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.

Remembering Nat

Readers of my column will recall Nat, 11-year-old nephew of Times of London writer James Doran. We were asked, through James, to keep Nat in our thoughts and prayers as he battled Osteosarcoma, a particularly nasty cancer. Sadly, Nat didn't win the war. Below is the mail I received from James, posted with his permission. (Thanks to Hilary for sharpening and resizing the photos.)

Hi Frank,

I enjoyed reading your column about charity today. A lovely little vignette. But I write with sad news. Nat died a couple of months back. I have almost written to tell you a few times, but each time I procrastinated. It's a hard letter to write, I'm sure you understand.

Osteosarcoma is a tough one to beat. The doctors and the collective consciousness of Nat, the family, and the thousands of friends we all made through him, beat the cancer in his leg. It was too much for his little lungs though.

I wanted to thank you and your many readers who gave Nat encouragement and good wishes during his fight. You all taught him and me a very important lesson. Kindness and love are the most powerful forces in the universe. Only through them can life have meaning. Nat learned this important fact in his short life because of the kindness and love of so many people. Because of you, and the many others like you, he looked upon the world and everyone he encountered in it with equal amounts of both.

On behalf of Nat, thank you all for such a generous gift.

We held a wonderful service at the Demelza House Hospice, which is in a beautiful Kentish village called Sittingbourne. You can read about Demelza and make a donation here.

Teachers, school friends, hospital chums, aunts, uncles, mums and dads got up to speak. For a boy of 11 there were so many hilarious stories to tell. It was a joyous memorial.

I wrote a short eulogy and a poem, which I read with the help of my wife Alida – we got married just last month. If you would like to share them, and this letter, with your readers please feel free. I'm a reporter and no kind of poet, but thought it might give those who have read about Nat in your columns a glimpse of him they might otherwise not have seen.

I have also attached a couple of photos I took of Nat in his last weeks at home. His lovely red hair grew back all curly once he stopped the chemo. It was straight before! My favourite picture shows him doing what he liked to do best – simultaneously sorting his YuGiOh cards and playing Nintendo on the couch. The pics look very grainy because I have not yet mastered the use of my scanner. Feel free to post them too.

All the best Frank,

James

I was pushing Nat on the swings down at Rye one afternoon a few years ago and for some reason I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. Grown ups can ask the most boring questions sometimes. He didn't think so, though, and replied in a flash: "A professor".

He was only three years old.

A year or so later Nat was in the back of the car as we drove up to Dad's in the Lake District and he proudly informed me that numbers not only go up for ever and ever from nought, but that they also go down for ever and ever from nought as well. Out of the blue. He had just discovered negative numbers all by himself at the age of 5.

So with that unique and often hilarious aspect of Nat's life in mind, I wrote a poem, which I will first explain.

In the Universe there are stars that burn with such intensity that they cannot be contained. An Indian mathematician and astrophysicist named Chandrasekhar worked out that when a star burned at a certain rate much greater than our Sun it would lose containment and fold in upon itself leaving behind a pinpoint of light so immensely bright that it seems to us on earth visible for eternity.

This poem is about that phenomenon, and it is dedicated to Nat, who, like Chandrasekhar was an inspired mathematician.

For us there should be always just one more turn around the floor.
If only you would fall back into these arms my love,
You wished to the stars.
For a moment as a lash touched your cheek,
A star pulsed its brightest
Last light that will be for eternity.

A life does not expand to fill the time it should be allowed.
Instead it folds back on itself, restricted from flight,
Like a paper crane.
It is not diminished by this lack,
But becomes a singular beauty
One that it and nothing else can become.

Physicists call this cruelty the Chandrasekhar limit.
When a star burns 1.4 times brighter than the sun,
It must find a new form
And we must look for its light
In the farthest reaches of the Universe.

James Doran





Nat and his dad, Chris.

God bless Nat. There's no greater pain than losing a child. May Mom, Dad, family and friends find the strength and faith they need to bear this burden.

