There’s this new television ad about Crest teeth-whitening strips. (What did you think I meant?) Maybe you’ve seen it. The thrust of the ad is that you can wear these strips and still do things. It features some pretty young women doing things. It kind of reminded me of those old tampon ads that assured women they could remain active while wearing them –- although apparently that activity was limited to running in slow motion through a field of daisies.
What the pretty girls are mostly doing in the whitening-strip ad are laughing and tilting their heads in an attractive manner. I think they’re walking in one shot and sitting at a table in another.
The voice-over extols the benefits of doing things while wearing an invisible whitening strip on your teeth. There’s a close-up of one of the pretty girls, presumably the strip-wearer, smiling a pretty smile. Her teeth gleam. There’s no sign of a whitening strip. It really MUST be invisible!
Near the end of the ad, you could tell the voice-over guy was getting excited. He was headed for a climactic statement – the clincher that would tip the balance for an uncertain viewer: While wearing them “you can even,” he exclaimed, “drink water!”
Holy Cow!
What an incredible, slap-the-forehead moment! Let’s assess what we’ve learned so far:
We have the freedom to “do things” when we use these Crest whitening strips. It appears the things we can do are, in no particular order: sit, stand, smile, walk and tilt our heads.
And we can “even” (I love that they used that word!) ingest the most benign substance on the planet!
Wow.
Now, I may not be the sharpest lure in the tackle box, but “even” I can do the math here: If you use these whitening strips and put anything in your mouth except water – your head may very well explode.
Ok, maybe not explode - but I bet something bad would happen.
Ever seen those nifty videos of folks putting Mentos mints in bottles of cola and turning them into mini volcanoes?
I wonder if something like that might happen if the strip-wearer drank some Coke instead of water? Now, if Crest ran a whitening-strip ad that featured a bunch of folks spouting mini, mouth volcanoes while en route to brighter teeth, it might tempt me to try them.
But I’m no darn good at sitting, looking pretty and sipping water. (However, one out of three ain’t bad.)
As the kids today might say (and I pride myself on being pretty darn hep to the jive) this ad is an epic fail.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Mad Marie vs Chazz Chopperboy (#220)
Watching my bird feeder from the front window has provided a lot of entertainment lately. (Holy crap. There's no denying it now. I'm old.) Each day’s usual parade of visitors includes squirrels, chipmunks, mourning doves, sparrows, goldfinches, redwing blackbirds, grackles, cardinals, bluejays and chickadees. Occasionally a robin hops along, apart from the seed-seekers, in a never-ending quest for small, wriggly things.
Some of the birds seem crankier than usual, especially some of the mourning doves. Now, few of us would argue that the Creator favoured all his creatures with various gifts. For instance, chickadees are cute, brave and curious. We all know dogs are loyal and fun-loving. Crows are clever and watchful.
Morning doves, although strikingly pretty in some light, are dumb as posts.
It’s easy, when regarding those tiny heads bobbing up and down, to imagine them filled with a single, cartoon thought balloon containing the word “EAT."
I liken them to cows - placid, social, ever-grazing, regarding the world with a singular lack of curiosity.
Like their bovine brethren, mourning doves generally get along quite amicably with each other. They also tend to tolerate the presence of other ground feeders, like sparrows, grackles, juncoes and squirrels.
Usually.
Lately (as I said upstream before getting so windy) I’ve seen a few cranky mourning doves. One will suddenly decide it wants the feeding area to itself and will turn on, and chase away, another. It may have been grazing happily beside it a moment before, or it may challenge a new arrival while ignoring a couple of others.
I can’t account for it. Unless they’re males trying to act tough to impress a lady. Or maybe pregnant females having hormonal issues.
Anyway, today I was witness to a National Geographic moment: Mad Marie Mourning Dove vs Chazz "Chopperboy" Chipmunk!
Bring It On!!
A flurry of feathers drew my attention to the area below the bird feeder. This, of course, is where the seed falls from above when scattered by the sloppy eaters. (I'm looking at YOU, sparrows!) This drop zone is roughly circular and about three feet in diameter.
The flurry that caught my eye resolved itself into a sulking mourning dove, standing just outside the seed circle and staring back inside, where a muscle-flexing chipmunk was patrolling and filling his cheeks.
At one point, the chipmunk absently worked his way toward the mourning dove and turned its back.
Mistake.
The cartoon balloon word changed from “HUH?” to “ATTACK!” and the dove launched itself at the chipmunk’s rear end. I couldn’t hear the squeak through the glass but I’m pretty sure there was one, as the chipmunk leaped and skittered out of the circle.
The circle which was now proudly paced by the victorious dove. “EAT” was on display inside its head again and it pecked away, seemingly without a care in the world.
For about 20 seconds.
That’s how long it took for the chipmunk to decide it was mad as heck and not going to take it anymore and hurtled its furry little body towards the unsuspecting dove.
Once again, in an angry flutter of wings, the disgruntled dove hightailed it for the border where - uh-huh, you guessed it - it pouted until the chipmunk presented itself as a target once again.
A few minutes later, something outside startled both combatants and they scattered. I'd score the bout a draw, with about three or four successful oustings each. It was very, very funny and a treat to witness. Unfortunately, I’m not ept at using the filming feature of my camera and my attempt failed.
I'm telling you folks, if there's nothing on tv - get yourself a bird feeder.
Some of the birds seem crankier than usual, especially some of the mourning doves. Now, few of us would argue that the Creator favoured all his creatures with various gifts. For instance, chickadees are cute, brave and curious. We all know dogs are loyal and fun-loving. Crows are clever and watchful.
Morning doves, although strikingly pretty in some light, are dumb as posts.
It’s easy, when regarding those tiny heads bobbing up and down, to imagine them filled with a single, cartoon thought balloon containing the word “EAT."
I liken them to cows - placid, social, ever-grazing, regarding the world with a singular lack of curiosity.
Like their bovine brethren, mourning doves generally get along quite amicably with each other. They also tend to tolerate the presence of other ground feeders, like sparrows, grackles, juncoes and squirrels.
Usually.
Lately (as I said upstream before getting so windy) I’ve seen a few cranky mourning doves. One will suddenly decide it wants the feeding area to itself and will turn on, and chase away, another. It may have been grazing happily beside it a moment before, or it may challenge a new arrival while ignoring a couple of others.
I can’t account for it. Unless they’re males trying to act tough to impress a lady. Or maybe pregnant females having hormonal issues.
Anyway, today I was witness to a National Geographic moment: Mad Marie Mourning Dove vs Chazz "Chopperboy" Chipmunk!
Bring It On!!
A flurry of feathers drew my attention to the area below the bird feeder. This, of course, is where the seed falls from above when scattered by the sloppy eaters. (I'm looking at YOU, sparrows!) This drop zone is roughly circular and about three feet in diameter.
The flurry that caught my eye resolved itself into a sulking mourning dove, standing just outside the seed circle and staring back inside, where a muscle-flexing chipmunk was patrolling and filling his cheeks.
At one point, the chipmunk absently worked his way toward the mourning dove and turned its back.
Mistake.
The cartoon balloon word changed from “HUH?” to “ATTACK!” and the dove launched itself at the chipmunk’s rear end. I couldn’t hear the squeak through the glass but I’m pretty sure there was one, as the chipmunk leaped and skittered out of the circle.
The circle which was now proudly paced by the victorious dove. “EAT” was on display inside its head again and it pecked away, seemingly without a care in the world.
For about 20 seconds.
That’s how long it took for the chipmunk to decide it was mad as heck and not going to take it anymore and hurtled its furry little body towards the unsuspecting dove.
Once again, in an angry flutter of wings, the disgruntled dove hightailed it for the border where - uh-huh, you guessed it - it pouted until the chipmunk presented itself as a target once again.
A few minutes later, something outside startled both combatants and they scattered. I'd score the bout a draw, with about three or four successful oustings each. It was very, very funny and a treat to witness. Unfortunately, I’m not ept at using the filming feature of my camera and my attempt failed.
