Zoos, Zoning Out & Going For A Drive (Issue #148)

There’s a small zoo in our town that bills itself as North America’s oldest privately operated zoo. When the lads were young, we’d often spend an hour or two there every couple of weeks. A family pass, purchased for about $60, allowed entry all year round. It was a pretty good deal.

There’s not a lot of animal attractions but they’re reasonably varied: elephants, lions, tigers, bison, wolves, monkeys and birds all have their own enclosures while goats, deer and some antelope wander the grounds. Some of the animals have been used in Hollywood films and tv series such as Michael Douglas’ The Ghost & The Darkness and Peter Benchley’s Amazon.

As the boys got older, it became too tame for them. They much preferred the occasional foray to the Metro Toronto Zoo with its many hundreds of critters from around the world. As a result, it had been several years since we visited the local one.

Last week, on a whim, we decided to check it out again.

The parking lot was jammed which surprised me some but that surprise was dwarfed by my horror at the entry fee - $55 for the three of us! Imagine, for a zoo which takes about an hour to circumnavigate unless you pause at every exhibit for 10 minutes and crawl to the next one!

My wallet balked at this outrage and I told the lads we’d have to come up with a Plan B.

"Like what?"

"I dunno, let’s just drive for a bit and think it over."

So I pointed the car out of town and drove. Ignoring their groans, I began recalling aloud how, as a child, my folks would shoehorn six of us into the back seat every pleasant Sunday afternoon for a drive. We rarely complained because they dangled the prospect of an ice cream cone at the tail end of our journey.

Sometimes, we drove to the tiny local airport to watch single and twin-engined planes take off and land. For a few years, we drove to "look at houses." Longtime readers will recall I grew up in a small house wherein the six of us kids shared a bedroom. When I was about 10 or 11, my parents bought a lot where they intended to build a house one day. Sometimes we’d visit the lot and imagine it with a house but most times we’d drive around nearby towns and Mom and Dad would look at houses to get ideas for their own.

I think it was during the course of these drives that I learned the art of zoning out. They were kind of boring and if I livened things up by torturing my younger siblings, my ice cream treat would be in jeopardy.

So I looked out the window and daydreamed. I’ve long-since perfected the zone-out of course. For decades now, I’ve been able to look teachers, bosses and Significant Others in the eye, nod and/or murmur appropriately, and have no idea what they just said.

Anyway, the lads were a tad less than thrilled at the prospect of an aimless drive so I came up with a purpose.

"We’ll check out some of my old favourite trout fishing spots and I’ll buy you guys an ice cream at this ancient general store I know."

If they cheered, it wasn’t audible over the radio.

Despite a few wrong turns and a couple of dead ends, we ended up having a nice time. We bought some corn from a roadside stand. It was one of those we-trust-you stands. The farmer wasn’t around. You take the produce you want and put the payment in a box.

That "ancient general store" had been modernized. The floors were no longer wooden and racks of videos had replaced the hardware and clothing sections I remembered. And there was precious little change from a 10-dollar bill after the cost of three ice creams was deducted.

The creeks and ponds were pretty much the same though, thank goodness. Although I didn’t bring any fishing gear, it was just nice to hear the rapids and watch the water. I wondered how so many years could have slipped by since I last fished them.

I’ll wrap this up with a few pictures.

One of our wrong turns brought us to a pretty swamp and I herded the lads out of the car to snap a pic.

I dress them differently so I can tell them apart.

Told you it was a pretty swamp.

Mr. Bullfrog is nicely camouflaged by the surrounding weeds.

About 30 years ago I lost a brown trout below that dam that was near as long as my arm. Only The Great Angler knows how big he'd be now!

This hoary old tree seems to be blindly reaching out for the part of him he'd lost.

After we got home I clapped both lads on the shoulder and said I bet they couldn't wait until we repeated this adventure. They smiled and nodded in a suspiciously vague manner.

Could be there's a genetic component to the zoning-out thing.

And Now A Word From Our Sponsor (Issue #147)

For many years, one of my must-see tv shows was the annual airing of the Clio awards for the world’s best television commercials. I was consistently amazed and amused by 30 and 60-second clips that often surpassed in entertainment value the programs they helped finance.

Many of the winners were from foreign countries and few relied on subtitles in order to tell their story to a North American audience. People and/or animals, their expressions and situations, and clever product placement were usually all that was required to get the message.

We all have a few faves embedded in our memory banks. Everyone of a certain age can remember the little old lady with the big voice who asked “Where’s the beef?” Try as we might, some of us will never forget the sight of football star Joe Namath modelling pantyhose.

My favourites usually target the funny bone and don’t always accomplish their creator’s goal of making the sponsor memorable. I know I’m not alone there. Many commercials succeed in entertaining us but they’re failures if the company paying for them doesn’t get a bump in business. How many of us have started a conversation by saying something like: “You know that commercial where the dog and the guy are doing that thing with the whaddayacallit?” instead of: “Love that General Motors commercial where the dog and the guy are....”

Well, I have a current favourite, part of a series, that absolutely cracks me up. I think it is a brilliant piece of absurdist comedy that ranks with the best of the Goon Show, Monty Python or the gang at SCTV. AND I remember the sponsor - Holiday Inn.

Some of you may be groaning. Yes, it’s the series about those business guys who are (for the most part) dumber than a bag of doorknobs.

I’m torn about whether or not I should try to “set up” the commercial of which I’m particularly fond. The first time or three I saw it, it didn’t register much more than a mildly amused “huh?” Then, the fourth or fifth time ‘round it engaged all my synapses and now I can’t be eating or drinking anything when it comes on tv.

Here’s what I’ll do:

I’ll link to the commercial and you can watch it now if you want (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l9gp1rnUbyQ). Or you can read my take on it below and then watch it. Or you can roll your eyes, stop reading and go do something interesting with your day.

Cue Jeopardy-like interval music....

Okay.

We’ve all chuckled at some time or another when a friend, listening to music on headphones, starts to sing along with what he’s hearing. The person often assumes he’s singing very quietly to himself but the humour comes in the fact he’s singing louder than he imagines (and often off key).

This commercial starts that way. The most clueless of the three is listening to headphones and singing. The other two, overhearing him, start to sing along in the same sort of soft falsetto, as if they too were wearing headphones and listening to the same song. That’s funny enough right there.

But there’s more.

The original singer, overhearing his buddies sing along, removes his headphones, seemingly uncertain as to whether or not they’re mocking him. However, he’s soon caught up in the music groove again and sings along in what is now three-part, falsetto, headphone-like-but-without-headphones “harmony.”

It just plain cracks me up every time and is my personal nominee for one of this year’s Clios.

As a bonus, here’s another I like from the same bunch (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0byuh3RdzOY&mode=related&search=).

Just enjoy it!

I'd love to hear about some of your favourites from yesterday and today.

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A few weeks ago, I told you folks about the new addition to the household. You remember: that pint-sized, four-legged devil dog from heck, Benny. Well, Benny went for his first out-of-town visit last weekend and an interesting time was had by all. Yes, “interesting” in that Chinese curse kind of a way.

Hilary wrote about it in her blog, complete with lots of pictures. You can check it out by clicking here or visiting: http://thesmittenimage.blogspot.com/

Rolling Stone Magazine: When It Mattered & When It Stopped (Issue #146)

A few weeks ago, I bought the 40th anniversary issue of Rolling Stone magazine. It made me feel a bit old because somewhere in a box in my basement or garage is issue #1. As I paged through it, I was reminded of when the magazine mattered and when it stopped.

For a time, Rolling Stone offered me something the magazine racks in Smalltown Ontario never had: people who looked like me, writing enthusiastically about the things I cared about - mostly, but not solely, music. It was intoxicating and I devoured every word, lingered over every picture of Janis, Jimi and Bob.

I was mildly discomfitted when it went from newsprint to a glossy format. I found it a little harder to read but had to admit the pictures sure looked spiffier.

I wasn’t happy when founder/publisher Jann Wenner decided to move its offices from San Francisco to New York in the 70s. It smacked of going corporate, something RS would have sneeringly disparaged a few short years earlier. But I stuck with it because of the writing. The voices were still angry, eloquent and passionate. They tilted against the status quo like pen-wielding jousters.

Hunter S. Thompson led the charge. His hilarious, insightful, drug-fuelled rants peeled the patina of politeness from society, the media, and politics. He was the best, most natural writer I’ve ever read. But sometime toward the latter part of the 70s I found his rants to be more addled than interesting; the demons he fought no longer entirely outside himself.

