When Stephen Hawking Talks....

I've always been a bit of a smartass. My school teachers throughout the years would attest to that, as would my reddened palms from all the times I got the strap. Part of my problem was learning at a fairly early age that teachers weren't infallible, that indeed, they were sometimes wrong. The rest of the problem was telling them so, sometimes obliquely, like laughing when they made some serious point.

Over time though, I got a few teachers I respected very much. What I liked about them was the fact they were intelligent and they listened. When they disagreed, they did so respectfully. They didn't laugh at me when I said something dumb. I learned from them, not just about English, or Latin, but about life and relating to people. I felt shame when recalling some of those earlier teachers I'd laughed at.

As I aged, I learned I had a lot to be humble about. I wasn't nearly as bright as I'd once thought. My wattage was as a candle to some folks' high beams. And then there's the halogen brilliance of Stephen Hawking....

I spend very little time thinking about what he posits because it's way beyond my ken. Most of my thinking is admiration for his tenacity in staying alive despite struggling with ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis), a fatal wasting disease. I don't know the record for the length of time staying alive after diagnosis but he's got to be approaching it.

Anyway. I rely on other smart people who purport to understand what Hawking theorizes about to attest to his smartness. I concede it.

So when he says something that I can understand, I listen and I think about it.

Last week, in a news conference in Hong Kong, Hawking warned that the human race's survival as a species was dependent upon it seeking out other worlds to colonize. He believes the chances are that mankind will wipe itself out on earth within a hundred years.

He believes we could have a permanent colony on the moon within 20 years and on Mars within 40 - and that we should.

I think we gotta listen to the guy. I believe the US, Canada, Britain, France, Australia and other interested countries should get together, pool their resources, both scientific and monetary, and start making this happen.

Even if Hawking is wrong about earth's and mankind's demise, it's still the right thing to do. The pursuit of knowledge and exploration into the unknown brings out the best in us - it's at the heart of who we are.

Hawking is wheelchair-bound. He speaks with the help of a computer. His disease renders him totally immobile. Nobody is more earthbound than he.

Yet his mind and imagination are not tethered by the law of gravity. They are not encased by dimensional walls. I honestly believe that in a very real way, Stephen Hawking already lives "out there" and is beckoning the rest of us to follow.

I hope there's a few smartasses out there listening, nodding and preparing to do just that.

Oh Crap. Writer's Block.

Okay. Two weeks and a day but who's counting?

I'm sleeping a little better but can't seem to concentrate long enough to write a lick. You know, although sympathetic, I've never truly related to other writers who complained about being blocked. I'd be temporarily stuck, like, for as long as it took for me to wander into the garage and have a couple of puffs of my pipe, then get right back to writing.

I never understood how someone could just NOT be able to write for an extended period of time.

Until now.

Brain betrayal. Muse mutiny.

Crap.

Still Not Smoking

Okay, it's been a week. No patch. No gum. No homocides. Yet.

The physical aspects of withdrawal have been easier to deal with than I'd expected: no case of the shakes or screaming meemies. My sunny disposition remains intact and if you don't believe me you can just stop reading, go outside, close your eyes and run around until you get by a truck and see if I care. Loser.

I have two semi-major issues: I can't seem to sleep for more than four hours at a stretch and I'm having trouble focusing for extended periods (such as might be required if a person was to, oh, I don't know, write something longer than one sentence.)

Otherwise, things are just peachy. Really.

Go away now.

Barbara Bauer Ph.D - Pretend (and profane) Agent

Once upon a time - actually, for the last 20 years, right up until today - there was a pretend literary agent named Barbara Bauer Ph.D. Now, in the book publishing world, real agents make their money by selling real books written by real writers to real publishers. They then take a percentage of what the writer is paid as their fee. It’s a system that has worked well for a long time.

We know that Barbara Bauer Ph.D. was and is a pretend agent because, well, she didn’t sell any of her client’s books. She did, however, charge them fees - sometimes reading fees, sometimes marketing fees and sometimes representation fees.

One day, Ann Crispin and Victoria Strauss, real writers who advocate on behalf of other real writers, assembled a list of the 20 Worst Agents. These agents are commonly known as “scam” agents. They’re not interested in earning money by selling books to publishers. They’re interested in “pretending” to sell books but in reality, make their money by charging fees.

Well, Barbara Bauer Ph.D. (who, by the way, seems extraordinarily proud of those letters after her name - you can tell because the only pictures of her on her website are of her graduation - be-capped and be-gowned, by golly) was very annoyed to see that her agency was listed as one of the 20 Worst. She became ultra-annoyed when other websites picked on the list and republished it.