I'm telling you folks, if there's nothing on tv - get yourself a bird feeder.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Another Excerpt From: Walking With Benny (#219)
Watched a grackle in the backyard gathering nesting material just a few moments ago. He’d hop along (you’ll understand how I came to be certain of his gender in a moment) gathering bits of dried stalks of grass or weeds. When he had two or three bits in his beak, he’d open it again to gather more and drop the ones he had - thereby having to start over. I watched him do this several times.
Now you know how I knew.
It was easy to picture Mrs. Grackle tapping her foot and pointing to her watch when he finally appeared at the nest-to-be with something to contribute.
At the same time, about 10' from the grackle and deeper into the shade of the SW corner of the yard, I watched a cowbird engaged in what I first thought was the same behaviour as the grackle. It was walking slowly but purposefully, pecking over here and then over there. After a handful of pecks with no visible result, I figured he was looking for food, not nesting material.
And now, as I write this a few minutes later, I recall that cowbirds always lay their eggs in the nests of other birds. Duh. They’re never concerned about finding nesting material.
Animal behaviour is fascinating.
Spawning is just about done. The trout population is sparse now, and scattered. But the warm, dry spell has lowered and cleared the water, so the ones which remain are easier to spot.
Some people, even with sunglasses, sometimes seem totally unable to see these torpedo-shaped shadows. Unless I’m fishing, I never wear sunglasses while walking, and still, I have no problems spotting fish. I suppose decades of squinting at water gives me something of an edge.
Bumped into, and chatted with a couple of folks along the way this morning. Both expressed disappointment at missing the peak of the trout run when the fish were jumping at the dam. One woman in particular, said she hadn’t seen a “single fish” in the last 10 days.
As we spoke, without even turning my head much, I could see a pair of rainbow trout tucked behind a boulder not 20 feet away. Along this particular half-kilometre stretch of creek, I could probably see two to eight fish every hundred metres, if I was looking for them. Two weeks ago was three times that number, last week, twice.
She hadn’t seen a single one.
I think there’s a lot of folks like her. Folks who can't seem to see, even when they’re purportedly looking.
First of all, most of them aren’t really looking at all. If not actually accompanied by someone and chatting, or strolling with their iPod cranked up, they’re busy inside their heads thinking clamorous thoughts about work or the children or finances or sex or medical problems.
Their inner noise and busyness, in effect, deadens their senses. They see well enough not to bump into trees but they don’t see the squirrels or birds among the branches. They see the water splashing over the rocks but they don’t hear the music of the creek.
And at least some of them aren’t seeing fish that are finning in plain sight.
Now you know how I knew.
It was easy to picture Mrs. Grackle tapping her foot and pointing to her watch when he finally appeared at the nest-to-be with something to contribute.
At the same time, about 10' from the grackle and deeper into the shade of the SW corner of the yard, I watched a cowbird engaged in what I first thought was the same behaviour as the grackle. It was walking slowly but purposefully, pecking over here and then over there. After a handful of pecks with no visible result, I figured he was looking for food, not nesting material.
And now, as I write this a few minutes later, I recall that cowbirds always lay their eggs in the nests of other birds. Duh. They’re never concerned about finding nesting material.
Animal behaviour is fascinating.
###
Spawning is just about done. The trout population is sparse now, and scattered. But the warm, dry spell has lowered and cleared the water, so the ones which remain are easier to spot.
Some people, even with sunglasses, sometimes seem totally unable to see these torpedo-shaped shadows. Unless I’m fishing, I never wear sunglasses while walking, and still, I have no problems spotting fish. I suppose decades of squinting at water gives me something of an edge.
Bumped into, and chatted with a couple of folks along the way this morning. Both expressed disappointment at missing the peak of the trout run when the fish were jumping at the dam. One woman in particular, said she hadn’t seen a “single fish” in the last 10 days.
As we spoke, without even turning my head much, I could see a pair of rainbow trout tucked behind a boulder not 20 feet away. Along this particular half-kilometre stretch of creek, I could probably see two to eight fish every hundred metres, if I was looking for them. Two weeks ago was three times that number, last week, twice.
She hadn’t seen a single one.
I think there’s a lot of folks like her. Folks who can't seem to see, even when they’re purportedly looking.
First of all, most of them aren’t really looking at all. If not actually accompanied by someone and chatting, or strolling with their iPod cranked up, they’re busy inside their heads thinking clamorous thoughts about work or the children or finances or sex or medical problems.
Their inner noise and busyness, in effect, deadens their senses. They see well enough not to bump into trees but they don’t see the squirrels or birds among the branches. They see the water splashing over the rocks but they don’t hear the music of the creek.
And at least some of them aren’t seeing fish that are finning in plain sight.
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
This n' That n' Trout - Mostly Photos (#218)
I've collected something of a mishmash of photos over the last few months which I'd like to inflict share with you good folks. As a bonus, I'm offering a video of leaping rainbow trout! All for the incredibly low (albeit regular) price of free!
The photo below will probably become my new header picture. It's taken from virtually the same place, but in winter rather than fall. Maybe I should put it to a vote. Keep the old one or replace it with this one? (Or maybe I should have just switched to see if anyone would notice?)
Remember, if you wish, you can click each photo to see a larger version.
Last fall, in the middle of the annual salmon run, I took the following pic. You can see the shadows of the big fish in the creek behind an oblivious Benny.
The trio of ducks below, appeared to me to be lost in thought. Perhaps in the same one: "Who's that lumbering dude pointing that thing at us?
This next one goes back to last New Year's Eve. It's a snapshot of part of the table at hosts' Debbie and Mario's place. I swear by my Big Baba's apron that the view changed every three minutes as more (and more and more) food and drinks appeared and disappeared. But every view was just as festive and colourful as the one below.
A few weeks later, Hilary decided to buy a bouquet of flowers to beat back the winter gloom. They made a striking display on her dining room table. (She just up and bought them. Honest. I'm pretty sure I didn't miss a hint....)
Here's a closer look at one of the blooms on the other side of the bouquet.
I wish I could have gotten a better pic of the next subject. He was a rare visitor to the little pond near my home which hosts a large flock of mallards. He's a Northern Pintail duck. What's particularly striking about them is the configuration of their feathers (which of course, explains their name).
At Hilary's last weekend, I borrowed her camera to take a few pics of birds at her feeder. Shooting through the patio door glass obviously flattens out the picture - but the subtle iridescence of the grackle's colouring still comes through.
For several weeks, birds were avoiding both my and Hilary's feeders. I eventually became convinced we had an unappealing batch of seed. Changing the seed helped coax the birds back. But undoubtedly, the presence of the little fellow in my next photograph deterred the locals as well. The merlin perched nonchalantly in my magnolia tree, about 10 feet from the bird feeder, undoubtedly awaiting the arrival of his own feathered lunch. After admiring him a while and taking the shot (again, unfortunately, through glass) - I went outside and shooed him away.
Well, it seems I still have a few pics but this post has gone on long enough. I'll save them for another time. Asthreatened promised, the video below was taken about a week ago, a few minutes' walk from my house. The rainbow trout (steelhead) were anxious to get upstream to get some serious, fin-to-fin canoodling done. Part-way through the video, if your sounds are on, you'll hear an excited little boy announce each airborne fish he spots.
Enjoy.
The photo below will probably become my new header picture. It's taken from virtually the same place, but in winter rather than fall. Maybe I should put it to a vote. Keep the old one or replace it with this one? (Or maybe I should have just switched to see if anyone would notice?)
Remember, if you wish, you can click each photo to see a larger version.
Last fall, in the middle of the annual salmon run, I took the following pic. You can see the shadows of the big fish in the creek behind an oblivious Benny.
The trio of ducks below, appeared to me to be lost in thought. Perhaps in the same one: "Who's that lumbering dude pointing that thing at us?
This next one goes back to last New Year's Eve. It's a snapshot of part of the table at hosts' Debbie and Mario's place. I swear by my Big Baba's apron that the view changed every three minutes as more (and more and more) food and drinks appeared and disappeared. But every view was just as festive and colourful as the one below.
