon the pun, all this global warming banter is nothing more than mere hot air.

Anyway, give it some thought. I’m here to help. In the mean time, keep up the good work. If there is anything else you need help with, don’t be afraid to ask—unless you’re looking for some place to stick a tiny camera. Forget that.

Three, two, one... more for the road

2007-08-01T15:06:00.000-04:00

August 1st, 2007

Somebody call the proper authorities! The unthinkable has happened! Astronauts are flying around drunk!

Aviation Week and Space Technology recently reported that astronauts were allowed to fly after flight surgeons, and even fellow astronauts, warned they were so drunk they posed a flight safety risk. An independent panel reportedly found that surgeons allowed intoxicated astronauts to board the space shuttle on at least two occasions.

The panel was studying astronaut health, and unearthed "heavy use of alcohol" before launch that was an obvious breach of the standard twelve hour "bottle-to-throttle" rule for pilots and professional drivers.

A NASA official initially confirmed the report, but said the information is based on anonymous interviews and is unsubstantiated. It doesn´t make clear when the alleged incidents occurred, nor does it say whether the drunkards were the pilot and commander, or crew members who are strapped in with no role in flying the shuttle.

The panel was created following the arrest in February of former space shuttle astronaut Lisa Nowak.

Miss Nowak, you may remember, drove her car across the United States in a diaper, and attacked the girlfriend of a fellow astronaut with pepper spray, because she was moving in on the man Lisa loved. If ever a girl needed a drink to calm down, Nowak seems to be the type.

Honestly, I have no problem with astronauts flying drunk. It’s not like a Space Shuttle isn’t riding along on auto pilot the whole way. There is enough computer programming in that cockpit to run a small city, and even the best astronaut is simply along for the ride, and little else.

It’s kind of like riding a roller coaster. You buckle up, roll through a few twists and turns, and put your faith in the machine. There is always a chance something dreadful might happen, but that’s all part of the thrill. If you have never been drunk on a roller coaster, give it a try. It’s as close as you will ever get to becoming an astronaut.

The more I think about it, the more I can’t come up with a single reason why an astronaut can’t have a stiff drink or two before he or she starts work. An astronaut is under extreme pressure, literally, for the entire day.

There has probably been more than a few shuttle passengers that wished they were back home doing something honest, like digging a hole or chopping down a tree.

How much trouble can you really get into up there, with no bends in the road, no turns to make, no speed limits, no oncoming traffic, no weather hazards, no wildlife to dodge, and no railroad crossings. You don’t even have to worry about stopping for gas, groceries, or hitchhikers.

Astronauts have it made. The hard part is already over, after NASA puts them through their paces on the zero gravity, tilt-a-whirl and vomitron training machines.

If it turns out the cosmic crew really were sloshed as they left Earth, it won’t be long before the beer companies start promoting Space Shuttle parties complete with pizza, rock and roll, and buxom beauties. Make sure you check your case of beer for that winning ticket—and blast off.

The forgotten art of Scatology

2007-07-25T16:52:00.000-04:00

7/24/2007

You can learn a lot about an animal by what it leaves behind. Sometimes, all you have to do is look down.
In biology, scatology is the study of feces. Scatological studies allow one to determine a wide range of biological information about a creature; including its diet, where it has been, and any maladies it might be suffering from.
Scatology is a useful and respected profession. The pretty, young scientist from the first Jurassic Park film was up past her elbows in Triceratops dung at one point, and she certainly knew her stuff. She also got to visit an amusement park and fly around in helicopters.
She lived a pretty good life, actually, until the dinosaurs busted loose and starting eating a lot of her friends; which you really can’t blame her, or scatology, for.
A scatologist knows how the world works at ground level, literally. Since animals and the environment can’t talk, their droppings most often do the talking for them.
I know a woman who graduated college as a fish and wildlife technician. She is a hardworking and intelligent person, and today is an Outreach Education Assistant.
She loves her job, and she also loves scat; and it has led her into the process of researching and developing her first book, entitled simply “Whose Poo is This?”
It is a field guide, a kind of junior scatologist’s companion, complete with pictures and descriptions of all sorts of animal droppings. It includes the best methods to determine what each dropping can tell you, and how to record the pertinent information—and they can tell you a lot.
Close inspection of animal droppings can tell you what they are eating, and if they are healthy or sick. Comparing the results to food found in the area can tell you if the animal is a local or a tourist. Finding a steaming pile of bear scat tells you, for example, to walk in another direction.
Suitable for any reader, it is intended as a children’s book about the various forest and field creatures one might encounter in the Canadian wilderness, and what their feces typically look like. At first glance, such a book might seem, crude, rude and disgusting. Quite the contrary.
“Whose Poo is This?” is the kind of book a serious field naturalist would not want to be caught without.
It would be a valuable resource to anyone in the field, and a welcome addition to any outdoor education centre.
Anyone who has spent time in Grade 3 or 4 knows that thoughts of feces, or anything at all that might be crude, rude or disgusting, crosses a child’s mind every nine or 10 seconds. Why not have them put that energy to good use.
Who knows, a book like that could inspire a whole new generation of scatologists, people who care about animals, the health of the environment, and how well things are working themselves out. No pun intended.
It likely won’t launch a movie and marketing dynasty like the Harry Potter or Dr. Seuss books, but “Whose Poo is This?” could start people thinking more about the world we live in, what we are doing to it and the creatures we share it with. At the very least, it would be a popular choice in the library whenever the Grade 3/4 class pays a visit.

I’m taking Scotch back

2007-07-18T15:54:00.000-04:00

7/17/2007

“Eight bolls of malt to Friar John Cor, wherewith to make aqua vitae” — Exchequer Rolls, circa 1494
There is a commercial that has been all over television lately, about a home plagued by bankers. The hero of the day ends up setting a trap for the marauding thieves with expensive cigars and Scotch whisky.
Now, live trapping a banker, as opposed to outright extermination, is not the real crime here. The true tragedy of the commercial is that Scotch has become a drink associated with the rich. It shouldn’t be, so I’m taking it back.
Distilling in Scotland can be traced back 500 years to the good friar John Cor, who was no doubt popular among his fellow friars, and the common folk he visited, lived and drank with. Eight bolls of malt to make aqua vitae, Latin for “water of life”, was enough to produce 1,500 bottles.
I’ll wager John “Hard” Cor had a lot of friends, and not too many of them were bankers, lawyers, doctors and Fortune 500 company CEOs with bright, shiny BMWs, island vacations, private driveways and trophy wives with noses, lips, hips and breasts a doctor built for them.
No, Scotch really belongs to us common folk.
To be called Scotch whisky, the spirit must be distilled in Scotland from water and malted barley, fermented only by the addition of yeast, and must be distilled to an alcoholic strength of less than 95 per cent, so that it retains the flavour of the raw materials used in its production.
The distinct, earthy flavour of Scotch comes from adding peat to the fire as it is made. Peat itself is partially decayed vegetation that forms in wetlands, moors and bogs. It is composed mainly of peat moss, but can also include grasses, trees, fungi, insects and animal corpses.
In a nutshell, Scotch comes from the earth; and if the prophet Bob Marley taught me nothing else, it is that what comes from the earth is of the greatest worth.
The first known taxes on whisky production were imposed in 1644, and caused a rise in illicit whisky distilling throughout Scotland. By 1780, there were less than 10 legal distilleries and around 400 illegal ones; which shouldn’t come as any great surprise, because common folk like taxes about as much as they like bankers.
The spirit’s popularity spiked around 200 years ago, for two reasons. Firstly, the invention of a new kind of still meant whisky could be made smoother and less intense; and, in 1880, beetles destroyed wine and cognac production in France. Welcome to Scotland my thirsty friends.
Scotch must be aged in oak casks for at least three years, although most are aged for a minimum of eight. The older the whisky, the rarer it is, and the more you can expect to pay. A single malt Scotch will be more expensive than a blended whisky, but it will often be worth the price, if you can justify how much it is going to set you back.
If you are going through a bottle before lunch every day, Scotch can become an expensive habit. I prefer to enjoy it in small doses, slowly savouring the rich, distinct taste.
If it were pennies a glass, I would no doubt enjoy it that much more. Where’s John Cor when you need him.

Las Vegas, the adult playground

2007-07-11T13:45:00.001-04:00

7/10/2007

There is a reason Vegas is known as Sin City.
Because it is.
Glittering in the middle of the desert like a new dime on sun-baked earth, Las Vegas lives up to its billing as the Entertainment Capital of the World. It was intended right from day one as an adult playground, and that is exactly what it has become. Someone sensible should hang a sign at the town limits saying, “No one under 18 allowed.”
Las Vegas was named "the Meadows" by Spaniards, who used the water in the area on their way north from Texas. Mormon missionaries quickly moved in, and Vegas officially became a town in 1905. You don’t see too many Mormons walking the strip these days. Must be the heat.
The city has a long history of reinventing itself, from oasis, to railroad town, to gambling mecca. Gambling was legalized in 1931, and east coast mobster Bugsy Siegel helped give birth to the mutation we know today, when he opened his famous Flamingo Hotel in 1946. Bugsy had a vision of what Vegas could become, until someone cut that vision short by shooting him in the face. A couple times.
Regardless, Las Vegas bravely soldiered on. The first of the megaresort casinos, The Mirage, opened in 1989, and Sin City has never looked back. Today it is one of the most dynamic cities in the world, and the capital of hedonism.
If you want it, you can get it in Vegas. If you have the money, and the stamina, you can get even more of it too. If you somehow wind up with something you don’t want, you can always see a doctor. Las Vegas is there to help.
Sin City also loves its booze. Alcoholic beverages are available at any hour of the day, in astonishing quantities, and in all kinds of places. The entire downtown strip is like a shimmering seven kilometre long barroom. Hunter S. Thompson wrote that Vegas loves a drunk, because, as the old saying goes, a drunk and his lunch are soon parted. Or, was that a fool and his money. After a weekend on the Las Vegas strip, things tend to get a little muddy.
Drunks there are not only tolerated, they are embraced. Sit for a while at a table or slot machine, and a beautiful woman with cleavage pushed up so high she has difficulty swallowing, will stroll along and offer you free drinks.
They don’t come around quite as often in the middle of the night, presumably because they expect you to already be drunk. Personally, I recommend a drink or two. There might be a few sober people roaming around at 4 a.m. in Vegas, but they’re the ones who really need some help.
If you do need help, there are always plenty of friendly, chatty young women walking the streets at night, willing to lend you a hand. I think they are probably Girl Scouts or something, because they all wear the same uniform, most often with high heels, short skirts and loads of red lipstick.
Yes, Las Vegas can be a fun place. Just don’t step out of line. There are cameras everywhere, security is beefy, and the police deal with problems quickly and harshly. And so they should. Sin City is the kind of place where you can eat, drink, sleep, party, vomit, win a million, lose it all, wed, bed and forget. You might as well be safe while you’re at it.

