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.