A few weeks later, Hilary decided to buy a bouquet of flowers to beat back the winter gloom. They made a striking display on her dining room table. (She just up and bought them. Honest. I'm pretty sure I didn't miss a hint....)
Here's a closer look at one of the blooms on the other side of the bouquet.
I wish I could have gotten a better pic of the next subject. He was a rare visitor to the little pond near my home which hosts a large flock of mallards. He's a Northern Pintail duck. What's particularly striking about them is the configuration of their feathers (which of course, explains their name).
At Hilary's last weekend, I borrowed her camera to take a few pics of birds at her feeder. Shooting through the patio door glass obviously flattens out the picture - but the subtle iridescence of the grackle's colouring still comes through.
For several weeks, birds were avoiding both my and Hilary's feeders. I eventually became convinced we had an unappealing batch of seed. Changing the seed helped coax the birds back. But undoubtedly, the presence of the little fellow in my next photograph deterred the locals as well. The merlin perched nonchalantly in my magnolia tree, about 10 feet from the bird feeder, undoubtedly awaiting the arrival of his own feathered lunch. After admiring him a while and taking the shot (again, unfortunately, through glass) - I went outside and shooed him away.
Well, it seems I still have a few pics but this post has gone on long enough. I'll save them for another time. As
Enjoy.
Monday, March 22, 2010
It’s So Sleazy Being Green* (Sometimes) #217
Ladies. Gentlemen. Please permit me a little preambulation before I mount the pulpit and invite the wrath of the gods to smite those who have offended me.
Preamble One:
Here are some things that really bug me: bullying, lying and hypocrisy. They’ve always bugged me and always will. They aren’t the only things, of course. There’s Joan Rivers. And her face. And don’t get me started on mosquitoes or voice mail. But bullies, liars and hypocrites can always make the bell ring atop my Pissoff-O-Meter.
Preamble Part Deux:
This may come as shock to some of my American readers but despite being a Canadian, I am not a communist. Or even much of a socialist. I believe in capitalism. Businesses should make a profit.
Preamble The Last & Intro To The Main Event - Enviroman vs Greedzilla:
I’m fairly environmentally conscious. As a lifelong angler, I probably appreciate pristine, natural environments more than most. Many of my early newspaper columns in the 70s were devoted to raising awareness of the effects of acid rain and other habitat issues. I believe in recycling and have switched nearly all my light bulbs to those weird curly jobbies.
But I’m not an eco-nut, or eco-nazi or whatever term is being used these days to describe/denigrate those who are exceptionally environmentally conscious. I still buy and use paper plates occasionally. At least once every week or two, I lazily toss a tin can into the nearest garbage instead of walking a few more steps to the recycling bin.
And all of my bills are mailed to my home. They are printed on paper and mailed in paper envelopes.
Many companies are upset with me about that.
Why-oh-why do I hate trees? Do I not understand how many could be saved if I simply switched to online billing and/or automatic withdrawal?
Yes, actually, I do. Well, not precisely how many, but I imagine that over the course of time it would be quite a few trees. Gobs of them in fact, if everybody switched.
And I’m a huge fan of trees. On top of the wonderful things they add to the planet and to our lives, I believe they possess spirit. I respect and admire them greatly.
But I don’t for one minute think that the phone, cable, gas, electric, and all those other companies are losing sleep over the amount of trees they’re killing because of my stubborn refusal to switch to a paperless system.
Nope. Nuh-uh.
It’s not a lofty environmental conscience that has them spend money on monthly (paper!) inserts and expensive advertisements, pleading with us darn tree-haters to change our evil, selfish ways.
No, the truth is, they want to save money. They could save bundles of cash if they didn’t have to print, stuff and pay postage to mail those bills. They wouldn’t just be saving big bucks on supplies. Nosiree. Think of all the employees that would be made redundant! They could trim a substantial part of the payroll if they get me, and all those other stubborn old farts, on board.
Think of what they could do with all that newfound money! Why, they could reduce our bills! Or donate the savings to a worthy environmental cause! Or they could take that money and pay for retraining those laid-off employees! They could even, godbless’em, do all three!
Or maybe they could just filter it to their shareholders and toss the execs a few extra million in bonuses.
Which scenario do you see happening?
Me too. And it ticks me off.
I wish just one of them would admit that yeah, the saving-trees thing is cool but it’s the improved bottom line that really counts.
But none of them will. They’re hypocritical liars trying to bully us into being green in order to cut costs, eliminate salaries and pad their bank accounts.
I intend to help envelope stuffers and postal workers keep their jobs as long as I can. So, keep those bills and statements coming.
But I do believe I’ll plant a tree this year.
*Apologies to Joe Raposo and Kermit.
Preamble One:
Here are some things that really bug me: bullying, lying and hypocrisy. They’ve always bugged me and always will. They aren’t the only things, of course. There’s Joan Rivers. And her face. And don’t get me started on mosquitoes or voice mail. But bullies, liars and hypocrites can always make the bell ring atop my Pissoff-O-Meter.
Preamble Part Deux:
This may come as shock to some of my American readers but despite being a Canadian, I am not a communist. Or even much of a socialist. I believe in capitalism. Businesses should make a profit.
Preamble The Last & Intro To The Main Event - Enviroman vs Greedzilla:
I’m fairly environmentally conscious. As a lifelong angler, I probably appreciate pristine, natural environments more than most. Many of my early newspaper columns in the 70s were devoted to raising awareness of the effects of acid rain and other habitat issues. I believe in recycling and have switched nearly all my light bulbs to those weird curly jobbies.
But I’m not an eco-nut, or eco-nazi or whatever term is being used these days to describe/denigrate those who are exceptionally environmentally conscious. I still buy and use paper plates occasionally. At least once every week or two, I lazily toss a tin can into the nearest garbage instead of walking a few more steps to the recycling bin.
And all of my bills are mailed to my home. They are printed on paper and mailed in paper envelopes.
Many companies are upset with me about that.
Why-oh-why do I hate trees? Do I not understand how many could be saved if I simply switched to online billing and/or automatic withdrawal?
Yes, actually, I do. Well, not precisely how many, but I imagine that over the course of time it would be quite a few trees. Gobs of them in fact, if everybody switched.
And I’m a huge fan of trees. On top of the wonderful things they add to the planet and to our lives, I believe they possess spirit. I respect and admire them greatly.
But I don’t for one minute think that the phone, cable, gas, electric, and all those other companies are losing sleep over the amount of trees they’re killing because of my stubborn refusal to switch to a paperless system.
Nope. Nuh-uh.
It’s not a lofty environmental conscience that has them spend money on monthly (paper!) inserts and expensive advertisements, pleading with us darn tree-haters to change our evil, selfish ways.
No, the truth is, they want to save money. They could save bundles of cash if they didn’t have to print, stuff and pay postage to mail those bills. They wouldn’t just be saving big bucks on supplies. Nosiree. Think of all the employees that would be made redundant! They could trim a substantial part of the payroll if they get me, and all those other stubborn old farts, on board.
Think of what they could do with all that newfound money! Why, they could reduce our bills! Or donate the savings to a worthy environmental cause! Or they could take that money and pay for retraining those laid-off employees! They could even, godbless’em, do all three!
Or maybe they could just filter it to their shareholders and toss the execs a few extra million in bonuses.
Which scenario do you see happening?
Me too. And it ticks me off.
I wish just one of them would admit that yeah, the saving-trees thing is cool but it’s the improved bottom line that really counts.
But none of them will. They’re hypocritical liars trying to bully us into being green in order to cut costs, eliminate salaries and pad their bank accounts.
I intend to help envelope stuffers and postal workers keep their jobs as long as I can. So, keep those bills and statements coming.
But I do believe I’ll plant a tree this year.
*Apologies to Joe Raposo and Kermit.
Monday, March 08, 2010
Winter Wrap-Up (#216)
There we were just a few short days ago, waddling around in our swathes of woolies when presto! March arrives, and I'm opening windows to catch the first of the warm spring breezes. In like a lamb, indeed.
(This is me not complaining. In a day or three, there should be open water and I just might wet a line.)