Canada is simply wonder full

2007-07-05T09:37:00.001-04:00

7/3/2007

Canada is the greatest country in the world.
I feel fairly certain of this, because, eight or so generations ago, my forefathers landed here and shook hands with sasquatch. They had the entire world to choose from, and picked Canada out of the whole lot. There must have been a reason, and I would like to think it is because they did their homework and realized we are number one.
Whatever your reason for being here and staying here, it is hard to deny that Canada is a wonderful place, and a place full of wonders. This summer, the CBC hosted a poll to determine the Seven Wonders of Canada. The results were interesting, often surprising, and generally thought provoking. For what it’s worth, here are my top seven:
The Aurora Borealis—better known as the Northern Lights, this natural phenomenon is a rare treat, and a difficult one to keep to yourself. Available to anyone who keeps an eye on the night sky, the Lights are mesmerizing. It is said a child conceived under their glow will have good fortune. Anyone lucky enough to see, and even hear, them will find the experience hypnotic and unforgettable.
The Bay of Fundy—home to the highest tides in the world, this stretch of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia coastline is a pristine wilderness. An estimated 100 billion tonnes of seawater flow in and out with each tide, bringing with it a dizzying array of marine life. Canada is all about natural beauty, and the Bay of Fundy definitely has it.
Niagara Falls—Like the Bay of Fundy, the Falls are an unspoiled gem of majesty, beauty and power. Over one million bathtubs of water flow over the edge every minute, providing a year-round, day or night spectacle of rainbows and spray. Niagara Falls calls to people, from honeymooners to loonytooners. More than 15 daredevils have also gone over its edge, and five of them gave their lives for it.
The CN Tower—hardly a natural wonder at just over 550m high, the CN Tower is the world’s tallest freestanding structure. Simple, solid and enduring, it was completed in 1976 to help unify Canada. Today it is the icon of Toronto and, for many urbanites, Canada itself. Climb to the top on a clear day, and you can almost see the city’s edge. It is the first sight people see in Toronto, and the last as you leave.
The Igloo—this marvel of engineering is no mere hut, and an iconic image of the great white north. The name means “snow house”, and it has sheltered people throughout the ages when snow was the only material available. It is both functional and beautiful, and a well built igloo will keep you comfortable even in -40 degree weather.
The Canoe—like the igloo, the canoe is almost perfect in its design, and it is still a mainstay at any camp or cottage. There is no finer vehicle for exploring the natural beauty around us. Canada was explored, mapped and settled in the canoe, and we would hardly be a country without it.
Maple Syrup—nothing says Canada like the Maple leaf, and if there is one food we can truly call our own, it is maple syrup. To tap a tree, boil down the sap, and pour syrup over pancakes or ice cream is to make magic. Open a jar of pure maple syrup, and every day is Canada Day.

So many meats, so little time

2007-06-27T15:27:00.001-04:00

6/27/2007

Vegetarians may say that grazing is the key to health, harmony and happiness, but I am still not convinced.
Nothing makes my day more complete than eating something that once flew, swam or ran. It is easy to deny yourself the pleasure of a flame-broiled hamburger now and then, but no one can deny that we are predators. If not, we would all have eyes on the sides of our heads, like chickens, cows, and the girl I danced with at senior prom.
Some foods are simply too hard to resist, and there is a vast array of must-eat meats out there to not only please your palate, but expand your mind and gratify your soul.
To begin with, don’t ignore the simple pleasure of the lowly pork rind. The ingredient list, pork and salt, should qualify it as health food. Some brands add lard, but that is rather redundant. The pig provides enough of his own.
For the connoisseur, there is Kobe beef. This product of Japan sees the cow fed a diet of beer and daily massages, until the richly marbled flesh is more white than red. No need to worry about animal cruelty here. Kobe beef cattle are cookhouse royalty, and flat-out delicious.
Grinding Kobe into a burger only misses the point, and the point is fat. I now eat ten per cent less fat, than a bowl of fat, so take it from a man who knows. Try it raw, shaved into paper-thin slices, and drizzled with flavoured oil.
If a Japanese cow with a daily rubdown seems out of your price range, try horse. Apparently, it is sweeter, leaner and redder than beef. Never having eaten a horse, I’ll have to trust the research on this one. Eating horse is traditional in other countries, and still legal in ours, just in case someone you know is so hungry they could eat one.
Before you throw the dog a bone, give the marrow a try for yourself. Wobbly, greasy and always rich, it is surprisingly tasty. Scoop out the centre of boiled or roasted beef bones, spread bone marrow on toast, and salt to taste. Ossobuco, or braised veal shanks, offer delicious marrow.
If innards are still your thing after a good feed of bone marrow, there is always foie gras. French for “fat liver”, this delicacy is mired today in ethical controversy. Some restaurants now ban the fattened livers of force-fed duck and geese, but you can still enjoy it here, while it's legal.
Then again, there is no point in getting too fancy. I personally recommend anything cooked over a wood fire. Propane barbecues do a reliable job, while most charcoal is made from good old coal, but there is no substitute for red hot hardwood coals. Take the time to do it up right.
Wild game is a favourite of many meat lovers, and a staple in rural and northern areas throughout our fair country. Venison and moose can be prepared in as many ways as your imagination can cook up, and the meat is great tasting and good for your overall well being.
If you are lucky enough to have a wild turkey at your disposal, try skinning it, giving it a bacon jacket to wear, and roasting it alongside a pork roast. This will keep it moist, and the blend of flavours will be remarkable.
Keep an open mind and try something different this summer. If it doesn’t work out, there’s always vegetables.

You have to go where the fish are

2007-06-20T10:40:00.001-04:00

6/20/2007

Sometimes, when you’ve known someone long enough, you get to know what they are thinking. Most often, it will be something you wouldn’t repeat in church, if at all.
Find a friend like that, and you will never have to worry about what to say, or how to say it. A friend like that can wade through all the lies, boasts and excrement, and come right back with a heaping helping of their own.
On a fishing trip into the high country last week, I met two such friends. In order to protect the guilty, and their churches, they will be referred to only as Al and Jim.
Al and Jim have known each other for 25 years. They trade their wit, insults and stories as only two old friends can, tossing barbs and boasts back and forth like a pair of octopus playing tennis. Whether an octopus can even play tennis is doubtful, but if anyone would know, it would be Al and Jim. They happen to know a lot about fishing.
For starters, before every fishing trip, they stock up on lures by buying three at a time. One is to use, one is kept in reserve in the event of a snag, and the other goes into the other guy’s tackle box the second no one is looking.
The two have been swapping fishing lures for years, safe in the knowledge that borrowing a lure means you are only stealing one you bought in the first place. It is a system that works for Al and Jim, and they always catch fish.
Last week’s fish of choice was the elusive trout, no easy prey when the sun is high and hot, and the water starts to warm. Any hack with a rod and reel can catch a bass or a pike, no matter the conditions. These are stupid fish. Trout are the smart ones, lurking only in the cold, dark depths, and it takes an intelligent angler to outwit them.
Al started with a gentle troll, dragging his lure over rocky points, drop offs, deep holes and dark places full of mystery. All he caught was a buzz and a sunburn.
Jim laughed, called Al a name like noodlehead, or dozey or fartbag, and said you have to go where the fish are. Last week’s heat meant they were all down on the bottom of the lake, stacked up like cord wood, as the locals say.
So, Al portaged his boat into the next lake; a good, deep lake. He liked his chances, and felt almost giddy, most likely from loss of blood due to all the mosquitoes.
Jim said all you have to do is catch a dragonfly, attach two feet of extra-light monofilament line to its tail, tie the other end to your hat; and no fly, bug or pest will come anywhere near you. Yeah, Al said, that’s exactly what a dozey fartbag would try to do, you old noodlehead.
Al pulled out all the stops on the deep lake, using copper line and some evil old rig from the turn of the century that looked capable of snaring buffalo. There were some fish caught, along with plenty of rocks and sticks, an old hat, an even older shoe, and even a nice little ice fishing rig that a drunken fool must’ve dropped down his hole last winter.
All in all, it was a great day. Dusk brought the end of the fishing, but it brought with it a chance to swap stories, to recount some old ones, and forge a few new ones. It meant the lies, boasts and insults would soon be flowing, along with a few cold beers. It’s what old friends are for.

Free Paris Hilton. We need her.

2007-06-13T11:48:00.001-04:00

6/13/2007

Paris Hilton is an American celebrity, socialite, actress and recording artist. She is also an heiress to a share of the Hilton Hotel fortune, and the value of that inheritance is estimated at roughly $50 million.
In September 2006, she was arrested for driving under the influence and subsequently sentenced to 36 months probation, and had her driver’s license suspended.
In February 2007, she was stopped for speeding and driving after dark with no headlights on, and subsequently charged with violating her probation.
In May 2007, she was sentenced to 45 days in jail.
And the world wept, roughly 50 million tears.
In June 2007, after partying it up at the annual MTV Movie Awards, Hilton checked into an all female jail in California. With credit for good behavior, it was anticipated she would serve only 23 days of her 45 day sentence.
She served five. Five agonizing days.
In an unexpected turn of events, the L.A. County Sheriff signed orders that Hilton could serve out her sentence at home, for a ‘medical condition.’ And the world cheered.
That very day, however, Paris was ordered back to court by the L. A. City Attorney, and was sent back to jail to serve out the remainder of her sentence. She was taken out of the courtroom screaming for her mother.
Tragic. I may never recover from the shock of it all.
To see a positive role model like Paris Hilton treated so harshly, so unfairly, so forcefully, is positively outrageous.
She must be set free immediately. We need her.
With her skinny legs, smooth skin and white teeth, Paris reminds us all how old, fat and ugly we are compared to her. We need her in the public eye, flaunting her sparkling eyes and perky parts, to goad us into becoming better.
Yes, Paris isn’t perfect; but who among us is?
I realize she has no real job, no real talent, no apparent skills at all for that matter; but we need her on television and in magazines to remind us that, no matter how small and ordinary we might feel, there is always the chance that we can become famous, and one of the beautiful people.
Some of us have a lot longer road to travel than others, but the magic power of Paris is what keeps us going.
Of course, it helps to have a lot of money.
I admit Paris didn’t earn any of her millions. That’s daddy’s money, and everybody knows it; but it certainly hasn’t stopped her from spending buckets of it.
A free Paris is good for the economy, and it’s no secret that Mr. Bush and his generals need all the help they can get when it comes to their economy. Someone should stand up and demand justice. O. J. Simpson is rich, and he didn’t have to go to jail at all, not even for five days.
At the very least, a free Paris Hilton is a convenient distraction. When we focus our attention on something as harmless as Paris, we forget all about all the other truly nasty things out there in the wide world, such as poverty, war, genocide, taxes, mosquitoes and pickled pig’s feet.
It’s going to be a long 45 days without Paris. If you find yourself missing her, you’re probably the only one.