Honorifics

I was working on a story and mentioned within it an uncle who wasn't really an uncle. He was unrelated to the family but was a close friend of my father's. We referred to him as "Uncle" and his wife as "Aunt." We also had within our family some distant cousins, 2nd or 3rd or even further removed, whom we referred to as Aunt or Uncle.

I was wondering if bestowing familial honorifics was a common practice within many other cultures. I come from an Eastern European (Ukrainian) background. I know that in some Asian cultures it is (or at least was) polite to refer to elders, even strangers, as "Uncle" or "Grandmother."

My own sons refer to my best friend and his wife as Uncle Mike and Aunt Virginia. I like the idea of conferring honourary uncleships and auntships to special friends. It carries the respect of a "Mr." or "Mrs." or "Sir" but with a special, affectionate component.

Any honourary aunts, uncles or grandparents in your family?

Five (5) Things

Amy tagged me to write five things most people don't know about me. This won't be easy because much of my writing the last few years has been about my life. I spill my guts at the drop of a memory! But I'll try.

1 - I threw up nearly every day of high school. It was caused by anxiety that I might be called upon to read aloud to the class. What was a mild phobia for most of us was a major one for me. I might have enjoyed school otherwise. Or become a politician or actor instead of a writer. Life's weird. Plus you pay taxes, then you die.

2 - I pick up every earthworm or caterpillar I see crossing a road or sidewalk and carry it across lest it fall victim to a car tire or carelessly-placed shoe.

3 - I make faces at babies and very young children in stores, especially grocery stores. I love engaging them in a rousing, smile-inducing session of Peek-A-Boo. Usually their Moms don't mind.

4 - I hate fishing.

5 - I usually lie at least once when drafted to do a list-type meme thing. See if you can spot today's.

The Michael Richards Thing

The media's all atwitter about Richards' epithet-filled diatribe directed at a black heckler at a comedy club. Condemnation has been pretty universal from what I've seen and heard so far. Can't argue with that. His language matched his mood. It was ugly.

I'm not going focus on dancing on the grave of his career though. What interests me about this whole thing is how technology has turned what once would have been a fart in a windstorm into a nuclear mushroom cloud.

15 years ago - heck, make that 10 - it's highly unlikely that Richards' verbal venom would have been caught on tape. Even if it had, it wouldn't have gotten national airplay except as a series of bleeps. Most likely, some few folks from the audience would have complained to the proprietor of the club and maybe fired off a letter or two to a newspaper.

The ripple effect would have been indiscernible.

Instead, a video camera, now as ubiquitous as a pack of cigarettes used to be, captures the event and within hours it's available for world-wide viewing via the internet. As a result, Richards is obliged to appear on national tv and apologize. And apologize. And apologize.

Nobody and nothing is private anymore.

I find that to be a lot scarier than a closet racist outing himself.

Techno-wary

Blogger (read "Google" since they own it now) wants me to switch over to the "new, improved" format/thingy. At this point it's voluntary. They're trying to induce me by saying it's got spiffier features and it's more reliable. If I continue to resist those blandishments, they'll up the ante.

It won't be long before they sadly inform me that I'm among the 4% of "blosers" who stubbornly resist changing over. They'll do their best to make me feel like that gawky, pimply kid watching all the other kids dance and have a great time.

I don't care. So I resist change? Big whoop. For every leading edge there's gotta be a blunt backside. That's me. Let other people blaze trails. Some of us like well-trodden paths. That way we're more likely to see what's lurking around the bend, hoping to ambush us. Like glitches. I hate glitches. And I didn't just tumble off the techno-turnip truck yesterday: new versions are chockful of glitches.

So, I'm gonna stick with the old version of Blogger until Google won't support it anymore. I figger that won't happen for at least another six months, maybe longer. By then they'll be touting Version 3.02 or something and I'll ease my way into Version 2. Most of the glitches should be fixed by then and there still might be a cute girl or two around that I can ask to dance.