She huffed and she puffed and she threatened to blow their houses down! And she did so profanely! (Maybe the Ph.D. stands for “profane huffer doc.”)

But everyone’s house stayed up.

Until one day she saw her listing on a bulletin board called the AbsoluteWrite forums. Those forums were created by a writer named Jenna Glatzer as a place for other writers to gather and learn from each other. Over 7,000 of them did so. It was a happy and educational place for all writers, from hobbyists to professionals.

Barbara Bauer Ph.D. knew profane huffing wouldn’t work on Jenna, so she huffed and she puffed at the hosts of that forum (JC-Hosting - TotalWeb International Net Consulting) and guess what?

They closed the forums! And over 7,000 formerly-happy writers had no place to gather!

Barbara Bauer Ph.D. and JC-Hosting had made very many writers very angry. Angry writers are a fearsome lot. They dip their keyboards in acid and wield words as daggers.

Guess who’s bleeding now?

Links: Making Light - NVNC ID VIDES, NVNC NE VIDES - Miss Snark - Writer Beware - BarbaraBauer - More blogs about Barbara Bauer.

Gonna Quit Smoking

I wrote in my column last week that I intend to quit smoking on May 30th, my 55th birthday. That only leaves me six more days of smoking but who's counting?

As of now, I plan to go cold turkey: no gum or patches or hypnosis or acupuncture - just crying and tantrums. I'm not anal about aids though. (Wicked wits could have fun with that sentence but I'm not that kind of a guy.) If it turns out I'm having a horrible go of it, I'll try whatever I need to in order to stay away from my beloved pipes.

I received a lot of wonderful mail after that column, chockful of stories and tips and cautionary tales from readers who've been there and done that. They were inspiring and I'm very grateful to those folks for taking the time to tell of their experiences.

I'm pretty sure I won't turn into one of "those" reformed smokers; you know, the ones who cough ostentatiously when within 100 yards of someone puffing. They bug me. I plan on exercising more to burn off some of those extra calories I'll probably be ingesting in place of nicotine and to exorcise the heebie jeebies of withdrawal. I just want to feel healthier and look good in a Speedo again. Is that so wrong?

Anyway, I'll be whining about my progress here semi-regularly.

You've been warned.

Making A Difference

When the last page is turned in your life’s book and the reviews start to come in, what do you want them to say?

Good parent? Fine son? Great worker? Pillar of society? Excellent writer? Told great jokes?

Worthy accolades, all. But rendered down, I believe the essence of a life well-lived is knowing you made a difference - that the ripples of your passage affected others in a positive way.

Never pass up an opportunity to comfort someone in pain. Keep compliments handy and don’t be shy about doling them out. Layer a slice of honesty with the icing of tact. Gift the lonely with your presence. Listen.

Risk opening your heart - the potential gain is worth the possibility of pain. Keep your mind open too - something good might build a nest in there and the crap will eventually find its way out.

Pay attention to children and the elderly - the former know what you’ve forgotten and the latter know what you’ve yet to learn.

Help someone feel better about themself today. Repeat every day.

That’s all that really matters.

Psychic Stuff

Call it spring fever. Call it laziness. But I'm going to plagiarize myself and reproduce one of my columns: Baron It All Issue #72. All rights reserved etc.

Read an interesting article the other day about a Toronto-area woman who helps police all over North America solve crimes via her psychic ability. We’ve all read similar stories. This one was neither more, nor less credible than others I’ve read. I have a pretty open mind. Some might even say its doors are permanently ajar. They can hear the wind blowing.

Hahaha. I made a self-deprecating joke.

What was kind of neat about this particular woman, aside from the obvious, was her husband. He met her when she was called in on one of her earliest cases, some 20-odd years ago. He was a Homicide cop assigned to the case and highly skeptical of her abilities. Guess she convinced him. And then some.

The story got me thinking about psychic or paranormal stuff. I’ve mentioned in an earlier column about my great-grandmother, Big Baba, being a card and tea-leaf reader. During my teens I was fascinated by all things paranormal; devouring books by Hans Holzer (the ghost hunter), Edgar Cayce, Ruth Montgomery and others. I exhausted the local library’s store of books about astrology, UFOs, the Bermuda Triangle, telekinesis, telepathy, psychometry and spiritualism.

My then-future-ex-wife and I had our charts done by an astrologer. We got his phone number from an ad. The only information he wanted was our place and times of birth. No names or other identifying info. He gave us an appointment about a week later. Each of us received a long, detailed reading. I recall being amazed when he recounted a near-drowning experience I had when I was 10. At that time, only about three people on the planet knew about it. I hadn’t even told my parents.