But there were a few, short, winter-related notes I'd jotted down over the last couple of months - fully intending to flesh out each into a witty, humourous and incisive post. Sometime this winter. When I got around to it.
You know folks, over the years I've developed a very high regard for your intelligence and creativity. As a result, I have complete faith you'll have no problem imagining each of these notes to be longer, wittier, funnier and more incisive than they appear.
MUCOUS - WORD OF THE WINTER?
Well it, and its brother word "phlegm," were usually heard several times in voice-over during cold-remedy commercials. No more delicate tippy-toeing about "runny nose" or "congestion." Nosir. Not this winter. We watch and listen and stifle our gag reflex as Mary, and then Larry, hack out a lung, or at least try to hork up a loogie. The sombre announcer intones the horrors of Mucous and Phlegm. Like all good voice-over announcers, he manages to verbally capitalize the letters that matter: Mucous. Phlegm.
I'm concerned about the next generation of ads for diarrhea cures.
WHY I HATE CRAZY GLUE
I hate crazy glue because every time I've used it, I've bonded my fingers to each other. In seconds.
BEST NEWS EVER!
Found a brand of honey-glazed donuts that contain zero trans fats!!
THE OLYMPICS
Pretty good, eh? Despite failing to erect for the fourth time there, in the Opening Ceremonies. Still, at our age, three's not bad at all. Good job by those Yankee kids, winning all those medals. But good job by our kids too, what with winning the most golds of any winter Games. Including, of course, the only one that mattered:
Mens' hockey gold.
Yessssssssssssssssssssssss!!!!!!!
Eat it, you Americans with your best-goalie-in-the-NHL!! Ha! We weren't even nervous there when you tied it with 24-frickin' seconds left in the frickin' 3rd period!! And no, that wasn't barfing that was going on during the intermission! We were just making room for more pre-victory brewskies.
We're Hockey's Hosers!!
THE OSCARS
Can you say "boring" boys and girls?
I knew you could.
Both Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin were under-utilized. They weren't given a chance to make an impression, let alone shine. And, unless it happened while I was searching for another toothpick to hold up my eyelids, no starlet almost fell out of her dress.
I was pleased for Jeff Bridges, though. The Dude abides.
SAD NEWS ABOUT WEIGHT GAIN
Apparently, "trans fats free" all of a sudden doesn't mean "zero calories." Sheesh. Don't you think it's about time we toughened up our truth-in-advertising laws? I mean, any reasonable person might ask - if an edible item contained no fat, where would the calories hide? Calories adore fat. Everybody knows that. And trans fats are the worst. Everybody (especially Hilary) says so. Over and over. Ergo, ipso facto and other appropriate Latin abbreviations, we need to change the way people think of food. Or stop labeling ingredients. I'm not sure which. I wish this item was more incisive. I'm feeling a little bit anxious right now and would like to have a donut.
(This is me not complaining. In a day or three, there should be open water and I just might wet a line.)
But there were a few, short, winter-related notes I'd jotted down over the last couple of months - fully intending to flesh out each into a witty, humourous and incisive post. Sometime this winter. When I got around to it.
You know folks, over the years I've developed a very high regard for your intelligence and creativity. As a result, I have complete faith you'll have no problem imagining each of these notes to be longer, wittier, funnier and more incisive than they appear.
MUCOUS - WORD OF THE WINTER?
Well it, and its brother word "phlegm," were usually heard several times in voice-over during cold-remedy commercials. No more delicate tippy-toeing about "runny nose" or "congestion." Nosir. Not this winter. We watch and listen and stifle our gag reflex as Mary, and then Larry, hack out a lung, or at least try to hork up a loogie. The sombre announcer intones the horrors of Mucous and Phlegm. Like all good voice-over announcers, he manages to verbally capitalize the letters that matter: Mucous. Phlegm.
I'm concerned about the next generation of ads for diarrhea cures.
WHY I HATE CRAZY GLUE
I hate crazy glue because every time I've used it, I've bonded my fingers to each other. In seconds.
BEST NEWS EVER!
Found a brand of honey-glazed donuts that contain zero trans fats!!
THE OLYMPICS
Pretty good, eh? Despite failing to erect for the fourth time there, in the Opening Ceremonies. Still, at our age, three's not bad at all. Good job by those Yankee kids, winning all those medals. But good job by our kids too, what with winning the most golds of any winter Games. Including, of course, the only one that mattered:
Mens' hockey gold.
Yessssssssssssssssssssssss!!!!!!!
Eat it, you Americans with your best-goalie-in-the-NHL!! Ha! We weren't even nervous there when you tied it with 24-frickin' seconds left in the frickin' 3rd period!! And no, that wasn't barfing that was going on during the intermission! We were just making room for more pre-victory brewskies.
We're Hockey's Hosers!!
THE OSCARS
Can you say "boring" boys and girls?
I knew you could.
Both Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin were under-utilized. They weren't given a chance to make an impression, let alone shine. And, unless it happened while I was searching for another toothpick to hold up my eyelids, no starlet almost fell out of her dress.
I was pleased for Jeff Bridges, though. The Dude abides.
SAD NEWS ABOUT WEIGHT GAIN
Apparently, "trans fats free" all of a sudden doesn't mean "zero calories." Sheesh. Don't you think it's about time we toughened up our truth-in-advertising laws? I mean, any reasonable person might ask - if an edible item contained no fat, where would the calories hide? Calories adore fat. Everybody knows that. And trans fats are the worst. Everybody (especially Hilary) says so. Over and over. Ergo, ipso facto and other appropriate Latin abbreviations, we need to change the way people think of food. Or stop labeling ingredients. I'm not sure which. I wish this item was more incisive. I'm feeling a little bit anxious right now and would like to have a donut.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Ice, Pain & Death (#215)
Every year for the last four, a mid-winter thaw accompanied by heavy rainfall has resulted in flooding in the creek across from my house. Winter floods aren't just about too much water. They're about too much water surging under the frozen surface, heaving up chunks of ice ranging in size from a football to a truck, and sending them hurtling downstream.
The mass of broken ice respects no boundaries. It overflows the banks and surges across and through groves of trees. It flattens saplings, removes topsoil, wounds, and even kills century-old trees.
It's a stark and savagely beautiful reminder of nature's power, as the photos below illustrate. Remember to click each picture if you wish to see a larger version.
It starts innocently enough, mild and misty.
A few hours later, a 2nd creek appears, roughly paralleling the first, flooding the paved path and littering the area with scattered ice.
A couple of days later, the water recedes. The ice will remain for weeks in the field and months in the woods. Let's take a look upstream.
The path is blocked here but still navigable, if one is careful. (I've only fallen three times.)
Farther along, it becomes impassable for all but billy goats and young teens. This mass below is the size of two football fields. I have to take a wide detour around it.
The destruction is not without beauty.
In the background of the above photo you can make out a felled cedar. It breaks my heart to see these magnificent old warriors toppled.
Some receive wounds from which they'll recover. But the scars will last forever.
Trees aren't the only living things imperiled by the flooding. Fish unable to withstand the rushing water are lifted up and deposited far from the creek's normal course. When the water recedes, they die. In the photo below, a 10-lb. rainbow trout lies on the ground, a full 200 yards from the creek.
If you're at all squeamish, avoid the next photo. It's a closer look at the trout. You can see where a bird, probably a crow or gull had a meal. Interestingly, the next day, the trout was gone. Something big enough to carry off a fairly large fish had done so. I couldn't spot any drag marks nearby, nor were there any bones or other remnants indicative of a meal on the spot. My guess is a coyote or perhaps a pair of raccoons working as a team carried off the prize.
Well, let's not end this one on a gloomy, unattractive note. On a crisp, clear winter morning, it's easy to find beauty in the aftermath. (Most of those tracks were made by a muskrat.)
The mass of broken ice respects no boundaries. It overflows the banks and surges across and through groves of trees. It flattens saplings, removes topsoil, wounds, and even kills century-old trees.
It's a stark and savagely beautiful reminder of nature's power, as the photos below illustrate. Remember to click each picture if you wish to see a larger version.
It starts innocently enough, mild and misty.