To me, Thompson’s decline mirrored RS’s. Full page ads for perfume and BMWs had somehow replaced pictures of girls with unshaven armpits and classifieds featuring used Volkswagen buses. The magazine which established itself as the voice of the counterculture had become just another corporate mouthpiece. Chic had replaced cheeky.

I stopped buying it and didn’t miss it.

But I have a weakness for anniversary issues of just about any magazine. I’ve got anniversary issues of Esquire, Penthouse, Playboy, Harpers and dozens of others. I bought Rolling Stones’ 25th and 30th. Something wallet-loosening happens when I walk past a magazine rack and espy glossy covers with big numbers plastered across the front. So buying the 40th was automatic.

I’ve added it to my Bathroom Stack and leaf through it now and again. Most anniversary issues have an element of self-congratulation running through them. It’s understandable. But I’ve not seen anything like Rolling Stones’. That issue features a lot of interviews with famous, or used-to-be-famous folk. At some point in the interviews they’re asked how important RS was to them and their careers. I was actually embarrassed at how pitifully and blatantly self-serving it was, begging to be told how important it...used...to...be.

A couple of days ago I was wandering past a magazine rack and saw RS touting its 40th anniversary with a totally different cover. Hmmm. I checked it out and saw what I’d missed in the one I’d purchased earlier: They were “celebrating” their 40th with three (3!) different issues. Three different 40th anniversary issues - each at eight bucks a pop.

Hunter Thompson would have eviscerated them. And then happily cashed their cheque.

I put part two back on the shelf. If I notice RS 40th III (Fatter & Glossier!) I’ll walk right on by.

Yes, I’ve changed over the years too. I’m fatter but still a long way from glossy. My hair is still long and I still love rock n’ roll and I still only wear a tie if someone dies.

I appreciate Rolling Stone making me feel like part of a great social movement for a time but I’m no longer buying what they’re selling. Nor do I need anyone to speak for me. And if I want to know what the counterculture is thinking nowadays I’ll find it expressed in pixels, not amongst glossy, scratch-n-sniff pages.

But if I’m ambulatory and have 20 bucks in my pocket in 10 years, you can bet your buns I’ll be taking the 50th home with me.

Well, at least part one.

------------

Longtime readers of my emailed column are familiar with Hilary of Dejablues Designs. She designed all my spiffy headers and the clickable fishies that magically transported you to my book’s page on Amazon.com where tens and tens of you purchased copies and helped make it An Enduring Classic. Over the years, our deep and much-cherished friendship has developed into a pleasant, casual acquaintanceship. (I’d insert a smiley here if I hadn’t declared this a smiley-free zone.)

Anyway. Hilary has recently joined the Blogosphere. I’d be pleased if you’d visit her site and see her many talents on display. You can find it here or copy and paste this link into your browser: http://thesmittenimage.blogspot.com/

Tell her Frank sent you. But I have a hunch she’ll already know.

Do You Know This Face? (Issue #145)

A couple of weeks ago while out walking, I found something. I wasn’t on one of my walks-for-health. Walks-for-health require a certain rhythm and you’re supposed to keep going even if something interesting catches your eye.

It was more of an amble. When ambling, you’re allowed to look around and even stop and sit on a bench or a hill if you want. Ambling is exercise for the spirit.

I was looking down when I saw something that didn’t belong among the path’s usual detritus of dirt, grass, weeds and sticks. It was small, round and bluish. I picked it up and brushed off some dirt.

It was, or used to be, a button made of some very lightweight metal alloy or maybe metallic-ish plastic. (What do I know from materials? I’m not a geologist. Or haberdasher.) You could tell it was a button even though the thingy at the back, through which the thread was supposed to be looped, was eroded away to a pair of wee bumps.

It was the obverse that caught my attention though. On it was a face, faded but recognizable, and vaguely familiar.

My first thought was Jane Jetson of the 60s cartoon family. My ambling partner, Hilary, thought maybe it was supposed to represent Barbie, the famous doll. It definitely has a 60s-type look. Hilary took a picture of it and I decided to pose the question to you folks.

I know the young pups among you are saying “what-everrrr” and have already changed the channel but maybe a few of you fellow boomers can spare a guess.

Upon further, and prolonged reflection, I am now leaning towards Judy Jetson, the daughter from that show.

Here she is:



PS- I’m taking some time off starting this weekend so please forgive any delayed responses to emails or comments. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks.

An Aid For The Disorganizationally Proficient (Issue #144)

I’ve written before about my disorganizational skills. (Always try to put a positive spin on things!) Many of you will recall the results of a personality test I took in university wherein my organizational ability was deemed to rank in the 4th percentile. This meant 96% of the population was epter than I at that sort of thing. The professor administering the study said it was the lowest mark he’d seen. Of course at that time, the early 70s, he’d only seen a few thousand.

My main compensatory mechanism over the decades has been writing myself notes. Naturally, for the disorganizationally-adept, the drawback to this was keeping track of them. One notebook certainly wasn’t sufficient because it could be misplaced so easily. So I bought a backup. And a backup to the backup. And so on, until my desk could not handle the overflow and I had notebooks on my night stand, bathroom and kitchen counters, car, and jammed between the cushion and the armrest of my Comfy Chair.

Undoubtedly, those 96 percenters would have notebooks for specific things: one for phone numbers and addresses: another for writing ideas: a third for scheduling-type stuff and another for video game codes and tips. Probably they’d remember where they put each and every one of them too. I try not to hate those people. It can take me an hour and hundreds of flipped pages in multiple notebooks before I can find somebody’s phone number.

Ditto for writing ideas. Usually I’d just jot down a few keywords to get me kickstarted when I had the time and energy to write. So, scattered amongst the phone numbers and directions and reminders to fetch my kids from somewhere were phrases like “women - haha!” and “fishing = sacrament.”

It was difficult to get any writing done because while searching through the books for a half-remembered topic any number of distractions could, and usually would, get me sidetracked.

Well, technology, in the form of Mother Google’s homepage add-ons (one day Google will try to eat Microsoft, or vice versa, and the whole world will choke to death) has arrived to save the day.

What’s ironic is that this hi-tech idea which has already saved me countless hours of page-flipping is based on such a low-tech invention.

It’s a virtual yellow sticky note. And it’s way better than the originals because it doesn’t curl up and drift away like an autumn-tossed leaf that then disappears amongst desk debris. It’s in the middle of my homepage and I can add notes any time I please. I can also delete them when they’re no longer relevant. When I first got it, I just typed random things and deleted them because it was fun.

My only concern is regarding its storage capacity. Since it remains on my monitor screen I suspect there’s a finite number of things I can add before the thing gets filled up. I’ve only been using it for a couple of weeks now and it’s filled a goodly portion of my screen. I’m definitely adding things faster than I am deleting them.

I suppose I could buy a backup computer....

Pajamas, Hugh Hefner & Me (Issue #143)

You know how you always think of the smarty-pants response to some argument 10 minutes to 10 years after you lost the argument? We hate when that happens....

It was early on a lovely summer evening and I wanted to sit outside and enjoy a refreshing beverage. I constructed said beverage and prepared to sally forth.

“You can’t go out there like that,” I was told.

“Like what?”

“You’re wearing pajamas. People will see you. People I know. I will lose face and have to leave town and I don’t want to.”

Sheesh.

I have only recently discovered the joy that pajamas can bring. I am speaking specifically of pajama bottoms here, not tops. Tops are goofy and only old men wear them. I am hardly, at 56, old. 56 is the new 44 and, if I recall correctly, 44 is the new 35. You’d have to be insane, or a teen, to think that 35 was old.

For most of my life I have worn jeans - winter, spring, summer or fall. In summer, they can be a smidge uncomfy on hot days. I am not allowed to wear shorts because my legs are white and spindly. The sun’s glare rebounds off them and blinds passers-by. I have nightmares about drivers involved in a chain of fender benders, clapping one hand over their eyes and pointing an accusing finger with the other.

A year or so ago, Son #2 started wearing pajama bottoms pretty much everywhere. I shrugged. Kids. Heck, I once wore barrel-sized bell bottoms and a Nehru jacket. Not together though. Pretty sure.

Anyway, when I took him shopping one day for more, I decided to pick up a pair or two for myself. I was pleasantly surprised to see that they cost less than $15. In fact, I have since purchased some very spiffy ones, in designer plaids, stripes and checks, for less than 10 bucks!