Busting the gutbusting record

2007-06-07T16:38:00.001-04:00

6/7/2007

A time comes in everyone’s life, most often around a picnic table, when you think to yourself, yes, I could handle one more hot dog. Well then, how about 58 more?
There was a great rejoicing around the old relish jar on Saturday, as a California man finally toppled the seemingly unbeatable Takeru Kobayashi’s hot dog eating record.
At the Southwest Regional Hot Dog Eating Championship at the Arizona Mills Mall in suburban Tempe, Joey “Jaws” Chestnut scarfed down more than 59 franks and buns in 12 minutes, to set a new high water mark for good old American gluttony.
It works out to one hot dog every 12 seconds, for 12 agonizing minutes; and if that boggles your mind, imagine what it is doing to Joey the Jaws’ digestive system.
The otherwise normal 22-year-old from San Jose laid waste to Kobayashi’s previous record of 53 and 3/4 hot dogs, set last year at Nathan’s Famous Fourth of July Hot Dog Eating Contest, held at Coney Island in New York.
While such a record may be laughable to some, it seems only fitting that the title is back in American hands.
The hot dog has been an American institution ever since the first forward-thinking butcher scraped his shovel along the slaughterhouse floor, squeezed whatever it picked up into a casing, and sold it to a happily hungry public.
It is also somehow fitting that the record was broken in California, where freaks are a dime a dozen, and dimes are in endless supply. Chestnut, by the way, is no rank amateur when it comes to dog gobbling. He placed second in last year’s world championships, consuming 52 hot dogs.
Ryan Nerz, an employee of Major League Eating, the world governing board for all stomach-centric sports, said Chestnut is “unbelievable” and that “his numbers have just been going up at a tremendous clip.”
Following the record breaking performance, Nerz said he always thought there was a limit to the human stomach, and a limit to human willpower. Apparently, there isn’t.
Gone are the days when a 400lb ogre could waddle up to the table, and cram a few dozen hot dogs into the airplane hangar he called a mouth. No, a record like this requires training. Lots and lots of training.
The most popular gut-stretching technique involves long days of guzzling water, until the stomach is stretched out like a hot air balloon just before the gas hits it. The top technique for downing the dogs is not to chew them, but to fold them up and swallow them whole, much like a boa constrictor downing the barefoot bushman.
Preliminary research has shown that three out of four doctors agree this is not particularly good for you. The fourth doctor still thinks smoking is good for you, and DDT is an effective way to control the mosquito population.
Regardless, Joey Chestnut is a world champion. His prizes included a free trip to New York, a $250 gift card to the mall, and a year’s supply of hot dogs. At one every 12 seconds, that works out to around 2,628,000 franks.
Kobayashi, if he wants his record back, has a month to train. It’s going to be war—and no one said war is pretty.

Excuse me, you dropped your liver

2007-05-31T20:09:00.000-04:00

5/30/2007

Every once in a while, you hear one of those stories that ranks right up there in the you-don’t-hear-that-every-day department. It happened to me on the weekend, when I heard a story about a family who got together for a meal.
The food was delicious, the company excellent, and the laughter easy. In the end, one of the dinner guests, the practical sort who tends not to waste a thing, asked for some tasty leftovers to take home.
The host generously obliged, coffee was poured, and the meal was declared a success. Upon leaving, however, the guest had misplaced her care package. There was a brief panic, until the night was rescued with a friendly:
“Excuse me, you dropped your liver.”
The whole story struck me as incredibly funny, not because it sounds like a Monty Python sketch, but due to the fact that someone actually served liver to a guest.
I happen to love liver—and I’m not alone.
Some people even order it in restaurants. One man told me he orders liver because it is cheap, and no one else orders it, so you usually get a lot of it on your plate.
For most people, however, liver is a curse. On the list of most requested foods at a birthday party, liver would be at the bottom, well behind such champions as pizza and hot dogs, and suffering with the eggplant and asparagus.
Just don’t let anyone tell you that eating liver is bad for you. It is probably the second best tasting organ, a distant second best that is, to Kentucky fried chicken skin.
If chicken joints ever develop the market for skinless fried yardbird, and they need a way to get rid of all that unwanted by-product, I will get up extra early just to wait in line to buy the first Bucket-O-Skin plucked from the deep fryer. Then, I’ll get right back in line and eat chicken skin until I make it back up to the counter.
You might think I’m kidding but, at a dinner party not long ago, I noticed the menu included skinless chicken breasts. I asked our hostess what became of the skin, and she produced a large bowl, nearly overflowing, and said it could go in the garbage. Nonsense! I said, and got to work.
After the pieces were seasoned and breaded, I spread them on trays in the oven and cranked up the heat.
For health and safety reasons, the trays had to be drained several times, until the appetizers were crispy enough to be served. By the time the bowl was empty again, there wasn’t a person in the room who didn’t want the recipe. Even the girls were interested, as I had them believing in the whole “baked, not fried” approach.
No need to worry, though. I still enjoy the odd batch of liver. Serve it up with onions, mushrooms and a caesar, and you can get away with calling it health food. Throw in some mint ice cream, and you have one more serving of veggies, due to a vegetable-based dye that makes it green.
There is something special about eating an animal’s liver. It is primal, and honest. I would certainly rather eat liver than see it wasted, and it’s hard to argue with that.
Somebody call Al Gore and tell him I’m making the world a better place for our children. One liver at a time.

Beer is the foundation of civilization

2007-05-23T14:35:00.001-04:00

5/23/2007

There are those who would argue it is the discovery of fire, perhaps the development of language, or even the spread of agriculture; but, the truth of it is, the foundation of civilization can be only one thing. Beer.
Back in the early days, when humans were hairy little things scratching around in the dirt, we roamed around in small bands of hunters and gatherers. Early humans lived on roots and berries, deer when they could catch them, and fish and lobster if they hung out on the coast.
Upwards of 15,000 years ago, humans discontinued their nomadic hunting and gathering and settled down to farm. This is because they needed to grow grain to make beer. Grain became the first domesticated crop to kick start the farming process, and agriculture was born.
The two most important events in all of history are the invention of beer and the invention of the wheel, in that order, because the wheel was invented to get man closer to the beer in time for last call. Bottles and cans were yet to be invented, so early drinkers sat together around the brewery. This is how towns and villages were formed.
The oldest proven records of brewing are about 6,000 years old and refer to the Sumerians, near the ancient city of Babylon. A 4,000 year old Sumerian hymn to Ninkasi, the goddess of brewing, is also a recipe for making beer.
It details the earliest account of what is easily barley, followed by a description of bread being baked, crumbled into water to form a mash, and then made into a drink that made people feel "exhilarated, wonderful and blissful."
It should be obvious, then, to any historian, that baked bread was invented as a convenient method for storing and transporting the ingredients required to make beer.
In ancient times, beer was cloudy and unfiltered. The first drinking straws were invented to avoid getting the brewing residue, which was very bitter, in the mouth. Beer from Babylon was eventually exported and distributed as far away as Egypt, making it the first form of free trade.
Hammurabi, an important Babylonian king, decreed the oldest known collection of laws. One of those laws established a daily beer ration, and the ration was directly dependent on the social standing of the individual.
A normal worker received two litres, civil servants earned three litres, while administrators and high priests could claim five litres per day. This gave rise to the class system, and furthered the notion that a person’s worth can be measured in how well stocked their beer fridge is.
As beer drinking progressed, so did civilization.
It was one of the earliest forms of currency, prompted better sanitation, and encouraged the early days of comedy and culture through jokes and finger pulling. Beer also made possible the cultivation of corn for nachos, and the domestication of livestock for ribs and chicken wings.
Clearly, we owe a lot to the invention of beer.
Without it, we might still be wandering around, picking berries, throwing stones, and drinking water downriver from where the goats were standing. Which, by the way, is a good guess as to how American beer was invented.

Remembering the greatest little champion

2007-05-09T09:45:00.000-04:00

5/9/2007

“The tenth round. The champion, Tommy Burns is now definitely in charge. Moir’s face is bloody. Two right-hand blasts by Tommy, and Gunner goes down.
Gamely, the battered challenger struggles to his feet. Burns gets in with a delayed-action punch. Moir crumples. Gunner again struggles to his feet. Not to be denied, Tommy sends the Englishman reeling against the ropes, and unloads a final dynamite right hand. Wham!
Tommy Burns may be small, but he’s the little giant of the heavyweight division. Gunner Moir is in no condition to beat the count. Burns wins by a smashing knockout.”
That was the call on Dec. 2, 1907, when world heavyweight boxing champion Tommy Burns squared off in London, England, against the massive “Gunner” James Moir, then British Isles Heavyweight Champion.
Burns was on a worldwide tour at the time, to solidify his standing as world champion, and he was unbeatable.
He was also a long way from his childhood home near Ayton, right here in far away Normanby Township, where he was born Noah Brusso, on June 17, 1881.
Considering his rough and rowdy early years, and his share of hard and lean later years, Burns lived a full life. He passed away 52 years ago this week, on May 10, 1955.
Noah Brusso was born into an impoverished family of 13 children, and began his prizefighting career in 1900. Four years later he opted for the more Irish-sounding name of Tommy Burns, and never looked back.
When Burns met Marvin Hart for the heavyweight championship of the world in 1906, he was a 2:1 underdog and was given no chance of toppling the champ. He did, and defended his title 11 times over the next two years.
At only 5’ 7” and around 175 pounds, Burns was then, and remains to this day, the smallest heavyweight boxing champion of all time. His unassuming size, however, did not stop him from becoming one of the most dominant fighters of his day. His powerful right hand was a weapon every opponent feared, or felt squarely on their chin.
In 1908, Burns became the first fighter to agree to a title bout with a black boxer, Jack Johnson. Mighty Jack won the fight, when the police stepped in to stop it in round 14.
Burns continued to box occasionally after dropping the title, and suffered his only official knockout loss in 1920 to champ Joe Beckett, one month before his 39th birthday.
After retirement, hardworking Tommy Burns promoted a few boxing shows. He moved to New York City in 1928 and operated a speakeasy, an illegal bar during the dry days of prohibition. Although he was a wealthy man from his boxing days, the Wall Street crash of 1929, and the Great Depression wiped out the bulk of his fortune.
Burns then worked as an insurance salesman and security guard, among other jobs. In 1948, he was ordained as a minister, and became an evangelist, living in California.
Tommy Burns, 73, died of a heart attack while visiting a church friend in Vancouver. Only four people attended his burial, into an unmarked pauper’s grave. A memorial was finally placed on the great champion’s grave in 1961.