A few hours later, a 2nd creek appears, roughly paralleling the first, flooding the paved path and littering the area with scattered ice.
A couple of days later, the water recedes. The ice will remain for weeks in the field and months in the woods. Let's take a look upstream.
The path is blocked here but still navigable, if one is careful. (I've only fallen three times.)
Farther along, it becomes impassable for all but billy goats and young teens. This mass below is the size of two football fields. I have to take a wide detour around it.
The destruction is not without beauty.
In the background of the above photo you can make out a felled cedar. It breaks my heart to see these magnificent old warriors toppled.
Some receive wounds from which they'll recover. But the scars will last forever.
Trees aren't the only living things imperiled by the flooding. Fish unable to withstand the rushing water are lifted up and deposited far from the creek's normal course. When the water recedes, they die. In the photo below, a 10-lb. rainbow trout lies on the ground, a full 200 yards from the creek.
If you're at all squeamish, avoid the next photo. It's a closer look at the trout. You can see where a bird, probably a crow or gull had a meal. Interestingly, the next day, the trout was gone. Something big enough to carry off a fairly large fish had done so. I couldn't spot any drag marks nearby, nor were there any bones or other remnants indicative of a meal on the spot. My guess is a coyote or perhaps a pair of raccoons working as a team carried off the prize.
Well, let's not end this one on a gloomy, unattractive note. On a crisp, clear winter morning, it's easy to find beauty in the aftermath. (Most of those tracks were made by a muskrat.)
Monday, January 25, 2010
Can YOU Hear Yourself Think? (#214)
When I was a kid - the eldest of six - the words “Be quiet!” were often followed by, “I can’t hear myself think!”
Things were too loud. There were too many distractions. The person (not unsurprisingly, usually a parent) needed some peace and quiet in order to gather themselves, to clarify their thoughts.
What do you see people doing now, on and off our town’s and city’s streets?
I’ll tell you.
You see them walking while listening to their iPods. You see them driving with their radios cranked up to deafening levels. You see them wearing a headset and mashing buttons on a controller while riveted to a computer or tv screen. You see them shopping - loudly - with a cell phone stapled to their ear. You see them laughing at Seinfeld reruns while waiting for the prime time shows and then you see them fall asleep to Letterman before waking up with Regis.
I think a lot of people today are uncomfortable with, indeed are afraid of, silence. They don’t like stopping the input of sensory data. To be alone with themselves.
To hear themselves think.
“But Frank,” I hear you holler (because your earbuds are in and you’re talking louder than necessary) “I use my iPod as a focusing tool - to drown out other distractions!”
So we, clever beings that we are, bombard ourselves with chosen noise to drown out the other noise around us.
But it’s still noise. And it’s still preventing us from hearing ourselves think.
We in the developed nations are super-stimulated. We’re the ADD generation, constantly immersing ourselves in neuron-pinging media. We’re not sleeping well and we’re overweight. Our mental health is suffering, so we fix it with sleeping pills and Prozac, or self-medicate with booze and/or other, less legal substances.
I believe a goodly portion of what ails us can be traced to not hearing ourselves think. Like an overstimulated 2-year-old, we need quiet time. Regularly.
In my book I talked about how we’re becoming alienated from nature, how concrete and steel are shielding us from fields, trees, water and animals.
You don’t have to look far for evidence that we are also alienating ourselves from each other: Young people shoot other young people for ridiculous reasons. Fender-benders lead to mayhem. Conscienceless predators bilk the elderly out of life savings. Politicians serve their donors, not their voters.
So, let’s recap: We’re alienated from nature. We’re alienated from each other. And most of us only have a nodding acquaintance with ourselves.
All those ills are related. Tending the latter can be the first step in mending them all. Do yourself a favour. Whether it’s 15 minutes in a quiet part of the house, a peaceful lunch in a park or a hike in the woods, make time for some silence - regularly.
Give yourself the same respect you allot to those folks on the other end of your phone, or radio or tv screen: listen to yourself. You may be surprised at what you learn.
Things were too loud. There were too many distractions. The person (not unsurprisingly, usually a parent) needed some peace and quiet in order to gather themselves, to clarify their thoughts.
What do you see people doing now, on and off our town’s and city’s streets?
I’ll tell you.
You see them walking while listening to their iPods. You see them driving with their radios cranked up to deafening levels. You see them wearing a headset and mashing buttons on a controller while riveted to a computer or tv screen. You see them shopping - loudly - with a cell phone stapled to their ear. You see them laughing at Seinfeld reruns while waiting for the prime time shows and then you see them fall asleep to Letterman before waking up with Regis.
I think a lot of people today are uncomfortable with, indeed are afraid of, silence. They don’t like stopping the input of sensory data. To be alone with themselves.
To hear themselves think.
“But Frank,” I hear you holler (because your earbuds are in and you’re talking louder than necessary) “I use my iPod as a focusing tool - to drown out other distractions!”
So we, clever beings that we are, bombard ourselves with chosen noise to drown out the other noise around us.
But it’s still noise. And it’s still preventing us from hearing ourselves think.
We in the developed nations are super-stimulated. We’re the ADD generation, constantly immersing ourselves in neuron-pinging media. We’re not sleeping well and we’re overweight. Our mental health is suffering, so we fix it with sleeping pills and Prozac, or self-medicate with booze and/or other, less legal substances.
I believe a goodly portion of what ails us can be traced to not hearing ourselves think. Like an overstimulated 2-year-old, we need quiet time. Regularly.
In my book I talked about how we’re becoming alienated from nature, how concrete and steel are shielding us from fields, trees, water and animals.
You don’t have to look far for evidence that we are also alienating ourselves from each other: Young people shoot other young people for ridiculous reasons. Fender-benders lead to mayhem. Conscienceless predators bilk the elderly out of life savings. Politicians serve their donors, not their voters.
So, let’s recap: We’re alienated from nature. We’re alienated from each other. And most of us only have a nodding acquaintance with ourselves.
All those ills are related. Tending the latter can be the first step in mending them all. Do yourself a favour. Whether it’s 15 minutes in a quiet part of the house, a peaceful lunch in a park or a hike in the woods, make time for some silence - regularly.
Give yourself the same respect you allot to those folks on the other end of your phone, or radio or tv screen: listen to yourself. You may be surprised at what you learn.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Woody & Other Pics (#213)
There's a wood duck that hangs around a large pond (generously referred to by the locals as a "lake") near Hilary's place. We first noticed him last year. Normally, the pond is wall-to-wall mallards, so this little drake really stood out. Before too long, we noticed him keeping company with a female mallard. Not too surprising really. You’ll see what a handsome fellow he is in a minute.
Well, Woody quickly became a magnet for every wildlife photographer near and far. Hilary got some fine shots of him. I’m sure others did too.
Me, not so much.
Let me back up a tad here (although I mentioned this not too-too long ago).
There was a time, in the long-ago and far-away, when I fancied myself a decent photographer. I owned a couple of good cameras. I bought and digested hundreds of photography magazines and knew my way around a darkroom. I even came to understand, and manipulate, arcane concepts like depth of field! But I drifted away from it for nearly 20 years when the hobby became just too expensive.
Flash forward a couple of decades.
I bought Hilary a pretty good camera because I knew she had a gifted eye and encouraged her to start a blog. (Anyone who’s visited The Smitten Image knows how spectacularly that turned out.) Largely through her lens, my dormant photographer gene was reawakened and hallelujah! - digital photography was more affordable than its predecessors!
I haven’t yet treated myself to a digital SLR but, as mentioned a few weeks ago, I did buy a nice little grab-shot camera that fits into a pocket. And, if I do say so myself (and I just did if you’re scoring at home) I got a few decent shots from it.
On three different occasions, I had opportunities to shoot pics of Woody. Out of about 30-some snaps, two are keepers. That little rascal has a way of ducking (sorry) my focus.
Anyway, after that windy intro, here’s a couple of pics of Woody, as well as a few others taken semi-recently.
Here's the handsome devil in all his iridescent glory (Remember to click the photo if you'd like to see it enlarged):
I like this next one because I think it captures his cocky personality.