They are light and comfy. They have elastic waists which come in very handy when dinnertime rolls around. And get this:

They have pockets now! I’m fairly certain that way back in the 50s and early 60s, when I last wore them, they were pocket-less.

So, on the one hand, we have comfort, stylish designer plaids, stripes and checks and pockets. And on the other, we have someone sniffing with disapproval.

Well, the sniffing won that day.

But only because I forgot about Hugh Hefner.

Hef practically spent his entire life in pajamas! For all I know he still does. And he’s a millionaire and his magazine has articles in it about stylishness! Probably.

How can wearing jammies be a fashion faux pas if Hef wears them? I chuckled to myself, anticipating the next PJ discussion and my new trump card.

As I thought about Hefner, I came to realize that we had lots more in common than sartorial resplendency:

He drinks Pepsi and I drink Pepsi sometimes.

He has a magazine empire and I have written stuff for magazines.

He has slept with hundreds, maybe thousands of women. I have kissed more than a dozen. (If we count aunts.)

In fact, it would not surprise me one iota if ole Hef put some fishies in one of his swimming pools and wet a line now and then.

It’s like we were twins, separated at birth!

A week or so ago, sporting a new, classy, grey/white/yellow-striped pair with a button-fly front, I headed outside.

“Geez Frank.”

“What?”

“The jammies....”

“Hugh Hefner wears them all the time!” I crowed triumphantly.

“He wears tops too. He’s an old man.”

Any day now, I’m gonna come up with a smarty-pants rejoinder to that one.

Larry The Lucky Ducky (Issue #142)

Once upon a few days ago, I went for a walk along my creek. As most of you know, I'm on a rigorous fitness program these days. Well, perhaps rigorous isn't quite the right word -- let's call it listless-plus.



Sometimes, like on this particular day, I take my camera with me. I do this in case I come across some flowers or wildlife that would make a nice pic. It's hardly ever because I've been walking for 10 freaking minutes already and want an excuse to pause for a bit.



See? Those were sort of interesting-looking flowers and get ready to "Awww" because here comes some cute baby duckies.



Told ya.

Occasionally, when in the outdoors, one comes across real-life scenes of drama. (You know, like the stuff you see on Discovery, only in 3D and Smell-O-Vision but you don't have to wear cardboard glasses and scratch any cards and then sniff your finger.) Anyway, this was one of those days.

In the distance, I caught a glimpse of something yellow. Readers of my book know that decades of outdoor experience have honed my Heightened Awareness to such a degree that I can catch a 6-inch trout and by the time I release it, I actually perceive it as it will appear in 5 years. Which explains all the record-breaking fish I've lost. Anyway, my HA told me this was no ordinary bit of flotsam. I hurried forward for a closer look.



I couldn't be positive from this angle but it appeared to be a young duckling in distress. I stealthily approached from the other side, being careful not to disturb the undoubtedly distraught creature.

I was right. It was a fine specimen of Duckus Rubbernica, Hollywood genus.



Speaking quietly and mindful of that beak, which even at this young age was powerful enough to crush algae, I reached out and plucked the lucky ducky from its predicament. Suddenly picturing him in suspenders and leaning on a desk quacking at Paris Hilton (HA is not always controllable) I decided to call him Larry.

With an affectionate scratch behind where his ears would be if he was a dog, I bade Larry farewell and released him into the main current.

He looked happy enough but I had to question his choice in sunglasses. They were stylish, sure, but appeared to be a titch too heavy for him, resulting in balance issues.



Aside from his decision to go with style over stability, Larry appeared to be in fine fettle and continued on his journey to Lake Ontario, only a couple of miles away.



Bye Larry! Good luck and Godspeed!

PS: That night, I had a dream that my foot hurt and Larry came to me and nibbled a thorn out of my toe.

The Rewards Of Being Still (Issue #141)

Over the years I’ve been fishing (50 now) I’ve learned quite a few things. Many of those things, it will not surprise you to hear, were about the art/science itself. But many were not. Quite a few nuggets of knowledge were welcome byproducts of being nestled against Mother Nature’s bosom.

I learned things about weather - how important wind and its direction can be and how to recognize and cope with changes. I learned about the behaviour of birds and animals - the head-bobbing courtship of waterfowl - the stealthy slink of a marten with trout-stealing on his mind. I learned about human nature by my own, and others’ reactions to adversity and joy. I learned about death and hence, very much about life.

A lot of what I learned would not have occurred had I not first learned the importance of being still.

Now, generally speaking, it’s no easy feat teaching a young boy to be still. Boys were made to climb trees, throw rocks and fall into creeks - often all three within the same minute. Enforced stillness, such as that endured by students and church-goers, was why God invented fidgeting.

Only two things could keep me still as a lad - reading and fishing. Often, Dad would let me fish the best holes in a creek. (At the time, I wondered why. Later, of course, I learned how unselfishness and love go together.) During my earliest forays with him, he would cast my line out for me at these special pools. When the bait had drifted to where he wanted it to be, he would either hand me back the rod, or lay it down against a rock or log, admonishing me to watch the line for a bite and until then, to “be still.”

These special pools mostly likely held special fish; fish the likes of which most boys have never even seen, let alone caught.

So I was still.

When still, one very quickly becomes conscious of things that are tuned out when one is busy. A quiet forest is suddenly alive with sounds - rustling leaves, rubbing branches, calling birds, humming insects and burbling rapids.

When still, one becomes a part of the local scene to many of its inhabitants. Birds and squirrels will venture to near-touching distance. Wandering beetles treat your boot as just one more rock to clamber over. Muskrats slip out of their streamside dens for a cooling swim.

Occasionally, one can become so engrossed in the show around him, that a bouncing fishing rod goes unnoticed for a moment. (I’m beginning to think that special fish, in special pools, come to rely on this inattention in their quest to remain un-caught.)

I’ve been old enough to cast my own line for a very long time now. I’ve learned that sometimes it’s best to keep on the move when fishing and sometimes it’s best to stay in one place and wait. That’s if your main purpose is to catch some fish.

As I get older, I stay in one place and wait much more often than I used to - even when I know moving around offers a better chance of catching something. It’s more important to me to feel my inner noise ebb, as I become attuned to the music offered by nature, than it is to catch a fish.

And guess what? Although preferable (to some of us) you don’t need to go fishing in the bush or hiking through the woods to enjoy what stillness can bring.

You can sit in a quiet section of a park, or an uncrowded piece of beach, or your own backyard and practice being still. See how long it takes before the local critters accept you as an unthreatening lump.

Try it. You’ll learn stuff. Important stuff like how much more a flower bends when a bumblebee lands on it compared to a honey bee. Or the sound an outraged blue jay makes when some thieving squirrel takes the last peanut from a feeder.

You might even find yourself understanding that you aren’t an interloper in their world at all. When you show benign regard they gift you with the same and accept you as a part of it.

Few things are more rewarding than that.

What Fresh Hell Is This?* (Issue #140)

As many of you know, I’ve been done with pets for quite a while. A few years ago, the house was home to Hobbes the cat, Gryphon the hunka-hunka-burnin’-love Rottweiler, Lucy the parrot and Stumpy the toad. Hobbes, Gryph and Stumpy are gone now. Longtime readers are familiar with their stories. (I still get people razzing me about keeping a dead cat in my freezer for a year or so. Can you imagine?)

Anyway, Lucy, the African Grey parrot, has been the sole non-human in the house for a couple of years now and that suited me just fine. We get along. If she hollers a lot it’s because she either wants a peanut or a rub. All women should be so easy to please.

I was resigned to life with Lucy, since she’s expected to live for another 60 years or so even though I might not. But I really didn’t want another animal in the house. The lads would occasionally pester me about getting a four-legged one but my standard answer was, "Okay, you can have a cat/dog -- the day you move out."

About six months ago, I began the procedure of occasionally entertaining the idea of possibly getting another cat. Which meant mulling the concept for a few seconds every month or so, then shaking my head.

It’s a process! I was working up to it. Cats aren’t as needy as dogs. They eat less and most of them don’t take up as much freezer space when they’re expired.

I definitely didn’t want a dog. Big dogs, the kind I prefer, tend to live just long enough to own your heart, then they die. I’ve never been a fan of small dogs, referring to them often as "muskie bait." (If you’re unfamiliar with a muskie, you can see what they look like by clicking here.) Truth to tell, I’m still mourning Gryph after all these years. When you’ve had The Perfect Dog, it’s tough to make room in your life and heart for another one.