I began to read books by Herman Hesse, Kahlil Gibran and Carlos Castaneda. Along about this time I was also experimenting with mind-altering compounds. (Hay! It was the late 60s - early 70s.) Finally, one nasty night I learned that thinking about paranormal stuff while under the influence of certain substances was a Very Bad Thing.

So I pretty much stopped doing both, or either, for a very long time.

In the intervening decades I’ve had the occasional, outside-the-norm experience. I expect many of you have as well. Here’s a couple that, although not overly dramatic, stand out:

1 - I was in my early 20s and a recent university graduate, living in London, Ontario. I was (and still am) an inveterate people-watcher. It’s part of the writer-thing to observe and speculate; to mentally file quirks and tidbits of conversation, tone of voice and mannerisms.

I was sitting at the back of a bus (from where one can see everybody), on my way downtown. At a stop a girl of about six or seven, a woman, and a man got on board. I glanced at each in turn and almost physically recoiled when I saw the man. I felt the blood drain from my face. I felt sick.

There was nothing obviously loathsome about his features necessarily. He was of medium height, dark-haired and had a sallow, slightly waxy complexion. I realized that I just very, very strongly felt evil emanating from him. That’s not a word I use a lot but it was the only one that fit.

The woman and girl sat in one seat, the man opposite them. None of them exchanged a word. They got off one stop before me and I was struck by how passive the little girl was, as was the woman I assumed to be her mother. Both walked, eyes lowered, to the exit. I glanced away as the man neared, not wanting to make eye contact, however briefly, with him.

I’ve never felt such a strong, negative visceral reaction before or since and hope I never do. I’ve often wondered about that woman and girl.

2 - For several years my ex and I lived in an old house built in the early 1900s. We lived on the main floor and basement, another couple on the two upper floors.

The basement had cold spots; well-known to ghost story readers. The temperature could change dramatically one step away from wherever you were. The spots were not constant and they existed all four seasons of the year. I grew used to them for the most part, although every now and then, when alone down there at 2:00 a.m. watching a late show, I would get creeped out. Once or twice, I actually ran upstairs when I felt a cold spot starting to surround my chair.

Our main floor kitchen had a door added to separate it from the front entrance, used by the upstairs couple. We were friends and visited often. When in the kitchen, we could hear them come downstairs, or enter their front door from outside. Practically every day we’d hear their footsteps approach that kitchen door as they visited.

Late one night, three or four of us were sitting around our kitchen table talking when three very loud knocks suddenly rattled that door. We all started because nobody had heard approaching footsteps, either from the neighbour’s stairs or front door.

I took three steps and opened the door. Nobody there. Nobody going upstairs. Nobody going outside from the front door. We hadn’t been playing music, just quietly talking. It was late and we would most certainly have heard someone approaching and leaving that door.

As the wise sage Yogi Berra once said, “You can observe a lot just by watching.”

But you can’t always explain what you observe.

Serendipity: Part Deux

Last week in my column I wrote about serendipitous stuff that has happened to me over the years. I then related my fortuitous online meeting with a pro tarpon fisherman and budding writer named Dino Ramaciere. I urged everyone to check out the latest (April) issue of Field & Stream magazine, wherein they could find Dino’s first published story - Beauty and the Tarpon.

One of my readers, who I think lives in Australia, wrote to ask if any of Dino’s writing appeared online as he had no access to the magazine. I knew Dino hadn’t posted or published anything except for his F&S story, so I wrote back saying I’d ask Dino’s permission to send the draft of the story that he had sent me some months before.

Dino did me one better and sent me the galley from the magazine which included one of the spiffy illustrations used to accompany the piece. I forwarded the galley and made a note to offer to do so in my next column to anyone who had problems finding the mag.

Now a bit of back story:

About a month ago I came across a reference to Google Alerts on the Absolute Write boards. Many of you probably know about it but for those of you who don’t - it’s a service provided by Google wherein you input keywords and they’ll email you any search results containing those keywords. I thought it might be a fun way to track my book so I entered “what fish don’t want you to know” (without the quotation marks).

Every 24 hours I received an email from Google Alerts which contained links using my keywords. Unfortunately, probably because I didn’t use quotation marks, I got mostly inappropriate results - stuff like:

Trout season tips to live by Trout are safe, healthy meal Rules ...
Scranton Times-Tribune - PA, USA
... have broken or unusable straps, or that don’t fit are ... Also, if you catch fish, like perch or sunfish, that have no minimum size and you want to clean ...

The first line would be a clickable link. The second was the source. The rest was a snippet from the linked page highlighting the “appropriate” keywords.