Remaining with our duck theme for a bit, here's a good looking mallard venturing onto the snow for a nibble.
There's a wonderful, dead tree near the aforementioned pond at Hilary's. It's often a gathering spot for the local birds. At night, we can add "mysterious" and "ghostly" to its description.
Here's a pic idea I shamelessly stole from Hilary. We were in a restaurant and she took a shot of this fixture. I really liked how it looked so I hauled out my camera and took one too.
A couple of weeks ago, on an evening walk with Ben, I was saddened to see a rainbow trout in great distress. Most likely, an angler hooked him in a vulnerable area and released him anyway, hoping he'd recover. It was a middling-sized male, about five pounds, and he was being ushered downstream by the current. He was on his side and every few seconds would feebly try to right himself. He was unable to do so, even when he managed to thrash his way into a gentle eddy. The light was fading and he was some distance away but I took a couple of pics anyway. I walked along the bank parallel to him, encouraging him to find the strength to recover. I lost sight of him as he tumbled downstream in the dark.
On a more cheerful note, here's a shot of one of Hilary's neighbour's Christmas lights.
And we'll close this session with an "aww" shot of Hilary holding her newest neighbour, baby Lily.
Well, Woody quickly became a magnet for every wildlife photographer near and far. Hilary got some fine shots of him. I’m sure others did too.
Me, not so much.
Let me back up a tad here (although I mentioned this not too-too long ago).
There was a time, in the long-ago and far-away, when I fancied myself a decent photographer. I owned a couple of good cameras. I bought and digested hundreds of photography magazines and knew my way around a darkroom. I even came to understand, and manipulate, arcane concepts like depth of field! But I drifted away from it for nearly 20 years when the hobby became just too expensive.
Flash forward a couple of decades.
I bought Hilary a pretty good camera because I knew she had a gifted eye and encouraged her to start a blog. (Anyone who’s visited The Smitten Image knows how spectacularly that turned out.) Largely through her lens, my dormant photographer gene was reawakened and hallelujah! - digital photography was more affordable than its predecessors!
I haven’t yet treated myself to a digital SLR but, as mentioned a few weeks ago, I did buy a nice little grab-shot camera that fits into a pocket. And, if I do say so myself (and I just did if you’re scoring at home) I got a few decent shots from it.
On three different occasions, I had opportunities to shoot pics of Woody. Out of about 30-some snaps, two are keepers. That little rascal has a way of ducking (sorry) my focus.
Anyway, after that windy intro, here’s a couple of pics of Woody, as well as a few others taken semi-recently.
Here's the handsome devil in all his iridescent glory (Remember to click the photo if you'd like to see it enlarged):
I like this next one because I think it captures his cocky personality.
Remaining with our duck theme for a bit, here's a good looking mallard venturing onto the snow for a nibble.
There's a wonderful, dead tree near the aforementioned pond at Hilary's. It's often a gathering spot for the local birds. At night, we can add "mysterious" and "ghostly" to its description.
Here's a pic idea I shamelessly stole from Hilary. We were in a restaurant and she took a shot of this fixture. I really liked how it looked so I hauled out my camera and took one too.
A couple of weeks ago, on an evening walk with Ben, I was saddened to see a rainbow trout in great distress. Most likely, an angler hooked him in a vulnerable area and released him anyway, hoping he'd recover. It was a middling-sized male, about five pounds, and he was being ushered downstream by the current. He was on his side and every few seconds would feebly try to right himself. He was unable to do so, even when he managed to thrash his way into a gentle eddy. The light was fading and he was some distance away but I took a couple of pics anyway. I walked along the bank parallel to him, encouraging him to find the strength to recover. I lost sight of him as he tumbled downstream in the dark.
On a more cheerful note, here's a shot of one of Hilary's neighbour's Christmas lights.
And we'll close this session with an "aww" shot of Hilary holding her newest neighbour, baby Lily.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Twit Of The Year - And More! (#212)
Well folks, we’re not just peeking over our shoulder at a year slipping into the past but a whole darn decade.
Dang. You know you’re getting old when decades whisk by like seasons used to.
It’s been a remarkable one for a host of reasons, led by two numbers which came to represent a new, world-wide reality: 9/11.
~ The election of a mixed-race man to the office of President of the United States was certainly a notable event. (More’s the pity.) Surely, it will hasten the day when race, gender and sexual orientation play no part in deciding who is fit to lead a nation.
~ It was a decade in which global terrorism both helped and hindered the spread of tolerance. It subjected many innocent Muslims and people of Mid-Eastern descent to uncomfortable scrutiny and even outright bigotry. At the same time, identifying a small minority of fanatics who pose a real danger to the world helped put into a more realistic perspective the “threat” posed by such horrors as gay marriage and female clergy.
~ Personally, my path took many turns. It was a tumultuous time, featuring the death of my wife, the closing of my business, my Stupid Heart Attack, the publication of my book and the arrival in my life of Hilary and Benny. (There were other high and low-lights but I’ll leave their recounting to my Boswell.)
~ There were many falls from grace. Tiger Woods’ belly flop probably came from the loftiest height. It’ll take a goodly chunk of Tiger’s money to try to knit together the tatters of his reputation. Serves him right. He was a twit.
~ But I have to award the Twit of the Year to Michael Vick. (Background for those unfamiliar with him: He was a multi-million dollar quarterback in the NFL who served 18 months in prison for running a dog fighting ring. His treatment of the dogs was horrifying, killing those who lost by drowning or electrocuting them. After serving his time, he was allowed back into the NFL and is poised to re-make millions of dollars.)
Vick is not my choice because he’s an asswipe who tortured dogs. He’s my choice because, upon receiving an award from his teammates, he had the gall to say: “I've overcome a lot, more than probably one single individual can handle or bear.”
He doesn’t get it.
18 months in prison plus a million-dollar contract (and an option for $5.2 million next year) does not add up to overcoming more than a single individual can bear!
I think he needs to talk to parents who’ve buried children or children whose Daddy isn’t coming home from Afghanistan or maimed soldiers who left body parts on foreign soil.
But I suspect even then he wouldn’t get it. Which is what makes Michael Vick a major league twit.
~ What’s in store for 2010 and beyond? I dunno but I’m sure it will be interesting. My hope is that we remain, or get healthy, and find fulfillment in what we do and who we are.
I’ll leave you with a YouTube video of my favourite song of the year. This clip is a live version from the Letterman show. On my computer, it's very slightly out of sync but that doesn't detract from the performance too much. Hope you enjoy.
Happy New Year!
Dang. You know you’re getting old when decades whisk by like seasons used to.
It’s been a remarkable one for a host of reasons, led by two numbers which came to represent a new, world-wide reality: 9/11.
~ The election of a mixed-race man to the office of President of the United States was certainly a notable event. (More’s the pity.) Surely, it will hasten the day when race, gender and sexual orientation play no part in deciding who is fit to lead a nation.
~ It was a decade in which global terrorism both helped and hindered the spread of tolerance. It subjected many innocent Muslims and people of Mid-Eastern descent to uncomfortable scrutiny and even outright bigotry. At the same time, identifying a small minority of fanatics who pose a real danger to the world helped put into a more realistic perspective the “threat” posed by such horrors as gay marriage and female clergy.
~ Personally, my path took many turns. It was a tumultuous time, featuring the death of my wife, the closing of my business, my Stupid Heart Attack, the publication of my book and the arrival in my life of Hilary and Benny. (There were other high and low-lights but I’ll leave their recounting to my Boswell.)
~ There were many falls from grace. Tiger Woods’ belly flop probably came from the loftiest height. It’ll take a goodly chunk of Tiger’s money to try to knit together the tatters of his reputation. Serves him right. He was a twit.
~ But I have to award the Twit of the Year to Michael Vick. (Background for those unfamiliar with him: He was a multi-million dollar quarterback in the NFL who served 18 months in prison for running a dog fighting ring. His treatment of the dogs was horrifying, killing those who lost by drowning or electrocuting them. After serving his time, he was allowed back into the NFL and is poised to re-make millions of dollars.)