So imagine my horror when I came home a few weeks ago to find a tiny, four-legged, rodent-sized animal that was not a cat running around the house. This runt wasn’t worthy of being muskie bait. A couple of guppies could take it down.

Don’t ask me how it got here. I won’t tell you. Suffice it to say, the beast is here and I have to make the best of the situation.

The way I’ve been making the best of the situation is to avoid having anything to do with it unless cornered.

The problem with that philosophy is the little beggar is quick. And being so low to the ground, he’s hard to spot when zipping around between stacks of newspapers, magazines, books, fishing equipment and things I keep meaning to put somewhere else someday.

One minute I’m quietly reading the sports section and the next, I’m trying to shake off a furry, growling gnat whose jaws are clamped on my pants cuff.

I’m not exaggerating the "quick" thing. I swear this animal has learned to teleport.

I barbecue a lot. Once the weather gets nice in April or May, it’s not uncommon for me to barbecue five or six days a week for several months. We all know how good barbecued anything smells. Apparently furry gnats can also appreciate those aromas. Because whenever I go out the back door to the deck where the barbecue is, no matter how alone I am at the time, no matter how quickly I slam the door behind me, when I step on the deck, the gnat has beat me to it. He’s cocking his microscopic head to the side and giving me that let’s-be-best-friends-forever grin.

Well, I’m not falling for it. Nuh-uh. Sure, every once in a while a small piece of burger, or maybe cheese, will tumble from a plate while I’m transferring food. I may accidentally misplace a rib or pork chop bone when I’m done with it but no way am I going to encourage that beast to keep me company while I’m going about the serious business of cooking.

Apparently, like all puppies and kittens, he paid attention while at Cute School. You know that thing that puppies do, when they crouch down with their front ends low and their rear ends high, tail wagging? And they kinda prance while growling, like they’re double-dog-daring you to approach them? And then you feint a charge and he spins around, grinning and barking happily?

Well, I’m not falling for it.

I’m going to continue to keep a wary distance, both physically and emotionally. Except perhaps, for the occasional photo.

His name is Benny and he’s a Jack Russell terrier.

And he eats faces.

And he eats pants. Son #1 is justifiably horrified.



Here, he imitates an apostrophe on a string.



* God bless Dorothy Parker, from whom I stole my subject line.

Buzzwords (Issue #139)

I like buzzwords. You know, those words that define some newish concept that makes a splash when it enters our culture. But I’m the kind of guy who is often unclear on the meaning of newish concepts. They’re usually related to technology or business, areas in which my knowledge is somewhat behind the curve (<—buzzphrase!).

When hi-tech or business pioneers blaze a new buzzword-worthy path, I’m the guy waiting at the juncture where it diverged from the old path. I’m content to hang around until the paving crew comes by to turn it into a serviceable road.

In the meantime, most of society is whizzing along those paths, using wonderful-sounding words like “synergy” and “paradigm shift” and “scalability.”

Now, I could stop one of those people and ask them what the heck those words mean but that would mean entering into a conversation with a geek. Big words would start filling up the thought balloons in my head and before you know it, I’d begin tipping over and have to go lie down. No sirree Bob.

My solution is to make up the meanings. I find it comforting to use words that mean what you want them to mean. (But for the life of me, I don’t get why shifting a couple of dimes from one pocket to another became such a radical concept. We used to call it “pocket pool” and we didn’t need money to play.)

When I got the idea that this column is (eventually) going to be about, I just knew there was a buzzword out there to describe it. But for the longest time, the word balanced on the tip of my brain, jiggling and wiggling just out of reach, like a cherry on a bowl of jello in old Aunt Edna’s hands.

I knew it meant “come together” and jotted down the word “confluence”- but with a question mark beside it because it didn’t feel right.

I wanted the word that meant what’s happening all around me, in various aspects of my world. Like this:

Many of the stores I’m used to shopping in are changing. They’re selling all kinds of stuff they never used to sell before. Zellers and Wal-Mart, department stores, now sell groceries and pharmaceuticals. Shoppers Drug Mart, a pharmacy, now sells CDs, as well as some groceries and snacks and books.

Every store is starting to sell every thing. Pretty soon you won’t be able to tell them apart. It’s kind of scary but it seems to be the way of things.

Another example that illustrates the word I was seeking:

Cell phones have become cameras and music players. Or vice versa. One remote control turns on your tv and your microwave and your computer and makes your bed. Pretty soon one giant...thing - humming with electricity - will cook, clean, raise our children, entertain us and do our taxes.

And suddenly, the word occurred to me.

Convergence.

Things that were once separate, becoming one. Like marriage but without the anguish.

For several months now, I’d jot down ideas and then decide if I should do a column or a blog. You’d think such decisions would be easy. And for a person whose thought balloons aren’t easily filled and tippy, they probably are easy. But I’d wrestle with them and fret until I got the idea that you’ve probably figured out by now.

Yep, I’m going to merge my column and blog and that’s going to mean some (hopefully not-too-scary) changes.

Those of you who prefer to read me via email will still be able to do so. I know there are quite a few of you who read the column at work where email is okay but surfing the net (to read a blog) is not. Those of you who read my column but not my blog, may be somewhat dismayed to find that my percentage of non-humourous jottings will increase. I tend to cover more bases in my blog, though most of the time I keep it on the light side too.

Instead of arriving in your mailbox on Thursdays, the new, converged me may arrive any day, at any time. Some columns may be longer than the usual 800-ish words, many will be shorter. I’ll be getting back to approximately a weekly schedule again and may sometimes send off a couple in a week.

Because the blog lends itself to showing photographs much more easily than an email, I will still be including the link with every issue. (Occasionally, I do a blog entry that’s almost entirely photographs.) I’ll give a heads-up in email when there’s something visible at the blog site that isn’t in the mailed version. And, of course, those of you on the email list will be able to marvel at the spiffy banners designed by Hilary at Dejablues Designs while blog readers, alas, will just have to look at the same darn pic every single time.

As always, I welcome comments, via email or on the blog itself. I’m going to be away from a computer for the next three or four days though, so please forgive my delayed replies.

I’m going to be empowering myself while converging with nature and offshoring with my fishing rod.

Happy Birthday To Me!

Well, since my friend Dawno saw fit to out me, so to speak, I might as well post about it.

I am not going to tell you exactly how old I am. Let's just say that I officially tippy-toed past the half-way mark of my allotted five score plus ten. Yep, I'm four and half dozen years old.

Wait. Four and two-thirds.

Hmm ... apparently - unlike good looks, sexual prowess and athletic ability - math skills don't improve with age.

There's kind of a story associated with this birthday that I'll probably share down the road a bit. I don't mean to tease. I just mean to whet your appetite with a tad of titillation.

Speaking of mammary glands (writers are SO good at seg-weighing) I find myself thinking of my mother today. (Yes, I was breastfed.) We can't really celebrate a birthday without celebrating the woman who made it possible can we?

Mom died 13 years ago, in a car accident, the same day Jackie Kennedy Onassis died. I wrote a letter to the editor of the Toronto Sun commenting on the two women's similarities but contrasting the coverage of their deaths. (Mom got a couple of paragraphs - you know what Jackie got.) They featured it as their letter of the day. Dad got several copies laminated. I think, at least until my book came out, he was proudest of that little piece.

She would have been the first to call me today. She would have said she was awake at 6:10 a.m. - the time of my birth. I would have said something like, "yeah, right - you celebrated the anniversary by snoring through it." We both would have chuckled.

I have much to celebrate. I'm healthy. I have friends and family who love me.

Thanks Mom.

PS- Nearly forgot. It's also been one (1) year since I quit smoking. Thanks to those who encouraged me.

Now I just have to start chasing some frisky women to rid myself of a couple (dozen) extra pounds.

Ain't life grand?

The Importance Of Lying

In one of my early columns (no, not blog posts, columns - info on subscribing is over there on the right) I wrote about the importance of lying to our kids. It fosters a sense of security when you tell them you love them even though they just shoved your last blue M&M up their nose. And informing them of the monster under their bed that eats toes keeps them safely under the blankies for the whole night. As a bonus, it nurtures their imagination.

Caring and nurturing. That’s what lying is all about.

Few people realize it’s equally important to lie to our Significant Others if we want to maintain harmonious (not to mention reasonably frequent) relations. Fie upon those relationship “experts” who blather on about truth being the foundation of solid...blah-blah-blah.

