Get back on your bike, tubby

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.