Vick is not my choice because he’s an asswipe who tortured dogs. He’s my choice because, upon receiving an award from his teammates, he had the gall to say: “I've overcome a lot, more than probably one single individual can handle or bear.”
He doesn’t get it.
18 months in prison plus a million-dollar contract (and an option for $5.2 million next year) does not add up to overcoming more than a single individual can bear!
I think he needs to talk to parents who’ve buried children or children whose Daddy isn’t coming home from Afghanistan or maimed soldiers who left body parts on foreign soil.
But I suspect even then he wouldn’t get it. Which is what makes Michael Vick a major league twit.
~ What’s in store for 2010 and beyond? I dunno but I’m sure it will be interesting. My hope is that we remain, or get healthy, and find fulfillment in what we do and who we are.
I’ll leave you with a YouTube video of my favourite song of the year. This clip is a live version from the Letterman show. On my computer, it's very slightly out of sync but that doesn't detract from the performance too much. Hope you enjoy.
Happy New Year!
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Thank You (#211)
Thank you frailty
Thank you consequence
Thank you thank you silence
-Alanis Morissette
I suppose we’re a tad past the traditional season of thanksgiving but I’m feeling it this Christmas. Got to thinking about all the people, places and things that enriched my life over the years. And I don’t mean the obvious ones. This isn’t going to be about my loved ones, friends and family. I always hold them dear and trust they know so.
No, I’m talking about a few of those souls who have no idea they’ve brightened my days and lightened my load.
- Folks like Jerry Howarth, who calls the Toronto Blue Jays baseball games on radio and does a fine job. Jerry paints a verbal picture without unnecessary embellishment - letting the sounds of rawhide and wood and leather-lunged umpires tell half the story. His new side-kick, ex-catcher Alan Ashby, knows the inside game well, and is a fine communicator in his own right. There’s way worse ways to while away a fine, summer afternoon than listening to Jerry and Alan call a ball game.
- I wish I could thank every person who’s bought my book. They number in the many thousands now and have kept it in print for going-on six years. It’s quite remarkable really, because I’m a publisher’s PR nightmare. I refused to do book signings or radio or tv or print interviews. I sure appreciate every reader, most especially those who contacted me afterwards.
- I’m grateful to Mother Nature. I’m writing this on winter solstice night, the longest darkness of the year on my part of the planet. I anticipate the coming, gradually-lengthening days. Without darkness, we’d never appreciate light. MN has innumerable goodies in her basket that deserve gratitude. To list them all would take much more than a blog post. But here’s a handful: storms, rainbows, dragonflies, sunsets, trout, trees and dogs.
- Many actors have moved me with their performances and I could rhapsodize about a couple of dozen. But today I’ll focus on one: Susan Sarandon. I fell a little bit in love with her in 1970's Joe. And a little more in 1975's Rocky Horror Picture Show. I realized it wasn’t just a passing fancy with 1980's Atlantic City and 1988's Bull Durham. As the years passed, and we continued to never meet, I gradually came to understand that there would be no little Barondon babies. So, I gallantly stepped aside and gave that Tim Robbins guy a clear playing field. Ms Sarandon should be declared a cinematic treasure. I can’t think of another actress today with a comparable body of work (that’s not what I mean!) encompassing 40 years. She elevates whatever movie she’s in and is still undeniably sexy in her 60s.
- As with actors, there are dozens, nay, hundreds of musicians and other artists who have spiffed up my life. One who gets little air time on this side of the pond is Britain’s Chris Rea, one of the finest slide guitarists these ears have ever heard. For over 30 years, he’s been playing blues, rock and a little jazz. A few years ago, he was dangerously ill and survived a tricky operation. He promised that if he lived, he’d devote himself to the music he loved best - the blues. The blues are my favourite genre, so I’m doubly happy he’s well again.
- I’m grateful for the everyday pleasantries exchanged with store clerks, cashiers, gas station attendants and the three Karens who work at my bank. For quite a few years, if not for them, I might have gone weeks without an adult conversation.
- Lastly but not leastly, I’m deeply appreciative of you folks for reading my emailed, and now blogged, scribblings. Over the six-plus years, I’ve been made to feel like a member of many families.
Thank you.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Here's a little taste of Chris Rea's music. Gaunt and haggard-looking from his illness, he shows he's still got the right stuff:
Thank you consequence
Thank you thank you silence
-Alanis Morissette
I suppose we’re a tad past the traditional season of thanksgiving but I’m feeling it this Christmas. Got to thinking about all the people, places and things that enriched my life over the years. And I don’t mean the obvious ones. This isn’t going to be about my loved ones, friends and family. I always hold them dear and trust they know so.
No, I’m talking about a few of those souls who have no idea they’ve brightened my days and lightened my load.
- Folks like Jerry Howarth, who calls the Toronto Blue Jays baseball games on radio and does a fine job. Jerry paints a verbal picture without unnecessary embellishment - letting the sounds of rawhide and wood and leather-lunged umpires tell half the story. His new side-kick, ex-catcher Alan Ashby, knows the inside game well, and is a fine communicator in his own right. There’s way worse ways to while away a fine, summer afternoon than listening to Jerry and Alan call a ball game.
- I wish I could thank every person who’s bought my book. They number in the many thousands now and have kept it in print for going-on six years. It’s quite remarkable really, because I’m a publisher’s PR nightmare. I refused to do book signings or radio or tv or print interviews. I sure appreciate every reader, most especially those who contacted me afterwards.
- I’m grateful to Mother Nature. I’m writing this on winter solstice night, the longest darkness of the year on my part of the planet. I anticipate the coming, gradually-lengthening days. Without darkness, we’d never appreciate light. MN has innumerable goodies in her basket that deserve gratitude. To list them all would take much more than a blog post. But here’s a handful: storms, rainbows, dragonflies, sunsets, trout, trees and dogs.
- Many actors have moved me with their performances and I could rhapsodize about a couple of dozen. But today I’ll focus on one: Susan Sarandon. I fell a little bit in love with her in 1970's Joe. And a little more in 1975's Rocky Horror Picture Show. I realized it wasn’t just a passing fancy with 1980's Atlantic City and 1988's Bull Durham. As the years passed, and we continued to never meet, I gradually came to understand that there would be no little Barondon babies. So, I gallantly stepped aside and gave that Tim Robbins guy a clear playing field. Ms Sarandon should be declared a cinematic treasure. I can’t think of another actress today with a comparable body of work (that’s not what I mean!) encompassing 40 years. She elevates whatever movie she’s in and is still undeniably sexy in her 60s.
- As with actors, there are dozens, nay, hundreds of musicians and other artists who have spiffed up my life. One who gets little air time on this side of the pond is Britain’s Chris Rea, one of the finest slide guitarists these ears have ever heard. For over 30 years, he’s been playing blues, rock and a little jazz. A few years ago, he was dangerously ill and survived a tricky operation. He promised that if he lived, he’d devote himself to the music he loved best - the blues. The blues are my favourite genre, so I’m doubly happy he’s well again.
- I’m grateful for the everyday pleasantries exchanged with store clerks, cashiers, gas station attendants and the three Karens who work at my bank. For quite a few years, if not for them, I might have gone weeks without an adult conversation.
- Lastly but not leastly, I’m deeply appreciative of you folks for reading my emailed, and now blogged, scribblings. Over the six-plus years, I’ve been made to feel like a member of many families.
Thank you.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Here's a little taste of Chris Rea's music. Gaunt and haggard-looking from his illness, he shows he's still got the right stuff:
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
Root, Trunk & Limbs (#209)
Some of you know I spent a goodly portion of my life working in a retail furniture store. One of my favourite aspects of the job was dealing with wood. I loved unpacking a new shipment of oak, ash, maple, cherry, mahogany or birch coffee tables, dining tables or bedroom suites. I love the smell of raw wood and the look and touch of smooth, shiny finished pieces.
I believe trees can be cut but wood never really dies. Like true love. Like us.
What follows are some pictures I've taken over the last couple of months of wood in various forms. (If you wish to see them larger, click on them once. Some will expand even more if you click a second time. To return to the post, click your "back" button.)