It goes beyond “Of course not, Honey” in response to the classic fat-in-these-pants question. It means occasionally saying things like: “I don’t get all this fuss about Catherine Zeta Jones.”*

If you’re uncomfy with flat-out lying, and many of us are, having been raised and educated by Truth Nazis, start off with stretching the truth a smidge. Let’s say your SO has spent two hours showering, putting on makeup and getting dressed. You’re pretty sure a compliment is in order once the process is complete. At least, one wouldn’t go amiss. Here are a couple of sample responses when she’s done.

1 - “You look nice Sweetie.”

Pleasant and reasonably safe, despite the fact it may border on the truth. As a result, she may find it somewhat lacking.

2 - “Wow! If Marilyn Monroe was alive she’d be spinning in her grave!”

Much better. We’ve (probably) lowered the truth quotient, compared her to an icon of beauty and added a bonus element of confusion.

Every person, even the most insecure, has something about themselves of which they’re proud. It might be hair, overall physique, eye colour - something. Once you’ve identified what it is, compliment the heck out of it.

“Baby, it beats me how ankles as delicate and fine as yours can bear that weight!”

“Your smile is so shiny, like the grill of a showroom car, only somewhat smaller!”

It’s like poetry really, without the fancy-shmancy words.

Complimentary lying is not restricted to guy-type persons of the male persuasion. Although not as dependent upon flattery as the average woman, guys are not immune to its charms. We like being told we make Brad Pitt look homely and that single abs are hot. Or maybe that Shakespeare could have taken writing lessons from us. Or Darwin in theorizing.

It confirms our own secretly-held opinion.

After all, if you can’t lie to yourself, how can you expect others to believe you?


* Insert name of whomever you’re ogling in that particular movie.

Tales From Testosterone Country

Some friends of mine just got back from a weekend’s fishing trip. I haven’t talked with them about it yet but I heard a couple of details from their wives. It sounded like a pretty typical guys’ weekend with an overturned canoe, a near-drowning and some fish.

It took me back. I enjoyed a few such weekends, mostly way back in the long-ago-and-far-away. And one of them involved an overturned canoe too. Without having gone along with them this time, or hearing any more details than I have, I am prepared to use my psychic powers to tell you some of the things that happened.

1 - The toilet seat was left up the entire weekend except when cradling buns.
2 - Showering was very much optional and nobody shaved.
3 - Somebody, probably more than one somebody, was glad that somebody else packed bandages.
4 - Farts and belches were delivered cheerfully and greeted with groans and hoots or, if particularly fulsome, a punch to the shoulder.
5 - Plenty of painkillers were washed down with morning coffee.
6 - The size of the fish lost increased proportionately with the number of beers drunk until every participant lost at least one record-sized fish per day.
7 - Women were discussed.
8 - Every participant shook his head and/or shrugged his shoulders at least a couple of times during the discussions about women.
9 - Not one person said the words “excuse me” the whole weekend.

Why do guys do it?

I’ll tell you.

We may be men now but we are always going to be boys. Women think that boys don’t mind getting dirty and smelly. They’re wrong. It’s not that we don’t mind, we enjoy it - like dogs. We spend most of our adult lives clean and presentable for either our mates’ or co-workers’ sakes. Every once in a while we need to do the human equivalent of rolling around on a dead fish. It makes us grin and wag our tails.

Wives and girlfriends soon learn that when their men return from these outings, there’s a natural consequence to nearly three days of unreleased testosterone buildup.

Guys soon learn that if they want their mates to wag their tails too, they’d best hit the shower first.

A Confession

To the surprise of a few of you (perhaps) I'm something of an armchair jock.

"But Frank," you protest, "you are classy and erudite. I've seen you lower your head when picking your nose in a restaurant. And when your eyebrows needs smoothing, you barely lick your fingers first!"

Yes, it's true. It's kinda like leading a double life. By day, I am a suave sophisticate. By night, I holler at my tv, spraying bits of popcorn, gesticulating with the remote-wielding hand while the other is jammed into the waistband of my pants. (Don't ask what it's doing there. It's a sports-guy thing and you wouldn't understand. But it has nothing to do with feelings of inadequacy. Really.)

This time of year, May-June, and then again in October, is nuts for this particular AJ. Baseball is well under way and basketball and hockey are into their playoffs. There's something, usually an important something, and often several important somethings, on tv every single night from about 7pm - 2am. It'll get a little less hectic as the playoffs wind down and fewer teams are left to compete for their championships (and my time).

In the summer, there's only baseball, maybe a smidge of soccer and a cursory peek or two at Canadian football. But come October, the baseball playoffs are on while hockey and basketball begin their seasons anew.

I'm not much of an NFL fan, so I check on my sons' wellbeing on Sunday afternoons from November through April.

Unless, of course, it's a good day for fishing.

Dumb Writers (or Gullibles' Travails)

Can someone, anyone, explain to me why would-be writers are so keen to give away their money to someone, anyone, who tells them they have talent?

This scenario is all too common:

W-B Writer opens his email one morning. There is a message there from someone he's never heard of. OMG! It's a publisher! It says so right there in the email! It's Marie and she represents Lee Chew Publishing of Fleece Street! And she's interested in W-B's deathless prose which she heard is brilliant!

All W-B has to do to start his literary ascension is send his first three chapters and a small processing/reading/editorial/gullibility-testing fee and he'll be on his way!

I read about this scenario, or one very much like it, on a near-daily basis. I read about it on writing-related message boards which abound on the net.

Guess what W-B?

That's where Lee Chew Publishing "heard" about you too. You posted about your ambitions and your email is in your profile.

If someone you've never heard of approaches you with promises in exchange for money, do what you'd do if some seedy-looking guy offered you a Gen-U-Wine Rolex for 10 bucks. Walk away. Keep your wallet in your pocket.

Real publishers and agents don't go trolling for talent on bulletin boards. They're far too busy fielding queries and reading manuscripts from writers who realize how the game is played.

It's played without shortcuts. It's played by a fairly well-established set of rules (that can occasionally be bent but rarely broken).

Those rules are:

1- Write something other people will want to read.

2- Research legitimate agents/publishers. Legitimate agents will provide a client list and be happy to talk up their deals. Legitimate publishers have books in bookstores and libraries. Neither will ask you for money to read and assess your book's merits. If accepted, agents (at least 90% of them) won't ask for money until they've sold your book. Then they'll take a percentage. If you deal directly with a publisher, the only money talked about will be your advance and royalties.

3- Draft a dynamic query letter and/or proposal and send it to those agents and/or publishers in batches of five or so. (Doing it in batches allows you to fine-tune the query if the initial one fails to spark interest. That way, you haven't already had a hundred doors closed to you.)

4- As author and writing guru James D. Macdonald wisely recommends - while waiting to hear back, start working on another, better book.

If you simply MUST give someone your money, stuff some in a nearby church's poor box. Don't feed the sharks.

Would you eat Bambi?

Had an animated discussion a while ago with a friend about eating game - game, as in duck, rabbit, deer etc. that had been killed in the wild.

He was uncomfortable with the notion and said he would only eat it if he had to, to keep from starving. He does not feel the same way about fish, only mammals.

I suspect he has quite a bit of company. I think it’s an example of the Disneyfication of wildlife. Nobody wants to eat something that has done cute things on a movie or tv screen. Even if that something is a cartoon. Organizations like PETA, for all their stridency and media-grabbing stunts, can’t hold a candle to Bambi when it comes to turning people off from hunting and/or eating game.

My friend didn’t want to eat domesticated game either. A farm-raised duck was just as unpalatable to him as the ones he tossed bits of bread to at a nearby pond. I think he, like a large segment of the population, prefers to think that last night’s supper mysteriously appeared on a Styrofoam tray in the meat department of the grocery after an Immaculate Dissection.

I think it’s safe to say that most people don’t like to think about living cows and pigs being turned into hamburgers and chops. They’d druther not know about abbatoirs and killing floors. I can’t really blame them. They’re very unpleasant places.

Although I no longer hunt game, I am certainly not opposed to the process. And I wouldn’t turn down an offer of some venison or a brace of ducks. And if I had a choice between dying suddenly, while grazing in a field, or in a slaughterhouse, after hours of horrible stress, it would be a no-brainer.

What do you think? Do you eat meat? Do you, would you, eat game? Is fish okay but not venison? I’d love to know your thoughts.