Usually among the 10-15 results there would be one or two that actually related to my book’s listing on Barnes & Noble, or Amazon or elsewhere but most weren’t at all germane. I tended to delete the mail after a five-second scan and each time would make a mental note to alter the listing to include quotation marks to winnow out the inappropriate links. But as we all know, mental notes aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on and I kept putting it off.

Anyway...

This morning, the first listing in my Google Alerts was:

Beauty and the Tarpon
Field and Stream - USA
... I went fishing one morning with my wife and my sister. Initially, my sister didn’t want to make the trip. ... You know I don’t like to fish....

Yep. Dino’s story is online. Now you don’t have to shell out bucks or visit your library to read a fine story by a fine writer. Go read it right now. You won't be sorry. I'll wait.

I suppose sooner or later Dino, or someone, would have tripped over the online listing and let me know. But it was a hoot to come across it this way.

Might even call it serendipitous.

Pamela Anderson (both of her) and a nice story

Unique seems to have taken on the task of being my Muse. She's hinted rather broadly that it's past time for another entry. So blame this one on her.

I read a nice story in the newspaper this morning. A young woman from New Jersey, Lindsay Scharzwaelder, (you can't make those up) was vacationing in Ontario in January. She and her boyfriend were returning from a ski trip when they lost control of their car on a very snowy road. The car rolled over and ended up in a ditch. Luckily, both Lindsay and her boyfriend were unhurt and walked away.

Later, she discovered that two rings she'd removed while skiiing and placed in the car door's armrest were gone. They'd must have fallen out into the snow when they opened the door after the accident.

Lindsay was distraught at the loss of the rings and tried to call the 1-800 number the attending police officer had given her. But it didn't work from the States so she wrote a letter to the Ontario Provincial Police, asking if it would be possible for an officer to look for the rings after the snow melted.

Last Sunday, OPP Constable Russell Elliott walked along the ditch near where the accident had occurred months before. He didn't have much hope of finding the rings but figured he'd give it a shot. He shone a flashlight around the muddy area and something gleamed.

Uh-huh. It was one of the rings. He dug around in the mud nearby and found the other one too.

They are now back where they belong, on Lindsay's fingers in New Jersey. She's happy. Constable Elliott is happy. I'm happy I read it.

Also last Sunday, I watched the Juno Awards, Canada's equivalent to the Grammys. The show was hosted by two of Canada's most famous expatriates, Pamela Anderson.

(Ba-da-bing!)

I hadn't watched the Junos in decades, since back in the days when Anne Murray, Gordon Lightfooot, Count Basie and the Guess Who copped all the hardware. The show was boring and predictable. (Those words should be synonyms.)

But I was drawn to it this year because the Canadian music industry is booming, with lots of individuals and bands worth a listen. Michael Buble, a crooner in the Tony Bennett tradition, was the big winner, with several awards. But The Arcade Fire, Bedouin Sound Clash and Nickelback didn't go home empty handed. Bryan Adams was deservedly elected to the Canadian Music Hall of Fame. (I forgive him his recent obsession with power ballads because Summer of 69 is one of the great rock anthems.)

Coldplay and the Black Eyed Peas also performed and help present awards. All in all, it was an enjoyable show and Pamela and Pamela had nothing to do with it. Hardly anything. Much.

You know, if some of you would like to read more of my stuff you're allowed to subscribe to my (mostly) weekly, (mostly) humourous, free, emailed column/newsletter. (Hello? Unique!?) The column is BCC-d. Nobody will get your address (except me - and I keep it safe in my underwear drawer). Just drop me a line at baronitall(at)rogers.com. You know what to do with that (at).

Gone Fishing

It had been much too long since the last time I’d gone fishing. My spirits were as bedraggled as a soaked kitten’s.

The fact there was a bunch of cars parked at the bridge didn’t really faze me. I knew most of the guys would be fishing north of it - where most of the fish were. I was headed several hundred yards downstream, towards the lake. I’d druther fish where there weren’t many fish as long as I had some space to myself.

Only one guy was working “my” spot when I got there. I set up a respectful 50 or so yards away and proceeded to get my first professional overrun (“backlash” or “tangled line” for you fin-impaired folks) on my 2nd cast.

Five minutes of cursing and working out the tangles later, I made my 3rd cast, and this time there was no unravelling that mass of monofilament spaghetti. I cut the line, sat on the bank, dug out some new line and started refilling my reel. And promised never to use line more than six months old, ever again.

While I was in the midst of that little chore, the other guy packed up and started walking back towards the bridge. As he passed, I asked if he’d had any luck. He replied in the negative, saying it had been dead for the three hours he was there.