Take me out to the smorgball game

2007-04-25T09:21:00.001-04:00

4/24/2007

“I might as well not wake up tomorrow. It’s not going to get any better than this.” — conversation overheard in the right field stands at Dodger Stadium, Los Angeles.
Imagine gorging yourself at a baseball game, and living to tell the tale. That’s how the L.A. Dodgers want it.
The storied major league baseball franchise recently announced they are turning their right-field bleachers into an all-you-can-eat pavilion this season.
For a paltry $35 in advance, or only $40 on game day, right-field fans can happily stuff themselves with nachos, hot dogs, peanuts, popcorn and soft drinks—basically, all the health food that ballpark regulars already enjoy.
Dodger management has obviously not geared the pavilion toward food yuppies, or the fancy folk who shell out the biggest bucks. You won’t find any organic lettuce or feta cheese up in the right field rafters. This feast is for the beasts and, when you get right down to it, most people would rather whoop it up on pork and beans, than sit quietly in a box like kings and queens. Whether it increases attendance as much as waistlines remains to be seen.
Regardless, baseball could use the boost. Any boost.
As far as spectator sports go, baseball is a colossal bore for the bulk of sports fans, even the bulkier ones wolfing down dogs in right field. It lacks the speed of hockey, the punch of football, the purity of rugby, and the gangsters, goons and gargoyles of professional basketball.
People who understand baseball, and study it, find the game enormously entertaining. This is a good thing, but it is nothing that can’t be improved by filling a pumpkin with nachos and cheese, throwing it in the deep fryer, and then selling it to some drunken, shirtless bleacher creature.
The all-you-can-eat approach is sure to be a winner, not so much with fans who are content to sip a few overpriced cups of foam, but with those true die-hards who prefer the more legally risky, but cost effective, strategy of intoxicating themselves in the stadium parking lot.
In the end, I have to give the Dodgers credit for recognizing that Americans are genetically engineered to appreciate the lure of unlimited food consumption. Gas stations in L.A. have more food in them than some countries.
The food is available 90 minutes before game time, and the stands close two hours after the first pitch. In the spirit of mercy, the Dodgers also offer free bottled water.
The only glitch in the perfect logic of smorgball, is the tendency for waste when you know a supply is unlimited. The Dodgers had better make sure they win some games, or it won’t be long before some of those free hot dogs and peanuts come volleying out of the right-field stands.
There is a reason why they stopped selling tomatoes as refreshment at live events years ago, and it isn’t because no one likes biting into a warm, wet tomato.
The best part is, if baseball fans wind up feeling sick by the ninth inning, lost in a hazy blur of foul air, reduced vision and clammy skin, they can always blame it on the loser—which may or may not be the Dodgers, but will undoubtedly be your digestive system.

Must be something in the water

2007-04-19T12:02:00.001-04:00

4/18/2007

Last week a rather astonishing email appeared in my inbox. This one didn’t come from a friendly Nigerian wanting to give me his millions, or a friendly Rolex peddler, or even a friendly pharmacist wanting to sell me blue pills to extend my... life. It was from my cousin in Caledonia.
It seems her community newspaper, the Grand River Sachem, recently reprinted a photo and story that first ran in the Monday, June 25, 1951, edition of the Toronto Star.
The headline on the story read: “Caledonia, village of 1500, boasts 24 sets of twins and credits the healthy, Grand River air.” The photo was snapped at the town bandshell, a popular spot at the time, and included 16 sets of twins. Two tall boys in the back row, listed as Bill and Bob Clark, are none other than my Dad and my uncle.
I knew they were twins, but I had no idea the streets of Caledonia were running wild with multiples back then.
The article went on to say, “There’s a powerful elixir in the air around Caledonia, the people claim. There have been 24 sets of twins born in the village in the last 15 years. Most of them have arrived in the last six years.”
“Most of the fathers of the 48 wouldn’t hazard a reason for the numerous double births. One old timer declared the river air has been good and healthy for 50 years, but it’s sure taken effect in the last 15.”
There must be something in the water. Some folks suggested the town’s main industry, the Gypsum, Lime and Alabastine Co., might have something to do with it, but I like Reeve Alex Blackwell’s explanation the best:
“It’s just that there are no worries in a small town.”
The history of Normanby Township details how, from 1889 to 1989, the township produced nearly 90 sets of twins or multiples. The only explanation offered is “the fine drinking water of the South Saugeen River.”
Must be something in the water up here too.
Some families such as the Pfeffers and Wettlaufers have produced more than one set of twins and, in 1943 alone, twins were born to the Wettlaufers, Meyers and Haaks.
In 1983, the Meyer and Pfeffer boys were born and, a year later, the Patterson twins came along. It wasn’t long before the three sets of twins were playing hockey on the same team—a remarkable feat in any arena, let alone one nestled in the sprawling metropolis of Ayton.
Over the same 1936-51 time period as Caledonia, Normanby produced about a dozen sets of twins, although Caledonia still has the edge with their 24 sets.
It is rather incredible when you think about it, and sounds more like something out of a science fiction movie than a local history page. No one has been able to determine why twins tend to spring up in bunches, or just what that powerful elixir is floating around the air and water.
The dictionary says an elixir is “a magical or medicinal potion, supposedly able to prolong life indefinitely.” I like the sound of that, but the smart money says we shouldn’t go plunging our faces into the Grand and Saugeen rivers just yet. The answer could be anywhere—or it could simply be that there are no worries in a small town.

The best teacher I ever had

2007-04-12T14:51:00.000-04:00

4/10/2007

“How do you do ladies and gentlemen, and boys and girls, and men and women, and people, and my friends everywhere and abundant. I am Julius Sumner Miller, and physics is my business. The Professor they call me in this place, and wonderful things emerge from here.”
—Julius Sumner Miller (May 17, 1909 - April 14, 1987)
This week marks exactly two decades since the death of the best teacher I ever had, the Professor.
School was in nearly every Saturday morning when I was a freckle-faced, tangle-haired lad, and my classroom was the Hilarious House of Frightenstein; a delightfully zany and campy children’s program produced, for what seemed like ten dollars a show, at CHCH TV in Hamilton.
The program was famous for its many oddball characters, from the Wolfman to Grizelda the Ghastly Gourmet, all brought to life by the talents of Billy Van. Julius Sumner Miller, however, was the castle’s resident genius.
He helped me to better understand the behaviour of nature, and when he said physics and mathematics were good for the mind, spirit and soul, I actually believed him.
You believed Julius Sumner Miller, because not only did he appear brilliant, playful and enthusiastic, but he was also a little scary, hidden away in his castle laboratory.
What little hair the Professor had left was white and wild, as if thrown upon his head in a windstorm. His eyes, topped by eyebrows that looked more like big, black, furry caterpillars, burned right into you. Scariest of all was his powerful forearms, which looked capable of tearing you to pieces, if he ever caught you not paying attention.
But, I did pay attention, and I learned all about how the world works; from force and friction, to insulation and inertia, to expansion and contraction and density.
My favourite of his experiments was the one where he used two ashtrays to illustrate the conduction of heat. After fumbling with which end of his cigarette to light, warning young viewers about the dangers of such an activity, the Professor demonstrated how a cigarette will go out in a glass ashtray, because glass is a good thermal conductor, whereas a wooden ashtray does not take the heat away, and the cigarette will continue to smolder and burn.
For more advanced viewers, the Professor would often throw in a few heavier topics, such as Bernoulli’s principle, Pythagoras’ law of vibrating strings, Newton’s laws of motion, and Faraday’s electromagnetic induction.
The Professor said his job was to entertain and amuse you and excite your enthusiasm, curiosity and spirit, but also to raise some questions which are good to think about. And, if you are not enchanted by this, as I have been for 50 years—he would say—you need your soul awakened, your spirit enlivened, and your curiosity stirred.
Hilarious House of Frightenstein was only a brief stop on the teaching journey of Julius Sumner Miller, and he roamed the world bringing the light of physics to the masses. He even had a hit TV show in Australia. And, although my days are filled more with language than science, I am still more than a little enchanted by the kindly Professor.

A new batch is already on the go

2007-04-09T23:38:00.000-04:00

4/3/2007

As far back as I have been legally able to drink it, I have tried to make alcohol, at home, in my spare time.
You might think this is easy. You should think again.
The process itself is embarrassingly simple. All you have to do is find some yeast, give it a whole lot of sugar to eat, and the end result is alcohol. There is nothing difficult about that. The trick lies in making a grog that people, perhaps not too many people, will want to drink.
My first attempt at brewing beer involved a plastic bucket, a closet, and a hockey stick. An old brew maker told me to “kick the pail” every once in a while to activate the yeast, to get the most out of it. His nose looked like an old cauliflower that someone had painted red and purple, so I figured he knew what he was talking about.
I used the hockey stick to fire tennis balls at the bucket, and it actually produced a pale ale, no pun intended, which I bottled away in mason jars. A rookie mistake.
It was some of the worst beer ever made in any closet and, just to add insult to injury, the bottles kept exploding until foam started oozing out from under the closet door.
I tried making red wine after that, and it even bordered on drinkable, provided you added a little ginger ale and pieces of fruit, and served it only to people who were already good and drunk, or didn’t know the difference.
The notion of making moonshine never crossed my mind. That can get dangerous if you don’t know what you are doing. It might even be illegal, and prison is no place for a twitchy blind man with an unpredictable bladder.
Finally, success arrived with a recipe for apple cider.
Of man’s many loves, his affair with the apple is among the oldest. Where the two first met is anyone’s guess, but archeologists feel it stretches as far back as 750,000 years, when survival was a matter of foraging for fruits, roots and nuts. Many an early apple picker probably enjoyed a belly full, after being chased up a tree by something snarling.
The carbonized remains of apples found in Asia date back to 6,500 B.C., and one of the earliest records of apple growing is a notation by scribes of Ramses II in 1,300 B.C., describing the planting of apple trees along the Nile delta. Egyptians brought apples to Greece, and then to Europe.
Pliny the Elder, who died in 79 A.D. in the eruption of Vesuvius, was able to record 36 different apple varieties.
The word “cider” goes back to the ancient Hebrews, where “schechar” meant strong drink, or any intoxicating beverage. Hebrews prized cider for its healthful qualities, and because it did the trick while abstaining from wine.
Many people drinking cider for the first time are disappointed, expecting it to taste like fresh, sweet cider. The taste is acquired, like it is for beer, wine, olives, oysters, tea, coffee, cigars, and cabbage. Once your palate has accepted its unique zest, you will always want a bottle at hand.
My own cider is by no means excellent, but not so bad that friends don’t drain every drop that’s set in front of them. It would probably be much better if left to age for a while, but none of my friends have that kind of discipline.
Not to worry, though. A new batch is already on the go.