Chicken Soup

I have a head cold. I do not like having a head cold. I mostly haven't liked having a head cold since I became an adult. You know, since Mom wasn't around to make chicken soup and fuss over me and I could take a day or two off school. Wives and girlfriends, God bless 'em, bring a lot to the table but I've not found one who fusses like a Mom.

I also haven't found one who makes good chicken soup so I had to learn by myself. My first few attempts weren't so hot. Possibly because I refused to look up a recipe or ask anyone how they made theirs. As my great-grandmother used to say, when she read my cards or tea leaves, "you're too hendy-dependy." She meant "independent" of course. Some might say "mule-headed." One or two might shorten that last one.

Anyway, I'm gonna make a pot of chicken soup today as well as take extra garlic and vitamin C tablets. In two or three days I'll be cured. Or desperately looking for a mother substitute.

Here's how I make my soup:

Put a whole chicken or chicken parts (usually leg quarters or thighs) in a large pot and fill the pot three-quarters full with cold water. Bring to a boil and then turn down heat to simmer for a while - usually about an hour. Remove chicken and put on a plate to cool. Chop up an onion and a few cloves of garlic and add it to the de-chickened water. Also add some veggies like bits of carrots. (Do NOT add celery as celery is God's revenge on us for everything bad we have ever done.) You may add some peas. I usually dump in some frozen ones. Canned ones are too mushy. Frozen corn is also okay as are green beans but not too many of those because I don't like them all that much.

Add several tablespoons of the powdered chicken broth/soup fixings or several cubes if you prefer them. I like the powdered stuff. It dissolves quickly and you can taste as you go until it gets that good chickeny flavour.

Now peel off all the skin from your chicken and separate the meat from the bones. It should just about tumble off because of the previous simmering. Break the chicken meat into bits and plop them back into the pot. Nibble on some as you go. It's okay. Nobody is watching.

Now you've just got to add some egg noodles. I usually dump them right into the pot and let them cook via simmering along with everything else. However, I recently received one complaint that my soup was too starchy. I may, or may not, cook the next batch of noodles in a separate pot and then add them to the soup. Depends on whose turn it is to do the dishes. (HAHAHAHA! That might have been a joke!)

I've started adding dumplings to my last few batches of soup too. I like the meal-ish quality they add. Plus they taste good. My sister Theresa told me how to make them. I was not too hendy-dependy to ask. Just add a little water to salted and peppered flour and stir it around until it's thick and gloppy. Then, using a spoon, dribble the glop bit by bit into the simmering soup. The blobs cook through in a few minutes.

Now it's just a matter of adding salt and pepper and maybe a bit more of the powdered stuff and waiting a decent interval for everything to cook through and the flavours to marry - maybe another hour or so.

Soon, you can enjoy, in a miserable, head-coldish kind of a way, a delicious bowl of hearty chicken soup.

Almost as good as Mom used to make.

Now if only someone would bring me a bowl of it, murmur "poor darling" while placing a cool hand against my forehead and pick up my discarded kleenexes, life would be fairly bearable.

I think he's got it backwards....

It's municipal elections time here in Ontario. (Oh crap - 74% of you have nodded off already!) These are the elections that nobody bothers to vote in. Okay, that I don't bother to vote in.

They are the eyesore elections. What with councillors and mayors and trustees and alderpersons on the ballot, every swatch of green space in the town is covered with signs. Anywhere and everywhere that a car might pause, let alone come to a complete stop, is awash in garish pleas to vote for so n' so. Most signs are professional-looking but it's pretty obvious that some were hatched in someone's garage or basement.

One such is a hand-lettered, black on white beauty protected from the elements by being wrapped in a clear plastic garbage bag. On it, it says (paraphrased): "I've earned your vote. Vote ____ for mayor and let me earn your respect."