Fuelled by my usual mixture of faith and foolishness, I was undaunted. I moved to his vacated spot and began drifting a small worm under a float.

The sun was warm - though the wind found gaps in my clothes and reminded me it was very early spring. The worm wasn’t working so I switched to an artificial grub. Nothing doing there either. Time to use the tried-and-true roe bag.

An hour and a half meandered by without a sign of a fish. My shoulders and arm began to hurt - in that good, fishing-caused way. The water looked perfect - high and slightly dingy. There had to be a fish or two around. They couldn’t all have moved up to the off-limits spawning areas yet.

I was watching two gulls squabble over something when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my float slip under the surface. I belatedly, but not too belatedly, set the hook and was overjoyed to feel throbbing resistance. My 11 ½' rod (it’s not the size - it’s the tricks you can do with it) bent into that oh-so-lovely C-shape.

After a 2 or 3-minute spirited tussle, I eased a 4lb. steelhead to the bank.

Usually I like to release my first decent fish of the year but I was pretty sure it would be the only one I’d catch today. As I dispatched it, I mentally promised to release the next one, whenever it might come along.

It came along about an hour later. This time a 5-6 pounder, a fine male already sporting his spawning colours.

A fishless hour after that, I packed up and trudged back to my car. My hip waders had somehow gained 10 pounds each. My back had joined my shoulders and arm in the pain department.

And my spirit soared. I felt renewed - as happy as I’ve been in months.

Tomorrow I’m gonna do it again.


The above post was written for the layperson, the non-anglerphile. For those of you who consider fish slime to be a cologne and who feel naked without at least a couple of scales clinging to your clothes - read on....

I use two rods: a 9' light-action for bottom-fishing and for casting the occasional piece of hardware, and an 11 ½' noodle rod for drifting under a float. Water clarity was only about 16" so I decided not to bother with a lighter leader and just fished straight 8lb. with each outfit. (Trilene XL, by the way - still my favourite all-round line after all these years.)

The first fish hit a drifted roe bag, tied with white mesh, tipped with a bit of a teaser - a single Berkley Power Egg in fluorescent orange.

The second came during a lull in the current flow when I used the 9-footer to lob out a small, air-injected worm weighted only with a couple of BB shot about 14" above the hook.

This is not a new entry

It's more like a promise of one to come. I'm going to get my line wet tomorrow for the first time in ages and will likely yak about that.

Be still your beating hearts!

Odds n' Ends

Canada has 2100 personnel in Afghanistan, most of them soldiers. The allied forces there are now headed by Canadian General Rick Hillier. Our troops’ role has been expanded to include hunting down Taliban insurgents. As a result, some of our people have been injured and killed recently.

Leader of the New Democrat Party Jack Layton thinks Parliament should debate whether or not we should be there at all. Some Liberals (the folks who sent our men and women there in the first place) agree. Prime Minister Stephen Harper responded by staging an ultra-secret visit to Afghanistan to visit with our troops. He slept on a cot in their encampment. He lined up with the soldiers to eat at the canteen. He told them how important the job they’re doing is and how proud he is of them.

Finally! A leader who does more than grin and mouth empty rhetoric while picking the taxpayer’s pocket.

“But we’re a nation of peacekeepers, not soldiers,” some hand-wringing left-libs cry.

Policemen are charged with keeping the peace too. That means more than helping little old ladies across the street, directing traffic and manning a radar gun. Sometimes it means protecting us from bad guys. Sometimes it means acting instead of reacting. Sometimes it means doing scary, dangerous work far from home.


I’ve done it before and sworn I wouldn’t again but I have. And will.

I’m reading the first book in a series and the next won’t be out ‘til godknowswhen. It’s Tad Williams’ Shadowmarch and it’s terrific. I only have about 50 pages to go and I’m trying to read them very, very s-l-o-w-l-y. My lips aren’t even tired.

Hurry up Tad! Get Shadowplay on the shelves tomorrow!


We just had an enjoyable, albeit brief, flirtation with Spring here in southern Ontario. For a couple of days we had sweater/light jacket weather. Today the temperature is hovering around freezing again and gale-force winds make it feel much colder.

It’s depressing. Like eyeing a pretty girl for a moment, wiping the crumbs off your shirt while rehearsing what you’ll say to her, then watching her climb into some rich dude’s sports car and drive away.


Late breaking news! The Trailer Park Boys are coming to a theatre near you! Watch the teaser and get a glimpse of the most intelligentest and more smarter tv show that probably could ever be! (Thanks to Adam on the AW board for the heads-up.)