Time for the old polar switcheroo

2007-03-29T15:52:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-22T11:26:00.001-04:00

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

2007-03-22T11:25:00.000-04:00

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

2007-03-10T00:10:00.001-05:00

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

2007-03-10T00:09:00.002-05:00

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

2007-03-10T00:09:00.001-05:00

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.

2007-03-10T00:08:00.002-05:00

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

2007-03-10T00:08:00.001-05:00

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

2007-03-10T00:07:00.004-05:00

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

2007-03-10T00:07:00.003-05:00

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

2007-03-10T00:07:00.001-05:00

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

2007-03-10T00:06:00.000-05:00

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.

It’s 2007. Consider yourself lucky.

2007-01-05T16:31:00.001-05:00

12/29/2006

It is 2007. Consider yourself lucky.
Dating back to earliest antiquity, the number 7 has been considered lucky.
In modern times, triple 7s is a winning line on slot machines, and 7 is the winning roll of the dice in the game of craps. It is the sum of any two opposite sides on a six-sided die, yet there is much more to the luck of 7 than its place in games of chance.
There were, for instance, 7 ancient planets, which gave rise to our 7 days of the week, which are named after the 7 major Roman gods.
The number 7 runs rampant through just about every religion as well. The Arabians had 7 holy temples, and Islam has 7 heavens. In Judaism, God rested on and sanctified the 7th day. Christianity counts the 7 deadly sins of lust, gluttony, avarice, envy, wrath, sloth and pride. The Bible says 7 is the perfect number, there are 7 sacraments in the Roman Catholic faith, and Buddhists claim that Buddha walked 7 steps at his birth.
When asked to choose a number between 1 and 10, the most commonly chosen number is 7.
Counting the nostrils, eyes, ears and mouth, there are 7 openings to nearly every human head.
There are 7 liberal arts and sciences, 7 wonders of the ancient world, 7 notes in a musical scale, 7 colours in a rainbow, boats sail the 7 seas around 7 continents, and Snow White had her 7 dwarfs.
The 7th son of a 7th son is supposed to be born gifted. Apparently, singer Donny Osmond is such a son, although no one is really certain of his “gifts”.
On TV’s “Seinfeld”, George Costanza desires to name his first-born 7. Star Trek poured curvy actress Geri Ryan into a skinsuit and called her 7, and James Bond's secret agent number is 007.
It is the retired jersey number of baseball’s Mickey Mantle, hockey’s Ted Lindsay, football’s John Elway, and the highest paid athlete in the world, Tiger Woods, swings a 7 iron rather well.
It is also the number of spots on a ladybug.
The smallest number requiring more than one syllable in English is 7, and it is the largest number of cylindrical objects that can be tied into a bundle and the shape of the bundle remains fixed.
The natives of Montana have 7 seasons: chinook season, muddy spring, green summer, gold summer, Indian summer, late fall and cold winter.
Rugby 7s is a game of rugby that contains only 7 players per side instead of the standard 15, and a hefty number of Stanley Cups have been filled with champagne after game 7 of the NHL finals.
Number 7 is a popular cigarette brand, 7up is a popular soft drink, and you buy them at 7-Eleven.
The number 7 appears 42 times in this column, which is equal to 7 multiplied by itself, subtract 7.
So, it all works out in the end—or was it luck?

The inconvenient truth about Santa

2006-12-13T14:19:00.001-05:00

12/12/2006

With U.S presidential failure Al Gore’s much talked-about documentary “An Inconvenient Truth” now on video store shelves, the Confederate had a chance last week to sit down with the filmmaker and delve into the topic of global climate change.
C.C. - Greetings, Mr. Gore, and thank you for the opportunity for us to have this little chat.
A.G. - My pleasure. Does it seem hot in here?
C.C. - You haven’t taken your coat off, sir.
A.G. - Ah, yes of course. We might be laughing today, but global warming is real, man-made, and its effects will be cataclysmic if we do not act now.
C.C. - Are you saying we will all burst into flames soon if we don’t come to terms with this dilemma?
A.G. - Yes.
C.C. - I see. Is there really any hard evidence that we are in the grips of climate change?
A.G. - Oh, certainly there is. The polar ice caps are melting, the oceans are rising, the deserts are hotter, and tropical storms are more severe now.
People are sweating more before noon, toasters are burning toast more often and, in a couple years we won’t even have to boil water for coffee. Forget about cold beer and ice cream. Cool Whip is already making efforts to change its name to Warm Whip.
C.C. - That can’t be welcome news for anyone who likes to eat strawberry shortcake.
A.G. - It’s a disaster, to be sure. Even worse, global warming is having a direct effect on Santa Claus. He may not even be coming this year.
C.C. - What? No Santa Claus? No presents? No Christmas? Please tell me it isn’t that bad.
A.G. - It is. For starters, there is no way Santa’s sleigh is getting off the ground this year. The North Pole is nothing more than wet slush right now.
C.C. - Can’t his eight tiny reindeer pull it out?
A.G. - Not likely. They haven’t flown since Santa traded in his sleigh for a canoe, and taught the reindeer to swim. It’s been a difficult adjustment.
C.C. - Not to mention the threat of polar bears.
A.G. - Actually, they are no longer much of a problem. Most of them just sleep all day in the shade, under the porch on Santa’s workshop.
C.C. - That must be tough on all the elves.
A.G. - Yes, it is. There aren’t quite as many as there used to be, and no one could figure out where they were all disappearing to. The few elves that are left don’t even come outside anymore.
C.C. - Who is going to load Santa’s sleigh? How will all the good girls and boys get any presents?
A.G. - Until everyone goes out and buys all new light bulbs for their homes, electric cars and a solar toothbrush, there are no good little boys and girls.
C.C. - That’s a pretty hefty price tag, Mr. Gore. What if we can’t afford to make so many changes?
A.G. - Then just buy my documentary.

When in doubt, turn the reggae out

2006-11-29T16:26:00.000-05:00

11/28/2006

After getting out and enjoying our unseasonably warm weather, there was only one thing left to do during last week’s heat wave—get the reggae out.

Reggae is a music genre born in Jamaica in the late 1960s. The term reggae is often used in a broad sense to refer to many types of Jamaican music; but the feeling, and the groove, is always pretty much the same. It makes you feel good.

The music is based on a rhythm style of regular chops on the back beat, known as the skank. Any music that describes itself using the word skank is okay in my books. The rhythm is cranked out on a guitar, with the bass drum hitting on the third beat of each measure, known as the one drop.

This is important if you want to play reggae, and largely meaningless if all you want to do is listen.

And listening is the best part. Reggae can lift you up when you are down, and lift you higher when you get up. It lacks the angst of hard rock, and all the pathetic simpering found in country music.

This may have something to do with its roots in the Rastafarian movement, which influenced many prominent reggae musicians, such as Toots and the Maytals, and its undisputed king Bob Marley.

One of the cornerstones of the Rasta religion is the sacred use of cannabis, and the promotion of cannabis use through lyrics, images and lifestyle has been a staple of reggae since its inception.

True Rastafarians enjoy their marijuana, some until their eyes are bleeding, but it is by no means a reggae requirement. Jamaica actually has some of the harshest anti-marijuana laws in the world.

Either way, reggae music is good medicine, and I recommend a dose of it for whatever is ailing you.

Anyone lucky enough to be in the Old Roxy on Sunday night got a welcome dose of the music in the form of Staylefish, the opening act for a free concert being held at the Mount Forest theatre. It was a perfect way to cap off the heat wave, before the snow and the Christmas music takes over.

According to their website, the six members of Staylefish come from diverse cultural backgrounds and were drawn together by a love of reggae.

The band infuses the underlying framework of reggae rhythm with a rock sensibility that crosses over into the mainstream, and the lads have created a powerful body of original work that boasts catchy melodies and intoxicating rhythms.

Having already built a devoted following in the Canadian music scene, London-based Staylefish sits poised to widen their audience internationally.

And, I rather hope they do.

I will be keeping my eyes and ears open for future Staylefish music and appearances. Their first two CDs are anything but stale, and I plan on giving them a good listen this winter—and often.

Take me to your Colonel

2006-11-29T16:24:00.000-05:00

11/21/2006

When the aliens land, and you have to believe they will now, they will know who the leader of planet Earth truly is—Colonel Harland D. Sanders.

According to company officials, KFC has the honour of being the first brand to be visible from outer space. Out in the Nevada desert, near super secret Area 51, the company recently arranged a collage of colour-coded tiles to create an 87,500 square feet logo of the Colonel’s grinning face.

The stunt consists of 65,000 painted tile pieces, assembled like a giant jigsaw puzzle, and the "Face from Space" took more than 3,000 hours to create from inception to launch. The logo took 24 days of working around the clock to manufacture.

It then took six days on site to construct the logo, during which time the design pieces were kept hidden and under cover from identified, as well as any nosy unidentified, flying objects.

One can only imagine how proud KFC shareholders must be of this fine use of company resources.
Whether any aliens will spot the Colonel and leave our stratosphere in fear is anyone’s guess, but the project has certainly sparked some discussion.

There are those who feel the Face from Space answers the mystery of that ominous face on Mars, which we now know is simply another interstellar corporate logo placed by some alien ad agency.

Those who believe the end times are near, that we are careening at top speed towards doomsday, will now think KFC has doomed the human race; because all the hungry aliens who would otherwise be cruising right past are going to stop for chicken, get nuked by any government insane enough to launch the big one, and send us into atomic winter.
If aliens are looking for a sign of intelligent life down here, the Colonel may have just proven we are not suited to join the galactic community. No alien race is going to want to hang out with a planet full of beings more interested in clogging their arteries than opening their minds.