Come fishing with me

It's a lovely day. A bit of ice still clings to the banks of the creek but the sun is shining and it's a few degrees above freezing. Hopefully, we'll make the acquaintance of a rainbow trout (steelhead) or two. Some have already been upstream and spawned but most are on their way.

This area is only a couple of miles from my house. It's a slow, meandering stretch of creek that threads it's way through a tangle of hoary old willow trees, into an open, marshy area with a marina and condominiums, before emptying into Lake Ontario. There is a lot of birdlife in the area, primarily Canada geese, ducks of many species, swans, hawks and gulls.

Today I'm fishing at my 2nd-favourite spot. If you look at the pic, you'll see it's at the confluence of two creeks. The intermingling of scents give fish pause while they decide which one they'll enter. While they're pondering, I like to offer them something to eat.

I see no signs at all of fish movement. Luckily, other happenings divert my attention.

Three geese wander by. Yes, that's a chair on the opposite bank for the convenience of a weary angler.

Behind where I'm fishing is a marshy area which teems with birdlife at times. It's a favoured nesting area for ducks, geese, swans and redwing blackbirds.

Speaking of swans.... Can't really tell from the photo but these guys can really scoot. They often leave a wake when paddling.

"What the heck is this?" you ask. Well, it's some of the leavings from previous anglers. The pink, green and yellow bits near the top are torn pieces of light mesh which once held a few fish eggs (the gold/amber blob near the bottom) in dime-sized sacks/snacks. Trout and other salmonids like eating eggs that drift downstream from spawning couples. So anglers use eggs for bait.

The gander taking a gander on the right held that pose for a good 10 minutes. He was listening to another goose calling from the marsh behind me and, I'm sure, prepping himself for battle if the need arose. He spent a goodly chunk of the day harassing other males who came too near his lady friends.

What was it we were doing here again?

Oh yeah.

After four+ hours of fruitless drifting with roe, flies and artificials, I hooked on a small worm. On the 3rd pass my float dipped and stayed down. I set the hook and felt a sluggish resistance. "Sucker" I thought. I didn't mind. Homely suckers provide at least a bit of excitement. This one felt fairly heavy, perhaps four pounds or so.

A minute later, as I worked the fish closer I caught a glimpse of silver.

Suckers are bronze.

Woohoo! A minute or so later, I eased a nice, dinner-sized rainbow (about 2 1/2 lbs) out of the water.

You can see in the pic that her anal fin (closest to the tail) and the bottom half of her tail are worn. That's from digging a nest (redd) out of the stream bottom.

Fresh air, sunshine, wildlife and a fish - not too shabby a day. Glad you could come along. Let's do it again sometime.

Edited to add: Q sent me a link which is cute and relates to this post - sorta. Click the end of this sentence, wait a minute or two and you'll see the fish's revenge.

I love animals too but...

HYDERABAD, India (Reuters) - Unable to come to terms with the death of their pet dog, an elderly couple in southern India committed suicide by hanging themselves, police said on Monday.

The bodies of 67-year-old retired soldier C.N. Madanraj and his wife, Tarabai, 63, were found on Sunday in their home in a suburb of Hyderabad.

Police said the childless couple had held a burial ceremony for their dog of 13 years, called "Puppy," and hosted a feast for friends before hanging themselves in their bedroom.

"The couple described the grief over their pet dog in the suicide note they left on March 29," said police inspector V. Anantaiah.

Discuss. (Whilst I work on a real blog post....)

The Art of War, Cribbage & Halloween

I came across a quote from The Art of War, a book written 2500 years ago by Chinese military general and tactician Sun Tzu that has been rattling around in my brain. It’s this:

One who knows the enemy and knows himself will not be endangered in a hundred engagements.

One who does not know the enemy but knows himself will sometimes meet with defeat.

One who knows neither the enemy nor himself will invariably be defeated in every engagement.

There’s a heck of a lot of wisdom in those three sentences and although he was speaking about war, the words are applicable to most any situation involving conflict - relationships, schooling, work, and, my focus at the moment - games.

All games, whether chess, cribbage or football are substitutes for war. There are winners and losers (although the consequences of landing in either category are neither as glorious nor as dire as in war). If you underestimate your opponent’s or overestimate your own abilities, things are not likely to go well. Luck certainly has a part to play in any outcome but its importance diminishes proportionately with the players’ increased levels of skill, knowledge and preparation.

How to know an opponent? That’s easy. As my guru, Yogi Berra once said: “You can observe a lot just by watching.” Do as Yogi says. Watch them. Pay attention to what they do in certain situations, especially stressful ones. Before too-too long, their behaviour will become predictable, at least to a certain extent. Foreknowledge of an opponent’s behaviour is a terrific advantage in any situation.

Knowing yourself now - that’s a toughie and I know of no pat formula or short cut. I do know however, that it involves stripping oneself of pretense and delusion, those kissin’ cousins of deceit. It can be a painful process, glumly observing one’s psyche laid bare in a full-length mental mirror.

On the plus side, once you DO know yourself, you can then re-don whatever delusional duds you want to wear, since you know you’re kidding.

Kinda like Halloween.

Thinking Is A Waste Of Time

One of the freebies you can get from Google is a yellow, sticky-note thingy for your desktop. I use it to jot notes to myself about appointments, shopping reminders and, occasionally, ideas for a column or blog post.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote this note:

A great writer doesn't let truth, facts, or heck, even reality, interfere with formulating and expressing an opinion.

For those who don't know me, the above was written tongue-in-cheek. Pretty much.

I mean, I know I'm not a great writer but I'm pretty good. The note would lack a certain panache though if it was: "A pretty good writer doesn't let ..." etc. It's hyperbole which, if you remember your Grade 10 English, is a literary device by which pretty good writers pretend to be great ones. Or something. I might be a bit fuzzy on the definition. I think I was away that day.

Anyway, like improvisational acting, off-the-top-of-the-head writing isn't for everyone. Most, (dare I say "lesser?") writers prefer to think before writing. I've always considered thinking to be a waste of time. I mean, why bother thinking when you could be accomplishing something instead?

It's a no-brainer.

New Blogger

Yesterday it looked like I was locked out of the old Blogger and would, finally, be forced to switch over to the new version.

I don't do well with change, especially if said change involves technology. I've only recently gotten over my suspicion of matches, preferring for decades to rub two sticks together whenever I wanted to burn something.

Today, lo and behold! I am being allowed into the old Blogger dashboard thingy and am writing this there. However, I've decided to go ahead with the switch anyway. The tension is getting to me. Other folks who've made the change have assured me it isn't overly painful. They have hardly any reason to lie to me.

Stay tuned....

...Well I'll be darned.

It's now a mere 10 minutes later and I do believe I've made the switch! And...and...there's no blood on my keyboard! My fingernails are intact and my gibbering idiocy is no more pronounced than usual!

Woohoo!

In your FACE Technology! I ain't askeered of you no more!

This is the most ept I've felt since I learned to make folders last year.

A Few Oscar Thoughts

I love movies, always have, just not enough to actually go out and see one. Well, nowadays, anyway. Don't get me started on the cramped seating, too-loud and too-long commercials, the overpriced tickets and food, and the loudmouthed dullards who insist on delivering a running commentary to anyone within fifty feet.

Therefore, I rarely go out to see one, preferring instead to wait a few months or years and catch it on tape or dvd.

So, last night's movies were all unknown to me, except for what I'd read about them here and there. I came to the Oscars telecast a blank slate. I had no vested interest in anyone's winning or losing.

Therefore, what follows is a few observations by a guy who was reading a newspaper or surfing the net during most of the telecast but glanced at the tv semi-regularly:

1- Ellen Degeneres was fine. I wasn't a fan of hers going in but she was comfortably low-key, warm and funny. I'd like to see her join Billy Crystal as one of the regulars in the host rotation.

2- Peter O'Toole looks like a desiccated marionette. He wouldn't be out of place guest-starring on the Thunderbirds.
I saw him interviewed on the Daily Show a couple of weeks ago and am sad to say he seemed to have slipped from being a charming, eccentric, somewhat-sloshed raconteur to an addled sot. I hope I'm wrong because I loved him in a lot of movies, most notably in What's New Pussycat and The Stunt Man and he certainly is overdue for Oscar recognition. Anyway, I was afraid he'd win and trip on the way to the stage or do something else to embarrass himself.

3- Alan Arkin is great too so I was just as happy to see him win instead.

4- The women were lovely, especially Helen Mirren and Penelope Cruz. The dresses were elegant rather than sexy which was nice I suppose. But made me a bit wistful for the 70s when plunging necklines and peekaboo nipples were de rigueur.