Opinin' on the Oscars

I sort of watched the Oscars last night for the first time since Dave ("Uma-Oprah") Letterman hosted. I was semi-interested this time in seeing how Jon Stewart would do in that role. I haven't been a regular Oscars watcher in over 20 years. Maybe 30. The production numbers annoyed me. The insincerity of the glitterati and their exaggerated sense of importance rankled. I also pretty much stopped going out to movies during that time, content to wait until they were released on video. Hence I often hadn't seen any nominated movies until well after the Oscars were presented.

What I tended to do over the last couple of decades was tune in to see the host's opening bits and then let my attention drift. Thinking back, Johnny Carson was pretty good. Steve Martin - ditto. Whoopi Goldberg - not so much. Billy Crystal was probably my favourite. Being part of the Hollywood crowd, he knew how and where to insert a playful needle.

I figured Stewart would be well-received by the audience in the theatre, being as they largely shared his left-leaning politics. His early jokes got a lukewarm response though. I got the impression the crowd was nervous. They seemed to come around when he delivered the Cheney-shot-Bjork joke.

If there was a production number this year I must have dozed off and missed it. I confess to picking up my newspaper now and again and I was on the phone for a while too. Ben Stiller's bit was funny. I liked how genuinely gobsmacked the large cast of Crash appeared when they learned it had won Best Picture. I guess Brokeback Mountain was considered the fave.

Despite the fact one woman in the crowd's breasts kept threatening to escape the confines of her dress as she bounced with delight when her movie won something, it was a ho-hum affair. Perhaps if they had managed to escape I'd feel differently.

Letterman's stint as host was largely panned by the critics. I have a hunch they won't be too kind to Stewart either. Both men have a cool, dry, cerebral wit that serves them well in a smaller, more intimate setting. A great Oscar host needs that wit but also needs to be part clown. And it would help if s/he knew, truly knew, the intimate workings of the movie business.

In other words - I vote to bring back Billy Crystal and tell him the job is his as long as he wants it.

Stephen Colbert

Do I write about the Man? Or the Legend?

Toughie.

They are as one.

Stephen Colbert is the host of The Colbert Report ("report" is pronounced "reh-pore" - as if en francais) seen Monday-Thursday on the Comedy Channel at 11:30 pm, EST, following Jon Stewart's The Daily Show.

Stephen reports (pronounced "re-ports") on the day's events (primarily USA-based) from a hard right perspective.

Supposedly.

But it doesn't take too-too much reading between the lines to see where his sympathies lie.

His, (or rather, his character's) ego is as big as all outdoors, vaguely reminiscent of Peter Seller's Inspector Clouseau. There's no indignity of his hero, George Bush's, that he, Colbert, can't rise above.

The show is wickedly funny. Kudos to the writers and kudos to Colbert for pulling it off in the first place, and sustaining it night after night.

And kudos to Son #1 for getting me to watch it in the first place.

Here's a link to a site devoted to Colbert. Watch some clips if you want a chuckle.

Hail And Farewell

Hail Canada's women! More accurately: Hail Canada's female Olympians! Their strength, courage and determination helped ease the pain of our men's hockey team failing to even qualify for the medal round.

16 of Canada's 24 medals were won by female athletes, led by the wondrous speed skater Cindy Klassen who won five (count'em, 5!) medals all by her lonesome.

A few of my favourite Olympic moments: Clara Hughes collapsing at the finish line after giving her all in winning gold in the women's 5,000 metre speed skating: Chandra Crawford, totally unheralded, winning gold in cross-country skiing, suprising and delighting herself and a nation: Brad Gushue, skip of Canada's men's gold medal-winning curling team, turning to the camera with his cell phone to his ear saying "Pick up the phone Mom!": The same Gushue, minutes later, losing control of his emotions and crying while being interviewed, calling himself a "big soock."

A special Good Sportsmanship medal should be awarded to the Norwegian coach who chased Canadian Sara Renner during a cross country race in order to hand her a replacement ski pole after she broke her own. She and partner Becky Scott were able to win a silver as a result. His unselfishness cost his own team a medal. The Norwegians finished fourth.

All in all (except for that horrible hockey result) it was a wonderful games. They'll be tough to top in 2010 in Vancouver but I have faith our guys and gals will do just that.

Farewell to Don Knotts. The bug-eyed comic actor was one of my all time favourites, especially as Deputy Barney Fife in the Andy Griffith/Mayberry show. After accidentally shooting himself in the foot, Barney was only allowed one bullet for his gun and he had to keep it in his shirt pocket. A small, very thin man, nobody did "nervous," "timid," and "outraged" like Barney. His ultra-macho sniff as he hitched up his gun belt was as funny a recurring bit as I've ever seen on tv.