Then again, this may be our ticket to conquering all the other planets. Presumably, aliens will come to Earth, serve the Colonel, get addicted to the best fast food in the galaxy, feel their own arteries slam shut with a bang, and bring an end to the galactic community in one more triumph for planet Earth.

In keeping with the mystery and lore of Area 51, there are those who think the entire stunt may be a conspiracy, a well-hatched plan if you’ll pardon the pun, to keep an evil race of space chickens from coming to Earth and enslaving our children.

Regardless, you have to hand it to KFC for going big, and having the resources to pull it off. It must be quite a sight, out there in the Nevada desert.

I wonder what it looks like from Uranus though.

Probably the same as any other KFC experience.

Ain’t no rules against fibreglass

2006-11-29T16:23:00.000-05:00

11/14/2006

Sometimes you hear a story so fantastic, so unusually incredible, you know it can only be true.
Such is the case with the Pumpkin Regatta.

An old friend, known to many as the Duke, stopped by the other day. Over a few glasses of good cheer, he managed to tell me about his visit last month to Windsor, Nova Scotia, and his experiences competing in the great Pumpkin Regatta.

It was on the Windsor farm of Howard Dill that giant pumpkins evolved. A four-time Guinness Book of World Records holder and developer of the Dill’s Atlantic Giant pumpkin seeds, Mr. Dill is credited with launching the international craze of growing giant pumpkins. It seems only logical that someone would then think of hollowing out the great gourds, sitting inside them, and racing them across a lake.

In 1999, local citizens approached Mr. Dill’s son about boosting tourism, and he became the first to suggest racing pumpkins across Lake Pesaquid.

The event has since taken on a life of its own.

In the first year of the race, with a massive operating budget of $50, the Pumpkin Regatta attracted over 2,000 skeptical spectators who turned out to watch five brave, and no doubt equally skeptical, participants attempt to manoeuvre their hollowed-out giant pumpkins across Lake Pesaquid.

The Duke said there was approximately 6,000 spectators this year, all cheering madly—and roughly 5,999 of them were drinking madly as well.

And how did the Duke and his pumpkin finish?

After a practice run in which he thought he was the fastest of the field, or lake, Duke let youthful exuberance get the better of him, and he capsized before even hearing the starting gun.

Officially, he was listed as DNS. Did not start.

The hands-down champion of the event is Leo Swinimer Sr. of Halifax, who, in the words of the Duke, is “some crazy 70-year-old geezer who wins the thing every year. The guy is unbeatable.”

But not in 2007.

If Duke has anything to say about it, the geezer is going down; and he is already plotting a surefire way to overthrow the cagey veteran pumpkin pilot.

Schooled in architecture, Duke knows about structural dynamics. He is certain that if his team had scooped fewer Alexander Keith’s out of the cooler, and scooped more pumpkin guts out of his 660lb entry, the outcome could have been different.

He plans on returning to Windsor with another giant pumpkin, and shaving the shell down to the thickness of a thumb. Apparently, there is no rule against the use of fibreglass in preparing your pumpkin, and Team Duke plans on glazing the gourd until it is as hard as an Atlantic iceberg.

I wish him luck, and I just may join Team Duke. Someone is going to have to drink all that Keith’s.

I’m having a power interruption

2006-11-29T16:21:00.000-05:00

11/8/2006

Sometimes Wellington North Power gets it right.

It isn’t easy to like the power company, and they are in a tough spot. No one wants to buy a drink for the person who controls all the switches. They make you feel small, and no one likes that feeling.

We have progressed to the point where electric power is a crucial commodity in our society. Computers, microwave ovens, and clock radios are wonderful tools, but they are little more than ugly furniture when the power goes off.

With every one of our great technological advances, we have become increasingly dependent on good old volts and amps. There isn’t much we can do today without electricity, and no one is happy when a power interruption comes their way.

Power interruption. It sounds horrible, actually; sort of like something you might say when you can’t quite reach the top of a flight of stairs.

“I’m sorry,” you might say to the first person that passes you. “I’m having a power interruption.”

That’s what W.N.P.Inc. called a short interruption in the electrical service from approximately 6:30 a.m. to 6:45 a.m., and again at approximately 11 a.m. to 11:30 a.m., on Sunday.

W.N.P.Inc. was upgrading hydro lines on Wellington St. E. and required an interruption for safety reasons. Safety first!, Elmer the Safety Elephant used to say. Or was that Smokey the Bear? Or the Trojan condom company? I can’t remember.

Regardless, if safety doesn’t begin in Wellington then where does it? A little interruption isn’t all that bad now and then. It forces us to fend for ourselves for a little while, and I happen to like that idea.

That is why I have to hand it to W.N.P.Inc.

When you give it some thought, 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday is the best time of the week to shut everything down. Any other day would power down too many of the machines that keep the world working.

Most of us who enjoy living it up on Saturday night are finally in bed, or on the floor, by 6:30 a.m.

Relatively normal people are also usually asleep at 6:30 on a Sunday morning. There is no reason to be awake at that time of day, unless you are milking cows, or landing an airplane full of people.

Relatively normal people are also in church on Sunday morning around 11 a.m., when all you really need to get by is a few strong voices and seats uncomfortable enough that people won’t nod off.

There isn’t even anything good on television on Sunday morning you might be missing. There is no way a decent society could pull the plug on a Sunday afternoon during the fall football season.

It is Grey Cup time, after all.

So, hats off to W.N.P.Inc. for knowing what is important. Good job, and feel free to interrupt the power every Sunday morning. We’ll get through it.

You probably owe your mother

2006-11-29T16:20:00.000-05:00

11/1/2006

Today is Nov. 1, and a lot of great people share birthdays today. Born on exactly the same day, 60 plus years ago, were Alberta Premier and drinker Ralph Klein, as well as Hustler magazine and pornographer Larry Flynt—and my Mother.

No one can deny that King Ralph, and the uncrowned King of Smut, have accomplished a lot in life, but my Mom probably has them both beat.

For starters, I was overdue, which was a bold beginning for a baby that wasn’t even planned. That doesn’t mean I was unwanted, just unexpected; which can actually be a blessing, because we mistakes are off the hook for the rest of our lives.

I could drive a burning busload of kittens into a swimming pool and, when the police ask what on earth I was thinking, I can always say “Hey, go easy, man. I’m not even supposed to be here.”

When I was little, I remember Mom singing to me, tunes like “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and “Yankee Doodle” and songs by some fat guy named Elvis.

Later, she would make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and let me watch Sesame Street, back in the days before peanuts were evil and such a grave danger to all the good boys and girls.

Her grilled cheese were packed with so much cheese, back in the days before lactose was such a danger to all the boys and girls, that it would ooze down your hands and arms. That’s when I learned how hard it is to lick your elbows. Try it sometime.

She read me stories about the three bears, the cat in the hat, and how the circus would one day come to town and I could go with them. She even claimed to have written a letter of reference.

Mom also taught me to drive. Our 1976 Toyota Corona wagon was a piece of junk by that time, but it was the best piece of junk a kid could ask for, and that’s when I learned how easy it is to roll a car.

Today, I get to listen to my Mother talk about when she was young, back when it was a much simpler time, and the earth was still cooling and such.

Just recently, I heard about the time she and her crazy friend Wendy caught a bunch of snakes that were sunning themselves on a well, hid them in her basement in a wash tub, and they all got loose.

Mothers are also really good for passing along their favourite recipes, and the one I simply have to get next is the recipe for those chocolate oatmeal coconut cookies you don’t have to bake. Normal people call them macaroons, I think, but my brothers and I knew them simply as poo balls.

You never had to worry about the other kids wanting to trade you lunches, when they asked what you had, and you yelled back “Poo balls!”

So, the next time your mother has a birthday, try and remember all the stories, grilled cheese and driving lessons, and be thankful. You owe her a lot.

Men are dying to know the score

2006-11-29T16:18:00.000-05:00

10/24/2006

It’s official. Men are dying to know the score.

A recent study has determined not even a medical emergency will pull some men away from their televisions when the big game is on—which brings a whole new meaning to the term die-hard fan.

Emergency physician David Jerrard tracked nearly 800 regular season college and professional football, baseball and basketball games in the state of Maryland over three years, and found there was always an increase in the number of men who checked into emergency rooms after such events.

Apparently, 50 per cent more men registered in emergency rooms following a football game than during the event itself, and up to 40 per cent more sought care following a baseball game.

Dr. Jerrard says men check in after a game with "similar symptoms to what any emergency department sees on a daily basis" such as chest pains, abdominal pains, headaches and various injuries.

Great, doc, but what are you really measuring?

Jerrard suggests that men are willing to risk their health by putting off going to the emergency room, because they want to see the final results of a game; perhaps the last game they will ever see.

This new study is a follow-up to one he completed two years ago, which found a drop of about 30 per cent in the number of men checking into hospital emergency rooms during sports broadcasts.

It’s only common sense. If there is something you can delay for an hour or two for something you actually want to do, you’ll delay it. Unless a man is coughing a lung into the chip dip, or the sound of an artery rupturing drowns out the play-by-play, he will most likely ride it out until the game is over.

What the good doctor also failed to consider is the various activities men enjoy after the game.
The increase could be due to the number of armchair athletes who decide to mimic the pros in their own backyards, or engage in post-game violence.

My friend Joe offers a prime example.

It was 1993, in game six of the NHL semi-finals, when Wayne Gretzky of the L.A. Kings laid a high stick on MVP and Toronto Maple Leafs star Doug Gilmour, and skated away without a penalty.

The Brantford crybaby went on to score the winner, plus a hat-trick in game seven, and carry the Kings to the NHL finals against the Montreal Canadiens; robbing the Leafs of their rightful place in the final, on pro hockey’s 100th anniversary.

Joe was thrust into such a rage, he launched his living room table across the room, all the while yelling and screaming a very violent, very blue tirade for about 20 minutes. A neighbour nearly stepped in to calm the situation, but thought twice about it once he spotted the carnage—thus saving the doctor two more cases for his study.

Take an extra pair of pants

2006-11-29T16:17:00.000-05:00

10/17/2006

If you ever have the good fortune to be in New Brunswick for Thanksgiving, take along an extra pair of pants—with an elastic waistband.

After spending Thanksgiving weekend in that fair province, I learned first hand why our Maritime friends are so well known for their hospitality. They throw the food and drink at you until your blood is basically a mixture of gin and gravy.