Hmmm...Shouldn't we respect him before we vote for him? I mean, in theory.

It just doesn't make a lot of sense to me. But then again, not much about politics does.

Betwixt & Between

It's that awkward time of year for me. Summer fishing, primarily for walleye, bass, muskie and pike, is over. Chinook and coho salmon are clogging up the streams near me right now.

"Clogging!?" you gasp.

Yeah, clogging. I don't like fishing for them when they're on their doomed spawning runs. Their bodies are breaking down, they're no good for the table, they aren't actively feeding and I don't like the idea of provoking them into a strike.

So I'm waiting. Waiting for the salmon run to be over. Waiting for the first couple of hard frosts that rid the trees of those colourful leaves you can see in the post below. Waiting for the grey days of November and its cold, wind-driven rains to call my lovely steelhead from Lake Ontario to my local streams.

I'll be there, sipping on a thermos of tea and stomping my feet to keep warm, waiting to greet them.

Oh, how happy we'll be to see each other! They'll dance and cartwheel across the top of the water. My heart, despite its daily dose of slow-down medication, will pound. After our wild fandango, as we rest alongside the bank, I'll admire the sleek, silver beauty with the rose blush along her side. Then, with a quick caress and a murmurred "thank you," I'll watch her slip back into the depths. And hope we'll meet again one day.

Autumn Leaves

The first song I ever learned in school (kindergarten) went like this:

Autumn leaves are now falling,
Red and yellow and brown.
Autumn leaves are now falling,
See them tumbling down.

There followed a lot of la-la-ing that won't translate well in type but if we ever meet in person, or talk on the phone, and you ask nicely, I'll sing it for you.

One of the reasons I love living where I do (southern Ontario) is the fact that we enjoy four distinct seasons here. All have their merits and drawbacks. All have identifiers that set them apart from each other.

Autumn, the season we're entering now, is noted for its lovely days, cool nights and riotous colours.

Here's a few pics to show you what I mean:













Eat your hearts out all you folks living in sunny California, balmy Brazil or awesome Australia.

Toronto, Coining A New Word & An Internet Phenomenon

I'm going to post some pics to illustrate a current column about a recent trip my sons and I took to Toronto.




Here's the lads sitting outside someplace semi-famous. I forget what it is though.




Here they are on a street corner. Colourful eh?




This is a citified pond. There are no fish in it.




Toronto's new City Hall.




Some guys working on sidewalk *artvertising.



Son #1 posing as if the CN Tower is growing out of his head! Pretty nifty eh? I bet everybody will start doing clever stuff like this with photos of other famous objects, like the Eiffel Tower, Leaning Tower of Pisa etc. It'll be an internet phenomenon! But remember where you saw it first!


*Dibbs on the new word!

Cottage Night

I used to be a photography buff and in the early 80s was a partner in a photographic restoration business. Our primary source of income was retouching old or damaged photos and doing black and white developing. We also did custom developing for artists who didn't want the push-button, cookie-cutter developing being offered by most photo shops. So I spent a lot of time in a darkroom inhaling and playing with chemicals.

Oh stop with the knowing nods already!

The business went kaput after a year or two. A couple of years later, my beloved Konica and nearly-beloved Canon developed problems I was too poor to get fixed. My interest in photography ebbed.

When I was shooting a lot, I focused on nightime photography. I loved the ambience provided by streetlights and car headlights. Add gently falling snow, people walking and kids skating, and you end up with some nifty pics reflecting my preferred reality: blurred around the edges.

Like most of you, I bought a digital camera a couple of years ago but never used it for more than snapshots. I disliked the lag when the shutter was depressed. I wasn't thrilled that the flash came on whenever it felt like and I missed not having that B- setting which left the lens open as long as I wished.

A couple of weeks ago while at the cottage I decided to try some night shots with the digital. I didn't expect much good to come of it, given the limitations I expressed above.