Farewell to Darren McGavin. A veteran character actor who appeared in dozens of films and tv series, he was best known to me for two roles. First as the title character in the tv series Kolchak: The Night Stalker, an investigative reporter who happened to stumble across more than his fair share of werewolves, vampires, ghosts and space aliens. And he'll be immortalized forever as the curmudgeonly father in the classic holiday movie The Christmas Story.

Don Knotts was 81. Darren McGavin was 83. Howcum it was only a couple of years ago that they were young men?

Ideas, Words, & Themes

One of the bonuses of writing for a heck of a long time is you get to have themes. I remember as a youngster being darned impressed by reading critics who’d say something like: “Mr. Throckbottom returned to his theme of atavistic behaviour in love-struck retired railroad workers....”

I wanted a theme or three that I could return to in order to prompt sage nods from discerning critics.

Well, I’ve done it.

Someone mentioned a couple of days ago that I hadn’t posted on my blog in a week. He said, “What’s the matter, no ideas?”

Ha! As if a Seasoned Professional Writer needed ideas in order to write something! We don’t need no steenkin’ ideas! We just rain down a blizzard of words, toss in some metaphors, mix thoroughly, and let the readers sort them out.

Newbies to the writing game are often stymied by the notion that they actually have to have something to say when they write. I have to laugh. Writing is so simple. It’s just filling in the space between periods with words.

People don’t like spaces. Somebody smart once said that nature, of which people are a part, abhors a vacuum. I hated it too when I was a kid. It was loud and scary. My Mom kept ours in a closet and when I’d see her heading towards that closet I’d holler “Pocky-keener no-no!”

“Pocky-keener” was how I pronounced “vacuum cleaner.” I was cute when I was a kid. And I still pretty much hate them even though they’re not as noisy now unless they suck up a ball bearing or some nails and they clank around in there until they clog something and then the vacuum changes pitch and starts howling like a disembowelled dog - not that I’ve ever heard one of those but I imagine it would be a terrible sound.

I wrote about this before in a column and at the Absolute Write site. I used different words but I was basically talking about the same thing which, if you’ve been following along, makes it a theme. A recurring one even.

Take that Mr. Throckbottom.

And all you sages out there can just start nodding.

Weirdness is in the eye of the beholder.

Joanne and Unique tagged me for this meme.

The Rules: The first player of this game starts with the topic “five weird habits” and people who get tagged need to write an entry about their five weird habits as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose the next five people to be tagged and link to their web journals. Don’t forget to leave a comment in their blog or journal that says “You have been tagged” (assuming they take comments) and tell them to read yours.

Okay, first a couple of apologies and a disclaimer.

Sorry, but I’m gonna break one of the rules and not tag someone(s). I think this one has been making the blog rounds with lightning speed and A- I dunno who-all’s been tagged and B- I really don’t know all that many bloggers yet. So I propose a compromise. If anyone reads my list and wants to compile their own, leave me a note to that effect with your blog addy and I’ll edit my post to add it.

And I apologize to my faithful column readers who may find a couple of familiar topics in my list.

Disclaimer: I’m the most normal person I know. The only way I can come up with five (5!) weird habits is if I use stuff that others have told me is weird.

1- I prefer to start each day by taking a large mug of tea, a newspaper and my pipe up to the bathroom and read for a half-hour or so while listening to my transistor radio. I prefer not to speak with anyone or engage in any other sort of social discourse until I’m done, um...reading.

2- I like to rub people’s bums for luck.

3- I make things up all the time. (See #2.) Well, it’s not exactly true that I totally make things up. I like the elastic properties of reality. So every now and then I bend, twist, and/or stretch it. But sometimes I do indeed completely make stuff up. (Did you already see #2?)

4- When cashiers ask me how I am I like to offer answers other than “Fine.” So, depending on my mood, I may reply “I’m not sure. How do I look?” or “Practically perfect!” or “Buffeted by the raging storms of my inner angst. You?” Sometimes they’re so rattled they give me back too much change. I always return the extra.

5- Even though I’ve spent a goodly portion of my life trying to establish myself as a professional writer (and succeeding on a small level), I still give away my (mostly) weekly, (sometimes) hilarious (okay, amusing) emailed newsletter/column. At first my motives were crassly commercial. I figured it would help me sell an extra few books. Now I do it because enough people have told me how much they look forward to it that I don’t want to disappoint them. Plus it’s still fun. Plus, sooner or later I’m going to publish more books and they’ll feel obligated to buy them. Bwahahahaaaaa!