5- As usual, one of my favourite bits was the Dead People Montage. I'm always surprised by some whose demise flew under my radar. (Red Buttons? Really?)

6- Maybe I missed it (I did leave the house for 20 minutes at one point) but I don't recall a Horribly Contrived Desperately Overwrought Garishly Tasteless production number. Bonus.

7- Everybody except the other four nominees (and maybe even them a little bit) seemed happy with Martin Scorsese's win as Best Director. The standing O appeared spontaneous and heartfelt - two qualities rarely espied during an Oscar telecast.

Through A Lens Icily

A few winter photos from southern Ontario - most taken at my beloved creek a hundred yards from my house:












That little dark blob you almost see is what I call a snow bug. On sunny, not-too-frigid days, you can see them crawling along the top of the snow or ice. What we have here are actually two of the little critters doing, um...what comes naturally to all species who want to leave some DNA behind.



This one was taken near a friend's house. It's a lovely pond nestled in the midst of a big city. The willow tree is a magnificent specimen. Too bad they're so short-lived.



Added this one and the following two today (the 22nd). We had a very heavy snowfall for an hour or so early this morning. This pic of part of my backyard was taken through glass which emphasizes the ghostly aspect of the scene.





These two were taken from my front steps (no glass intervening). Yes, I still have my wee Christmas lights up.

Christmas is a state of mind - not a season!

The Power Of Passion

I read a short news bit today from Reuters which I'll quote in full below:

JERUSALEM (Reuters) - Israeli police investigating why a car was blocking traffic in the fast lane of a major highway Sunday found a couple inside having sex.

A police spokesman said the female driver and her male passenger gave in to their passions without pulling over to the side of the road, causing congestion and leaving other motorists having to swerve to dodge their stationary vehicle.

A patrolman gave the woman a ticket for holding up traffic.

I've been swayed, even carried away, by passion. But not so carried away, even in my youth, that I would have stopped my car in the fast lane of a major highway in order to deal with it.

I'm 99.9% sure that even in my most lust-inspired moments, I would have pulled over to the side of the road.

The fact that the driver was female makes me shake my head all the more. Not that women are immune to lust - thank God - but they're supposed to be the more level-headed of the sexes when it comes to this sort of thing.

Anyway, it could have been way worse. They might have not bothered stopping the car at all.

How cold WAS it?

Because I've become a tad portly lately (non-smoking don'tcha know - 8+ months now) I decided to go for a walk today.

I knew it was going to be cold, so, as a savvy Canucklehead, I dressed for it. I put on my warmest coat (in lieu of my leather jacket) for the first time this winter. Wisely, I grabbed my ear-flapped fishing hat instead of my usual ball cap and plopped it on my noggin.

I was ready.



It didn't take too long, even going with the wind, for me to make a slight wardrobe adjustment.



Then I turned into the wind. Sheesh. Maybe it's better I should stay fat?



Anyway. Tonight I'm going to sit near this and sip a Scotch. Scotch is low in calories, right?

Lisa Nowak, Jon Stewart & the Media - Shame All Around

The lady astronaut who snapped. Jeepers! Such a fuss. Every news station was in overdrive. Headline writers were salivating. Jon Stewart milked the story mercilessly until it was udderly spent.

Certainly the details were newsworthy: the mallet, the Mace, the rubber tubing and yes, the diapers. The haggard appearance of Ms Nowak that appeared on front pages everywhere contrasted sharply with that of someone supposedly possessed of the Right Stuff.

Jon Stewart is a father. I wonder if he considered Mr. Nowak, or the Nowaks' three children? Seems to me not many have. They have to be hurting to see their wife and mother's meltdown splashed across every newspaper, radio, television and computer on the planet.

I don't think it's funny. I think it's really very sad. Luckily, the media has the attention span of a gnat and will soon move on.

Hang in there Nowak family. Not everyone is taking pleasure in your pain.

Leaving Tracks

The other day, I was washing dishes and looking out the window into the backyard. I own a dishwasher but it broke about 6 or 7 years ago. At first I couldn’t afford to fix it or buy a new one and then I could but other priorities kept/keep rearing their heads so...I keep doing them by hand.

Actually, I sort of enjoy it. Busywork occupies the body while freeing the mind. About the only time it’s necessary to re-engage my brain is when pain or pink soap suds tells me to be more careful with the knives.

I was looking at the snow-covered yard and trying to identify the various tracks I could see. The rabbit’s were easy, as were the squirrel’s. Farthest back in the yard were what might have been a small dog’s or, more likely, a cat’s. Those tracks were older and a slight melt and re-freeze had distorted their shape. Plus, to tell you true, the kitchen window is none too clean. And further to the truth-telling thing, my eyes aren’t what they used to be.

I got to thinking about tracks and leaving marks and how Spring would obliterate those outside my window. But for a few weeks at least, my yard would be an historical testament to critters’ activities.

Which, I’m thinking, is why some of us write, some of us paint, some of us play music, some of us build bridges and most of us have children: we want to leave our mark.

Now, this internet thing, and more specifically, blogs, have made it easy for everybody to leave their tracks. As long as the net, and Google caches exist, so will the tracks of many millions of people.

Right now, my sons have very little interest in what I write. It’s understandable. At their age, I wasn’t all that interested in what my father did either.

But I have a feeling that sometime after I’m gone, they’ll become curious about the marks I left behind and may even enjoy following my trail.

Emma Faust Tillman

Emma, of East Hartford, Connecticut, was an amazing woman.

For four days, she was the oldest known living person. She inherited the crown last Wednesday when 115-year-old Emiliano Mercado del Toro of Puerto Rico died. Emma, at 114, died on Sunday.

But that's not the most amazing part of her story.

Emma had two siblings who lived until they were 102.

But that's not the most amazing part of her story either.

Another of Emma's sisters lived to 105.

Wait. There's more.

One of Emma's brothers hung around the planet until he was 108.

I sure hope someone had the foresight to sneak a bit of Emma's DNA for research purposes.

Blogs = Brain Porn

What are blogs if not splayed frontal lobes, offering a free peek to every passer-by?

Battlestar Galactica

A few months ago, the son of a friend gave me the url for a website that was a storehouse of tv shows - some old, some pretty new. (I'll pass along that link at the end of this.)

Initially, I amused myself in off-hours by watching every episode of The Trailer Park Boys. The picture quality isn't great at this site but I enjoyed watching episodes I'd missed and re-watching some faves.

I'd heard some buzz about Battlestar Galactica over the last year or three but too late (I thought) to hop on the bandwagon. The series was well along by the time it flitted across my radar. (I know. I'm so darn hep. Anybody see that moving episode of Dobie Gillis last night?)

Anyway, this site has the first three seasons of BG and I started watching them a couple of weeks ago. I'm hooked. Despite the fact I never like Edward James Olmos, who plays the taciturn Captain; despite the fact some episodes lapse into melodrama; I'm well and truly caught.

The basic premise is a grabber: Humans created robot-like creatures called Cylons which eventually turned on their makers and all-but destroyed them. Only 50,000 humans are left, housed in a rag-tag flotilla of space ships, under the aegis of a single, beat up old battleship. The surviving humans are being hunted down relentlessly by Cylons, many of which have adopted human forms and infiltrated some of the ships.

The plot device that gives this series some extra pizzaz is the indication that some Cylons are becoming more human - are exhibiting signs of conscience. Is it possible they'll eventually find some common ground? Tune in next week....

Other random pluses: Mary McDonnell is terrific as the fragile, but tough-as-nails President. Donnelly Rhodes, a fine Canuck character actor, has a recurring role as a cigarette-smoking doctor. (Yeah, really!) The music is excellent, from the theme, to the insistent, throbbing drums that inject adrenaline into many of the chase and battle scenes.

If you liked Star Trek in any of its incarnations, you'll enjoy Battlestar Galactica - a terrific space opera with good and bad good guys and bad and good bad guys.

Check out lots of tv shows at TV Links.

It was inevitable

It took until mid-January but winter has arrived. It's arrived in the form of freezing rain and school closures. Which, of course, means that my basement wreck-room is infested with teenagers at 9:00 a.m. on a Monday.

This is SO wrong.

9:00 a.m. on a Monday is supposed to be a quiet time. Just me and my parrot, Lucy. Although Lucy isn't always quiet. But at least her silence can be bought with a peanut or pumpkin seed. Albeit temporarily. Try tossing food at a herd of teens and the volume level only rises.