When I got home and uploaded the images I was thrilled! Somehow, that wonky flash and hesitating shutter combined to produce some interesting pics - pics with an impressionistic quality, adding colours and dots that my eyes missed.

Reality, blurred around the edges.

Although the photos lose much of their pixelated charm when downsized I invite you to take a peek anyway.

Come. Visit my cottage with me:



Here's the entrance to the driveway.



Here's the view from the left as you go down the driveway. Or is it the right? Yeah, the view is the same pretty much wherever you look. We're back in the bush.



Getting dark. Might be a nice night for a fire.



Brother-in-law Ches selects a worthy hunk of wood.



Nephew Zach avoids chopping off his left hand while cleverly making his right disappear.



Meanwhile, two Samurai spar in the gathering gloom.



It'll soon be hot dog and marshmallow-worthy.



An overturned aluminum boat and nose-planted wheelbarrow frame a poplar.



Nephew Eli cuts down on the glare while toasting his mallow.



An iron goose points permanently north and watches a night fisherman.




Sister Lisa bidding adieu to the day from the dock. The red nose is not a result of chugging that wine. It's a vagary of the light and the camera. Probably.

She's also relieved that I didn't post the picture of her butt.



Oh, what the heck.

It's summertime...

and the livin' is laaaaaaaazy.

I bet I'm not the only blogger whose output has diminished in the last month or so. Okay, I hope I'm not the only blogger whose...etc. I've been too darn lazy to look at other blogs to test my theory.

I wrote in my last column about the heatwave affecting much of the northern hemisphere. That's gotta be a factor too. Any and all effort has a consequence -- sweat. One must be judicious in selecting one's actions to ensure they be sweat-worthy. There have been times in the last couple of weeks when the only effort I wanted to expend was tipping a cool beverage in the general vicinity of my face. I even confessed to not fishing during the hours of 9-5 when I was (briefly) up at my cottage.

My Australian friends, (who are weather weinies, allatime bitching about how hot it is Down Under) have been crowing about their pleasant temperatures while I roast. My Brazilian buddy, who shall remain nameless (Oh hi Van!) bragged recently about the single-digit (Celsius) temperatures he experienced there.

My comfort lies in history of course. I know that this too, shall pass. In a month, this searing heat will be a distant memory and another cool, lovely Canadian autumn will be underway.

Hmmm...what excuse will I use to explain my sporadic musings then?

Oh well, I have a month to come up with something. Right now it's too darn hot.

PETA - What Word Doesn't Belong In That Acronym?

If you said "ethical" - go to the head of the class.

I addressed PETA's concerns about fishing in my book. I was respectful and polite. I acknowledged their concerns while disagreeing with some of them.

Recently I came upon their anti-fishing comic book. (You'll need Adobe to see it.)

How can I put this politely? Hmmm...I know!

It's bullshit. It packages half-truths with lies and mixes in some heavy-handed, sickening, emotional child abuse. (I especially like the line about kittens and puppies being "next" on Daddy's hit list.)

What it is not is "ethical."

I've lost the remaining vestiges of respect I once had for that organization and will, from this day forward, work actively against it.

Gee, I feel a slight chill. I think I'll club a baby seal and make a new tuque. Oh nevermind. There's a kitten.

Bye-Bye Stevie Y

22 years in the NHL, all with the same team - the Detroit Red Wings. 20 of those years as its captain. He was a scorer when his team needed goals and a checker when they needed defense.

He won three Stanley cups and an Olympic Gold medal with the Canadian team in 2002. He won without gloating and lost without being defeated. He played hurt. He played hard. He showed up every night.

At 41 his heart wanted to go on but he could no longer will his battered body to do what his mind envisaged doing. So yesterday Steve Yzerman hung up his skates.

The record books will show a guy who left as the NHL's sixth leading scorer all-time. He'll be a no-brainer, first ballot inductee to the Hockey Hall of Fame.

I'll remember him as one of the greats, a credit to the game he loved.

Thanks Stevie.