Bonus weirdness!

6- If I feel out of sync with the universe I’ll do something different in order to plug back into its rhythm. I might walk backwards for a while or put my jeans on before my socks or maybe bend a meme rule or two. What can I say? I’m a rebel without a pause. Or maybe without applause. Whatever....

Simple Math vs Reverend Fred Phelps

I saw a disturbing picture in yesterday’s newspaper. A couple of young, attractive, smiling women were snapped in mid-dance while holding placards. They were dancing on the American flag and the placards read, “God Hates Fags” and “Thank God For 9/11.”

They were followers of someone named Reverend Fred Phelps, a minister from Kansas. The story (by Thane Burnett of the Toronto Sun) accompanying the photograph was equally disturbing. Apparently Mr. Phelps is waging war against sinners and gays top the list. He encourages his acolytes to stage demonstrations at any event which he perceives as being remotely pro-gay, including, but not limited to, the funerals of American soldiers.

His “reasoning” is that the U.S. allows gays into the military which is a Very Bad Thing. Therefore all soldiers, gay or not, are Very Bad. So, in what passes for his mind, the funeral of a young person killed in Iran or Afghanistan is deemed an appropriate place for his followers to demonstrate the “truth” about how God feels.

Apparently God also allowed 9/11 to happen, perhaps even nudged it along, because he wanted to punish the sodomites.

I read that Mr. Phelps came to Canada in 2004 to protest the Supreme Court ruling that amended laws to include same-sex couples. Perhaps not coincidentally, shortly after his visit, inciting hatred on the basis of sexual orientation was added to our list of crimes.

The guy is more than a bit of a twit. ( For the foreigners among you, “bit of a twit” is Canadian for “loathsome lunatic.”) I debated writing anything at all about him. Adding even a minute bit of attention to his and his followers hateful practices could be seen as elevating his profile and some might interpret it as aiding the legitimacy of his cause. But then again, you have to shine the light on cockroaches now and again if you hope to squash them, or at least make them skedaddle.

I don’t want to get into a biblical or theological debate here. But Frank’s Simple Math Theory says that if you believe in God and that God made all things in his image, and he made gays as well as straights, then you have to figure he’s at least bi-curious.

Hope it's not a Stupor Bowl

I don't watch much football, particularly of the American variety. I'm more of a hockey, baseball and (more recently) basketball kind of a guy.

I've watched a few Super Bowl games, starting way back in the Joe Namath/New York Jets days. Many of them were terrible, either blowouts or low-scoring yawners - but some were pretty good.

I haven't been to a Super Bowl party in 15 or 20 years. It's mostly been a non-event in my house.

But today I'm gonna watch. Son #1 was hoping to spend the day and night at his cousin's to watch the game but the weather is wreaking havoc driving-wise. So, to assuage his disappointment, I've decided we'll have our own party here.

We just got back from shopping for staples: shrimp, garlic bread, chicken wings, potato chips and dip. All major food groups present and accounted for.

Let the game begin!

Post Script

Well, it wasn't a Stupor Bowl but it wasn't a classic either. The Steelers won. To be precise - the Steeler's defence won. Seattle had a couple of tough calls go against them and it may have rattled them. They seemed confused a couple of times.

But more importantly: How the heck does Mick Jagger still have the energy to strut like a man a third his age?

I want what he's having.

Erection Dejection

Wouldn't that make a nifty title for a story about a crane that couldn't lift things? Sort of a parody of the Little Engine That Could. Or maybe it could be called The Little Crane That Couldn't.

Why? What did you think this was gonna be about?

Ha! Sometimes I crack me up.

I was away for a couple of days and came back to the usual 125 or so emails, about 90 of which were junk. As I deleted the junk, most of which seemed to involve suggestions for the improvement of my manly bits, the phrase I used in the subject line leaped into my brain. I had to do something with it.

I've decided that blogging is a Very Good Thing. It's re-awakened a love that's lain dormant within me for decades - writing just for the plain fun of it. I think most writers start that way. But somewhere along the path towards, and beyond publication, the sheer love of playing with words begins to dissipate. We become consumed with the mechanics - crafting and polishing and rewriting and submitting and dealing with rejection and re-submitting.

Then, one day, we "make it!" We sell stuff and editors want more of the same and we're happy to provide it and then, somehow, someway - it becomes work.

Even my column, (Free! - Contact me for details!) which grants me lots of leeway, comes with constraints. Admittedly, they're self-imposed but they're constraints nonetheless. Folks have come to expect a certain tone, a certain length, a certain feel.

It's been ages since I wrote because I dang-well felt like it.

I think I might get used to it.

Again.