New Brunswick knows how to have a good time.

The cost of living is higher there than in most Canadian provinces, and the wages certainly are not, but it still doesn’t prevent anyone from enjoying life. The locals are happy; gravy or no gravy.

Away from the get-rich-or-die-trying pull of the United States, or major urban centres like Toronto, New Brunswick goes about things in its own way, in its own good time, and the good times are drawn to you as if the tide were pulling them right on in.

How much I enjoyed myself was easy to gauge, accurately measured by a simple bathroom scale.

Not accurately, perhaps, but the scale did spike by about three or four more pounds each day I was in New Brunswick. That’s a lot of gin and gravy.

At first, I felt the machine was malfunctioning, that I was heavier due to my proximity to sea level.

This was folly, and I quickly realized my weight gain was due entirely to my proximity to George the chef and Tracy the bartender. Great people. I think I will name my first heart attack after them.

George had two things he wanted to accomplish over the weekend. One was to test a new propane deep fryer, and the other was to check his on-line dating service, to see if anyone had sent him topless photographs. At least, the fryer was a success.

Saturday’s test run of chicken wings were some of the best I’ve ever had, and Sunday’s deep-fried turkey was beyond delicious, cooked to perfection; a real thing of beauty, unlike those on-line dates.

Toss in gobs of mashed potatoes with herb and garlic cream cheese, baby carrots with cinnamon, mustard pickles, stuffing and blackberry wine, and you had a feast fit for the finest of magazines.

Once again, unlike most of those on-line dates.

Tracy had some skills of her own, and served up a zingy, little pink concoction she called the pantini.

From the basic martini, the drink evolved into a cranberry cocktail known as the crantini. When the cranberry ran out, Tracy switched over to passion fruit, and her pantini was born. When the vodka ran out, leaving only that dastardly gin, the drink was quickly renamed the pantini remover.

Another popular New Brunswick treat was the deep fried pickle, and I suggest you give it a try.

It got to the point where I wanted to try a deep fried pine cone. It gets a little bitter, but at least it’s good for scouring out your last unclogged artery.

Forced into a man-to-skunk standoff

2006-11-29T16:14:00.000-05:00

10/10/2006

Walking home late last week, with darkness all around, I was suddenly face-to-face with one of the most feared and reviled creatures on our planet.

It wasn’t some drug-addled junkie all jacked up on methamphetamine that I met, nor a bible-toting religious zealot ready to beat me into submission with Psalms and Proverbs—although both can be rather dangerous if they catch you off guard.

No, I met a skunk.

We both rounded the corner of a building at exactly the same time, and surprised each other. Neither of us expected to see the other out roaming at that time of night, and we froze in our tracks in some sort of comical man-to-skunk standoff.

It has been said your entire life can flash in front of your eyes during times of mortal peril, that time slows down to a crawl. I think this is the result of that surge of adrenaline you get in such circumstances, and mine was flowing, even as we stared each other in the eye, barely a few feet apart.

Neither of us budged an inch, sizing up our surprise adversary for what seemed like minutes. It was actually only a few seconds, but it was plenty long enough for me to lock into the weasel’s gaze, and realize he wasn’t taking a backward step.

Suddenly, I noticed Mr. Skunk was just as worried about me as I was about him. From an early age, sensible people are taught to avoid skunks. What skunks learn about us is anyone’s guess.

His stance told me he was undecided, not knowing if fight or flight was the proper choice. In one on one combat, I like to think I could get the better of a skunk. They are scrappy and capable little hunters, but I had him beat by close to 300 pounds.

The skunk, as we all know, is equipped with a defence mechanism that can spray an incredibly foul-smelling and effective stench several feet from his back end. I knew he had me beat there, even on my best day, after a marathon session of cooked cabbage, baked beans and draught beer.

Quickly deciding that going toe-to-toe with a skunk was a losing proposition, I backed down and made the first move; one slow step backwards.

Don’t look him in the eye, I remembered, but that’s for a bear confrontation. No sudden movements, I thought, remembering the advice for meeting an angry dog. Keep arms and legs inside the bus at all times. No, that was grade school.

Luckily, the skunk made the next move, and waddled away with that impressive black and white tail puffed up as large as possible, letting me know he probably had the right of way the entire time.

I stopped at a single step of retreat. I had my pride, after all, and wanted to make sure he knew I wasn’t some wimp he could just push around. Next time might even be different—but I doubt it.

Let the bidding war begin

2006-11-29T16:08:00.000-05:00

10/3/2006

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

Seeing as cancer is a serious issue, it is about time the funding for cancer research was given some serious consideration. After giving it a little serious thought, I have come up with a recommendation.We should organize an art auction.

Mine would be no ordinary auction, however, because the paintings would be original works of art, donated by some of the various extraordinary celebrities and famous folk who enrich our lives.

And, the paintings would be no ordinary works of art either, because they would be painted entirely by the artist’s exposed breasts, which seems like a perfect fit for breast cancer awareness when you give it a little thought. I can already picture it.

How the artists get the paint from their various “brushes” to the canvas is of no concern. It would be done behind closed doors, completely in private. This is not some tawdry peep show. It is a serious fundraiser, and could generate some serious coin.

Pamela Anderson, for example, is always spouting off about animal cruelty and how we should all be eating turkey made of vegetable gum. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt her to lend her ample assets to such a worthwhile cause as breast cancer awareness.

Susan Sarandon is another accomplished actress who isn’t afraid to voice her political leanings. If she truly is a woman who cares, it wouldn’t hurt her one bit to lean forward for the breast cancer cause.
All the artists would have to do is donate a little of their time, get creative, and make sure the paint is dry before the auctioneer’s gavel sounds.

Just think of the money a room full of stuffy old art collectors might shell out for a one-of-a-kind piece, painted entirely hands-free by the lovely and talented actress Scarlett Johansson.

With a little work, we could probably get Dolly Parton on board, followed by Jessica Simpson or Jenna Jameson. There’s no telling what Paris Hilton might do if enough money was on the table.
And that’s just the ones whose names end in “on”. Those perky Olsen twins could paint something together, or the entire cast of Desperate Housewives hook up for an enormous mural.

Because breast cancer affects not only women, but men as well, a number of Hollywood’s hunky leading men could also ease up to the easel. There are ladies out there who would rob a bank for something painted by Tom Cruise, George Clooney, Mel Gibson, Clint Eastwood, or Ernest Borgnine.

With his political clout, there is no limit to what Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger and his massive pecs could accomplish. If we are ever going to get serious about finding a cure for cancer, it can’t be a bad thing to get serious about my new fundraiser.

Let the bidding war begin!

Live well, live long, in the city

2006-11-29T16:07:00.000-05:00

9/26/2006

It used to be a big lung full of fresh, country air was good for you. Well, don’t be so sure.

A recent national study has shown that rural Canadians are less healthy than city dwellers. The study’s key finding was that Canadians that live in rural areas, especially the most remote rural areas, have higher death rates than urban Canadians.

The report claims rural Canadians are more likely than city dwellers to die from circulatory diseases such as hypertension and heart disease; respiratory diseases such as influenza, pneumonia, and bronchitis; plus diabetes, injuries and suicide.

Researchers compared urban areas with four types of rural areas: those with the highest flow of employed people commuting to work in an urban environment, and areas with moderate, weak, and no commuting flow at all. They found the closer Canadians live to an urban centre, the lower their mortality rate. So, call your friends in Proton or West Luther. Warn them. The end may be near.

Analysis showed risk factors such as smoking and obesity are reported more frequently among rural than urban residents, and this may contribute to the higher risk of dying prematurely from circulatory disease among rural and remote residents.

The annual mortality rate in the most remote areas was 792 deaths per 100,000, while in urban centres that rate dropped to 695. Meanwhile, motor vehicle accident deaths were two to three times higher in rural areas than in cities.
The study also found that 57 per cent of those living in rural areas were overweight, compared to 47 per cent in urban centres. It found that 32 per cent of those living in rural areas were smokers, compared to only 25 per cent in cities.
Urban Canadians were also more likely to have five or more servings of fruits and vegetables a day than their rural counterparts, researchers said.

The report wasn't all bad news for rural folk, however, so cheer up out there in the swamp.
Rural residents reported having lower levels of stress, a lower incidence of cancer, and a stronger sense of community than their urban counterparts.

My own observations have led me to the conclusion that a rural dweller is less likely to be caught under a bus or subway train, less likely to be bitten by a rat, escaped lunatic, or homeless person; and less likely to be trampled to death underneath a sign offering half price off everything in stock.

A rural dweller is less likely to catch a bullet while ordering french fries, less likely to be taken hostage in a bank robbery, and less likely to be stabbed in the neck while changing a flat tire.

A rural dweller doesn’t worry about these things—or about what the next big study says.

A rural dweller is too busy enjoying life.

You never know what you’ll see

2006-11-29T16:06:00.000-05:00

9/19/2006

“I'd like to dream my troubles all away on a bed of California stars; jump up from my starbed, make another day, underneath my California stars.”

— “California Stars” words by Woody Guthrie

You never know what you might see on a good road trip. Travel far enough, and look long enough, and you just might see some things you never imagined—and that is precisely what makes a good road trip so good, and well worth the effort.

In the past month, the road took me across Canada, down through California, and back home across the United States. Three weeks and more than 11,000 kilometres later, I managed to see a whole new batch of interesting things, and meet a whole new batch of interesting people.

On a lake north of Thunder Bay, I watched a float plane touch down in the shallows not far from camp. Having a friend stop by for a beer is nothing new. Having that friend stop over in his airplane, have a drink, and then take off again, certainly is.

Across an all-night stretch of Saskatchewan prairie, I watched the Northern Lights glow an eerie green over the wheat fields. Anyone who has pulled straw bales off a dry field can imagine the prairies at harvest, except the field goes on for 16 hours.

In Calgary, I found a city that shines like a new dime, with buildings springing up in all directions, seemingly overnight. The west is booming, and the locals are proud. Cowtown loves its growth spurt, so long as you don’t notice the high cost of living.

Outside Revelstoke, B.C., I watched a forest fire rage behind a massive statue of Smokey the Bear, as if Ol’ Smokey had turned his back on the very duties he was entrusted to uphold all these years.

In California’s central valley, the crop of the day appears to be plywood. As the Golden State’s population continues to explode, new homes are springing up like weeds. California’s finest farmland is being bought up and fenced up, forever transforming town after town, from Chico to Chowchilla.