I can't get too upset though. I remember the joy of an unexpected day off school. The commotion and disruption of my usual schedule gives me an excuse to slack off as well. I think I'll play some Dragon Warrior VIII. I finally got my own PS2 for Christmas. Son #1 bought it for me. He's a good boy. I think I'll keep him.

Then maybe I'll watch an episode or two of Battlestar Galactica. I was going to write about that show today as a blog entry. Guess it'll wait a day or three.

If the freezing rain lets up enough and the salt trucks come by to do their thing, I might just go out to eat. A new joint opened up in town with a terrific special: a Donair (spiced beef/onion/tomatoes/yummy sauce served in a wrap), plus an order of fries and a can of pop for $3.99. And the fries are good too - real taters, not reheated, previously-frozen sludge sticks.

The trick may be to ease out the door without any of those urchins downstairs noticing. Four bucks for a big lunch is a great deal but even Simple Math says that $4 X Umpteen Urchins = a Big Dent in my wallet.

I know. I'll withhold Lucy's lunchtime peanut. Her squawking will cover the sound the front door opening and closing.

Wish me luck.

2006: Britney's Smile, Global Warming, There Ain't No Heaven and Much, Much More!

Holy moley! I know it’s partly a factor of aging but 2006 zipped by like I was standing still!

Hmmm...judging by my waistline, there might be something to that. Right now though, it’s time to gaze into my rearview mirror and mull the year past - to offer insight and explanation to those confused by world events as well as opining about the weird, the wonderful and the wacky. And yes, I’m doing my Top 5 Songs of the year again. You’re very welcome.

Things in the Middle East are still bad. People want what they don’t have and don’t want what they do. Outsiders meddled, fuelling resentment which, for some misguided souls, took the form of blowing themselves, and others, up. Prediction for 2007: More of the same.

It’s January 2nd as I write this in southern Ontario, Canada. The usual high temperature for these parts in early January is about -3 Celsius. Ski resorts should be in full swing. Today is 6 C, the creeks, rivers and lakes are ice-free and there’s not a flake of snow in sight. I’m beginning to suspect there just might be something to this global warming stuff. In my own wee, selfish speck of the planet though, as I fish for steelhead instead of huddling around the fireplace, it’s hard to see it as a Bad Thing.

Okay, we’ve covered the dry stuff. Let’s move along to what matters: Entertainment.

Britney Spears wins the Twit(ette) of the Year award not just for her parental, um, skills but also for text-messaging her divorce plans to her hubby and then having her vertical smile photographed and displayed across the net.

A word or two about links before we go any further. I don’t know how to make a clickable link that opens a new page in your browser. That’s partly why I don’t often embed them in my posts. However, there’s going to be a few of them coming up and I want to apologize in advance. Just remember that you can use the back button on your browser to return to this page.

I didn’t read a lot of books last year but the best of those I did was Victoria Strauss’ The Awakened City. If you like, you can read a review I wrote of it.

TV worth watching: The Trailer Park Boys, The Office, The Colbert Report and I’m beginning to get hooked on Battlestar Galactica.

I dislike music videos unless they're a straight-ahead filming of the artists playing the song. I have no desire to have someone else’s interpretation of the song inflicted upon my brain. My brain suffers too darn much inflicting as it is in this multi-media universe. Therefore I never watch MTV or MuchMusic. So why Frank, you ask, are you about to link to a bunch of YouTube music videos?

I’ll tell you. I don’t how to link to just audio files even if I could find them. The videos are easier to find. So if you want to just hear my top 5 pop songs of 2006, click the link and then close your eyes.

I’m cheating from the get-go. Two of Pink’s tunes are tied for my #5 spot: Who Knew because it’s a fine song and Stupid Girls because of its important message to young girls.

For mindless, feel-good fun and a harkening back to the disco days of the Bee Gees, check out the #4 song by the Scissor Sisters, I Don’t Feel Like Dancing. (If you’re not already heartily sick of it, that is. Yeah, it’s one of “those.”)

The last three picks were very tough. A good case could be made for each as #1. Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars is as simple, dramatic and fresh a love song as these old ears have heard in a long, long time. And I'll be darned if I didn't stumble over a video montage from Grey's Anatomy highlighting the song. It's very well done and moved me to tears which says a lot about how good the song is and probably the show too (which I haven't seen) but even more about stupid male menopause.

Song #2 defies categorization. Chances are you haven’t heard this one and I strongly urge you to check it out. The video is lame but I'd be interested in what you think of the tune. Initially I didn’t like it but its insistent rhythm and eerie vocals grew compelling. It’s a somewhat bizarre mix of gospel and techno-trance called No Heaven by talented Montrealer DJ Champion.

Song #1 has been played everywhere and is no doubt familiar to all. Except for its superb production values it wouldn’t be out of place if it came from Detroit in the 60s. Gnarls Barkley’s Crazy is pure pop perfection.

Everybody dance and bring on 2007!

Merry-Merry

Don't think I'm going to have time to post anything closer to Christmas than now. So ....

Whether it's Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Solstice or Christmas, whatever you celebrate, I hope you do so with gusto tempered by common sense. I hope you have family and/or friends with whom you can spend some time and share some laughs. I hope there are multiple hugs in your future, that you are favoured by the smiles of children and that there's an elderly person or three in your life from whom you can learn.

I wish you the richness of maturity and the energy of youth. I wish you insight and time. I wish you the peace of mind that invites restful sleep.

I wish you a fulfilling and safe holiday season.

T'is the season...

...for a lot of things, especially procrastination and overeating. The former is no darn good when it comes to Christmas shopping and the latter is no darn good when one is already wrestling with one's jeans every morning.

I'll write more some other time but right now I'm hungry.

Christmas Pre-Shopping

Thought I'd try something new this year. Instead of actually shopping, I went pre-shopping today. I strolled around a giant mall with absolutely no intention of buying anything. It was liberating.

Rather than burdening myself with parcels and bags and jostling with sharp-elbowed shoppers, I ambled from store to store, making mental notes: "Oh, that fluffy steering wheel cover would be great for Son #1 if he ever gets a car. Ha! That lipstick shaped like a penis would be terrific for all the women on my list! Well, maybe not Sister Marcella at Our Lady of Peace. But if she drives she'd probably appreciate a fluffy steering wheel cover."

My mental notes included the whereabouts of each store of course. Luckily, most of the ones with spiffy stuff were on the basement floor, in a kind of darkened part of the mall, near the back loading doors. Rents were probably cheaper. Which would explain how that nifty lipstick could be sold for only 6 bucks. The stores should be pretty easy to find when I actually do decide to shop. Which will be pretty soon. I've learned my lesson. No more Dec.23rd frenzies. I'll probably conduct one more pre-shop, downtown this time, on Monday. Let's see, that would be the 18th.

Then, on the 19th, if the pre-shop hasn't taken too much out of me, I'll do all my shopping in one swell foop. If I am too pooped after the pre-shop, I'll take the 19th off to rest and tackle the stores on the 20th.

It makes sense you know. Getting the lay of the land. Saving time and energy when the crunch comes.

I'll let you know how it all works out.

Van Morrison

I've been a huge Van fan since the early 60s when he was the lead singer and front man for the band Them. I don't know of another singer with the talent to not only write terrific songs but to interpret others' so wonderfully. To listen to his music over the decades is to explore popular music itself - from R&B to pure blues, to jazz, to soul to country. Van can take a song and make it his own while still remaining faithful to the spirit of the original.

For 30-some years now my answer to the question, "What one record would you take with you if stranded on a desert island?" has remained the same: Van's 1974 double-live album It's Too Late To Stop Now.

If you've never heard it you're in for a treat. Go buy it. Right now. I'll wait.

Okay.

When you have a quiet couple of hours to yourself, pour your favourite belly-warmer and put on the first side. Listen to them in order. You'll hear familiar songs that you've never heard before.

And the previous sentence will make sense.

What brought this particular musing to the fore was my recent discovery of a blog devoted to Van and his music. The blogger, John Gilligan, has dug up news, information and best of all, video clips, of Van over the years. I was sorry to read some of the stories that indicate Van can be a rather unpleasant person. Over the years I'd learned he could be a difficult interview, prickly and unwilling to open up but wanted to believe that he was just shy. Apparently there's more to it than that.

What matters to me though, and his many fans, is the music. Van has always been about the music.

Go visit Mr. Gilligan's blog and see/hear for yourself.