After driving all night through the Nevada desert, it wasn’t hard to see why they tested atomic bombs there. There isn’t much filling the Great Basin, and the nuclear fallout didn’t create too many mutations, unless you count all the casinos.

Breakfast in the Rainbow casino in Wendover consisted of four double screwdrivers. It was breakfast after all, and I needed the orange juice. The Rainbow is a full-out assault on the senses at any time, but nothing three 7 a.m. sevens can’t fix.

At a gas station in Salt Lake City, I asked if folks from California are Californians, then what are people from Utah called? “Uh, Mormons,” he said.

The conversation was just as sparkling through Iowa, Wyoming and Nebraska; but you won’t hear me complain. I love the road—and the road home.

Rod Stewart owes me a favour

2006-11-29T16:05:00.000-05:00

9/12/2006

The way I see it, Rod Stewart owes me a favour.

It’s not as if Rod and I go way back. Far from it; but he owes me all the same. Our relationship is not a long one at all, dating back only a couple weeks, to when I lived for two days at his house.

While vacationing last month in picturesque Pemberton, British Columbia, just up the winding road from Whistler, I spent a day clearing trails for my new buddy Rod, and repairing his front porch.

Don’t expect the genius behind such pop classics as “Maggie May” and “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?” to even notice my generosity, because Mr. Stewart does not get to Pemberton very often—or at all.

If the story I was told is true, the three friends I was visiting were one day reclining in the heat on Rod’s rickety old porch, when a helicopter touched down in the field across from the house. What came out of it was a vivacious, young blonde woman; reeking of perfume, money, arrogance, and all the other things rich people admire most.

She took one look around, brushed the mountain dust from her high heels, and flew away in the chopper as quickly as she had arrived. When the trio on the porch enquired as to her identity, they were told she was Rod Stewart’s wife, or girlfriend, or both, and that he had purchased the ranch, and was now, in effect, their new landlord.

That such a thing could, and does, happen in Pemberton comes as no surprise to anyone who lives there. With the Olympics coming up and the economy in high gear, there is money in the air in Pemberton and Whistler, and the rich and famous are already clamoring for a piece of the peace, seclusion and beauty of our Canadian Rockies.

The fact that his horse trails had grown in, and front porch had caved in, did not matter to Rod. He and Maggie May no doubt bought the farm as an investment, and probably won’t move in until Mick Jagger buys the place next door and builds a trendy spa to treat their wrinkled old rock and roll skin.

Regardless, I spent an afternoon cutting back the trees and brush that were choking the trails. I even scared off a bear, who was there eating berries.

Who knows what would have happened if Mr. and Mrs. Stewart had been out for a lovers’ stroll and met that bear. An old rocker in leather pants would look like a big stuffed burrito to a bear, but it wanted no part of a barefoot, 300-pound man, pouring sweat and brandishing a large machete.

The porch was an easy fix. After raising the entire deck with the jack from my car, I wedged a massive wooden block under the support beam. Now the entire crowd from Rod Stewart’s last concert, all two dozen of them, could dance the night away on it. Like I said, the guy owes me. Maybe he will get me tickets to a concert—just not one of his.

Thank you for your 30 square inches

2006-09-06T14:08:00.000-04:00

9/5/2006

Dear Mr. Louis Reard

You may not know me. My name is Chris, and I am a big fan of your work.

The summer of 2006 is behind us now, and I just wanted to thank you for your greatest achievement, the bikini. Your remarkable little two-piece bathing suit celebrated its 6oth birthday this year, and I am one of the grateful ones. Summer goes by too quickly, and you, Mr. Reard, have helped to make it that much more enjoyable. I would say "keep up the good work", but you have already done so much.

Best described as four little triangles that cover the breasts, groin and buttocks, your original 30 square inches of fabric was a stroke of genius. When you said a bikini isn‚t a bikini unless it can be pulled through a wedding ring, people listened. My, how they listened.

Although one-piece swimsuits surged in popularity in the 1990s, the bikini has made a serious comeback in recent years. Don‚t get me wrong, sir. The one-piece is a very fine and flattering summer garment, but there is still no substitute for your delicate creation. So, once again, thank you.

Naming your new swimsuit after the nuclear testing at the Bikini Atoll, thinking it would create a burst of excitement like the atomic bomb, was also a smooth move. Your real bombshell was the bikini‚s first-ever model, that shapely nude dancer you found in a Paris nightclub, Micheline Bernardini.

Beautiful models have stepped up to showcase your skimpy little number since day one. I don‚t know who to thank for that, but they deserve it too. In 1957, Brigitte Bardot made a definite splash in her bikini in the film "And God Created Woman." In 1962, Ursula Andress parted the ocean in "Dr. No" as one of the first, and finest, of the Bond girls.
Two years later, the bikini graced the cover of Sports Illustrated for the first time. Today, that magazine‚s annual swimsuit edition is one of the most eagerly awaited issues in locker rooms around the world.

By the end of the 1960s, the bikini was a beach blanket staple, inspiring such classic cinematic fare as "How to Stuff a Wild Bikini." In 1987, Carrie Fisher donned a gold bikini as Princess Leia in the silver screen’s epic "Return of the Jedi". Almost immediately, the picture became the highest grossing film of the original Star Wars trilogy. Coincidence, Mr. Reard? I think not.

As good as your invention was in 1946, it did take a number of years to catch on over here in North America. Down south, the Brazilians have taken the bikini to the extreme, with a back portion so thin it disappears, well, down south. The "thong" or "G-string" is a welcome addition to any beach, but it leaves precious little to the imagination, and we all know imagination is something you had in spades 60 years ago. You have my gratitude, Mr. Reard. Cheers to summer, and cheers to your bikini!

Sincerely, your friend;
Ray.

Sorry grandpa, your tomatoes were rotten

2006-09-06T14:06:00.000-04:00

8/30/2006

My grandfather grew all kinds of tomatoes.

He grew big, juicy ones as large and heavy as a human head; the kind that would cover a piece of toast, and then some, with a single, dripping slice.

He grew small, teardrop-shaped ones that he mashed, sealed up in jars, and stored in the basement in the event of the next Great Depression.

He grew tiny, bright red ones that exploded in your mouth, and down your chin, and down your shirt, if you made the mistake of biting into one.

He even grew those crazy yellow ones that looked like leftovers from the Chernobyl disaster.
If he only knew that he was cultivating poison.

Recently, it has come to my attention that the tomato, that zesty little vegetable, or fruit, or whatever it really is, is actually a poisonous berry.

The tomato was first domesticated by the Aztecs, and their civilization is in ruins today. Coincidence? I doubt it. Later, around 1600, Spanish conquerors brought the thin-skinned berries to Europe.

Europeans resisted the New World food, thinking it fit only for wild animals. Early botanists named it Lycopersicon, or “wolf peach”, and it took a long time to catch on. The first recipe for tomato ketchup didn’t appear in kitchens until the 1700s.

The tomato plant is a member of the poisonous deadly Nightshade family. Its leaves are hairy and have a strong odour, kind of like my grandfather, and the leaves, stems, and anything else green on the plant is toxic to humans. Even a small amount can kill a cat. If your ex-girlfriend offers you some green tomato tea after a messy break-up, run as fast as you can in the opposite direction.

The plants contain a bitter alkaloid called solanine, which is the same nasty stuff found in green potatoes, so try not to eat too many of them either.

The poison is the plant’s defense mechanism, which helps to explain why the tomato is so easily cultivated throughout the world, like an invading species, from porches to palaces.

As if it couldn’t get any worse, tomatoes can intensify arthritis and other ailments. If you are thinking about kicking cigarettes, clear out all your tomatoes as well. The fruit contains trace elements of nicotine, and can re-trigger cigarette addiction.

I hesitate to even call the tomato a fruit. It has been listed as a vegetable, for taxation purposes, but the debate continues to rage over what it really is. There is no way I will be convinced the tomato is a fruit, because it can not produce alcohol.

Fruits make wine, brandy and many other lovely products to enjoy on a hot day. The tomato does not, and that is why you will never find a bottle of tomato ice wine in your local wine region.

It is an aberration, and should be avoided at all costs. Just ask the Aztecs—if you can find one.

It was Jimi, not music, at its best

2006-09-06T14:03:00.000-04:00

8/22/2006

“It was the place to come to. It wasn’t just a rock and roll show. It was not just about the music. It was really about that decade and that culture.”
— Michael Lang, Woodstock Festival promoter

The next time an old hippie strolls up beside you and starts on again about how Woodstock was the greatest concert of all time, be a pal and tell Moonbeam or Skywriter or Peachblossom or what-have-you the truth, and say Woodstock wasn’t nearly as good as you might remember, man.

Historically speaking, the Woodstock Music and Art Fair was a concert for the ages. Billed as three days of peace and music, it brought half a million young people together to rural New York over the weekend of August 15-18, in the summer of ‘69.

Moonbeam would have you believe there were over one million beautiful people enjoying the free concert. Not exactly. The concert at Max Yasgur’s pig farm actually cost the bargain price of $6 per day, for a grand total of $18 for the whole event.
It didn’t actually become a free concert until enough peace-loving hippies burst through, or over, the fences that were put in place to keep the great unwashed, freeloading masses under wraps.

By and large, the performances were not that good. Some stand out, such as Santana, The Who, Canned Heat, Richie Havens, Janis Joplin, and Joe Cocker, but many were flat-out forgettable.

Originally, the promoters wanted Roy Rogers to close the show with his trademark “Happy Trails”, but had to settle for a hot, young, virtuoso guitarist named Hendrix, who just happened to live nearby.

Due to a rainstorm and the problems of organizing so many different bands, by Sunday night the acts were as backlogged as the crowd was waterlogged. Jimi Hendrix was asked to play Sunday at midnight, but refused to bump any other artists. Rather than rip through two or three songs with the crowd at its emotional and narcotic high, Jimi asked to play his full set on the Monday morning.

Taking the stage when most rockers are heading to bed, Hendrix and his band downed a jug of wine and played one of their all-time best sets. It was a tour de force of Hendrix music, with the smash hits mixed in with new songs, all walloping the concert stragglers with Jimi’s unique wall of sound.

Early on, when Tommy James was asked to play the concert, he refused, deciding a free show at a pig farm didn’t really appeal to him. That’s what is was, of course, until the event made it so much more, minus a few lies and lame-duck performers.

Woodstock served to punctuate what one generation could, and wanted to, become; and it planted the seed for the excess that lurked greedily around the corner of the 1970s. In the end, Jimi Hendrix became the perfect poster boy for that generation.