Stumps and roots are like fire, in that one can stare at them and see...things....
Other...things...might be seen in tree trunks.
The true majesty of trees can only be appreciated by looking up.
This upright, elongated stump with its amputated limbs still harbours life. It provides support for surrounding bushes and plants as well as food for insects, which in turn keep birds and other critters nourished.
Roots, rocks and water. Three enduring symbols of Canada's north.
A single flower keeps an old fence post company.
This is one of my favourite shots. I like how the moving water at the shoreline has taken on a metallic sheen. And I never cease to be amazed at the lengths (and bends!) some trees, especially cedars, will take in the course of seeking light.
Shoreline sentinels observe a serene, yet gloomy scene.
The end of a evening's walk at the park near Hilary's place. If you're very, very quiet, you might hear trees whisper to each other after dark.
I believe trees can be cut but wood never really dies. Like true love. Like us.
What follows are some pictures I've taken over the last couple of months of wood in various forms. (If you wish to see them larger, click on them once. Some will expand even more if you click a second time. To return to the post, click your "back" button.)
Stumps and roots are like fire, in that one can stare at them and see...things....
Other...things...might be seen in tree trunks.
The true majesty of trees can only be appreciated by looking up.
This upright, elongated stump with its amputated limbs still harbours life. It provides support for surrounding bushes and plants as well as food for insects, which in turn keep birds and other critters nourished.
Roots, rocks and water. Three enduring symbols of Canada's north.
A single flower keeps an old fence post company.
This is one of my favourite shots. I like how the moving water at the shoreline has taken on a metallic sheen. And I never cease to be amazed at the lengths (and bends!) some trees, especially cedars, will take in the course of seeking light.
Shoreline sentinels observe a serene, yet gloomy scene.
The end of a evening's walk at the park near Hilary's place. If you're very, very quiet, you might hear trees whisper to each other after dark.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Autumn's Golden Light
I got a new camera a couple of months ago. I wanted something small that would offer a better zoom feature than my old digital. I found one at The Source (which, in the States is still called Radio Shack, I think).
It's a Sony, like my old one, but offered many, many more features - even though it was last year's model. Because of that latter fact, it was on sale for less than $200. (If you're in the market, you might still find one. It's the Cybershot DSC-H10. It has 8.1 megapixels, a nice wide-angle lens, 10X optical zoom, a macro feature, makes HD videos and fits in a pocket.)
Anyhow, as most of you well know, I'm a techno dweeb and avoided uploading pictures from the new camera because then I'd be forced to deal with new software. Probably.
I finally bit the bullet and have spent the better part of the last three days sorting through almost 600 photos. Probably about 10% are worth sharing. (And I did indeed have to wrassle with new software.)
Don't panic! I'm not going to inflict 60-some pics on you in one swell foop. Nosirree Bob. I'll divide them up into bite-sized posts.
Here in southern Ontario we've enjoyed the first November in over 100 years without snow. But the days grow inevitably grayer and colder.
Here's a fond, pictorial farewell to autumn's golden light. (Click on each if you'd like to see them bigger.)
Some of you may recall my column/post about the Commemorative Forest. Well, that's it there on the right. The forest is now about 12 trees strong. Ish. Nice light across the creek though eh?
The wild rose's red hips are brighter than its blossoms were.
October morning light on the northern path.
The squirrels have been extremely active for the last two months, storing and stashing food for the winter. This grey has made good use of the peanuts I leave in his neck of the woods.
I posted a similar photo of the cottage outhouse a year or two ago. I'm pretending I've had requests to see another.
Fall's golden evening light lends beauty to a homely milkweed's seed pod.
It's not hard to imagine the plant enjoying the rays of the setting sun. Ben, ever vigilant, is much too absorbed to notice. The yard MUST remain free of squirrels.
It's this tree, and its immediate environs in our backyard, that Ben watches so keenly. For a time, even mourning doves, like the one roosting here in an upper branch, were sworn enemies. Now, he pretty much specializes in squirrels. By the way, those pie plates? They are yours truly's Anti-Squirrel Devices, designed to keep the bird feeder free of their thievery.
They worked for about an hour and a half.
I flat-out love cedar trees. There. I said it. I've outed myself.
More pics to come in a few days.
It's a Sony, like my old one, but offered many, many more features - even though it was last year's model. Because of that latter fact, it was on sale for less than $200. (If you're in the market, you might still find one. It's the Cybershot DSC-H10. It has 8.1 megapixels, a nice wide-angle lens, 10X optical zoom, a macro feature, makes HD videos and fits in a pocket.)
Anyhow, as most of you well know, I'm a techno dweeb and avoided uploading pictures from the new camera because then I'd be forced to deal with new software. Probably.
I finally bit the bullet and have spent the better part of the last three days sorting through almost 600 photos. Probably about 10% are worth sharing. (And I did indeed have to wrassle with new software.)
Don't panic! I'm not going to inflict 60-some pics on you in one swell foop. Nosirree Bob. I'll divide them up into bite-sized posts.
Here in southern Ontario we've enjoyed the first November in over 100 years without snow. But the days grow inevitably grayer and colder.
Here's a fond, pictorial farewell to autumn's golden light. (Click on each if you'd like to see them bigger.)
Some of you may recall my column/post about the Commemorative Forest. Well, that's it there on the right. The forest is now about 12 trees strong. Ish. Nice light across the creek though eh?
The wild rose's red hips are brighter than its blossoms were.
October morning light on the northern path.
The squirrels have been extremely active for the last two months, storing and stashing food for the winter. This grey has made good use of the peanuts I leave in his neck of the woods.
I posted a similar photo of the cottage outhouse a year or two ago. I'm pretending I've had requests to see another.
Fall's golden evening light lends beauty to a homely milkweed's seed pod.
It's not hard to imagine the plant enjoying the rays of the setting sun. Ben, ever vigilant, is much too absorbed to notice. The yard MUST remain free of squirrels.
It's this tree, and its immediate environs in our backyard, that Ben watches so keenly. For a time, even mourning doves, like the one roosting here in an upper branch, were sworn enemies. Now, he pretty much specializes in squirrels. By the way, those pie plates? They are yours truly's Anti-Squirrel Devices, designed to keep the bird feeder free of their thievery.
They worked for about an hour and a half.
I flat-out love cedar trees. There. I said it. I've outed myself.
More pics to come in a few days.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Releasing My Inner Artist (#208)
Since I was born without a jot of it, I have a deep admiration for anyone with artistic ability. I’m not being falsely modest. My stick men were, and probably still are, unrecognizable blobs. If fridge magnets had been invented in the 50s, my parents would have been mortified at the prospect of having to display my drawings. Early on in life, I sadly accepted the fact that words would be the only medium open to me for self-expression.
I guess in a way, you folks can blame my artistic inability for the fact you’re reading this.
Sorry.
Anyway... I love art and admire artists. Over the last few years, I’ve begun collecting pieces of various descriptions. Most of them have been purchased at yard sales or flea markets. A handful have come from galleries or directly from the artist. They have very little in common with each other except that many depict animals and each of them spoke to me on some level. Surrounding myself with these carvings and sculptures and paintings and photographs reawakened my long-dampened dream to become an artist myself.
Many years ago, I was tremendously impressed when I read about a sculptor who was asked how he fashioned such lifelike, detailed figures from rock and wood. He said something along the lines of: “If I’m carving a horse, I just remove the pieces of wood or stone that aren’t a horse.”
Simple, eh?
Understand, that at 58 I hold few illusions about myself, my abilities, or lack of same. I didn’t buy paints or modeling clay. Been there - totally sucked - you wouldn’t have wanted the t-shirt.
Nope. I bought myself a fine, three-bladed pocket knife.
This is what it looks like:
Yes, me and that beauty are going to carve ourselves some wood. Now, I’m not fool enough to set my artistic bar overly high. I’m not going to carve a wood nymph being ravished by satyr, much as I might like to contemplate the project. Not right from the get-go, at least. I’ll need a bit of practice.
This is me sitting on the back porch steps with my first piece of raw material - a piece of wood:
Taking a leaf from the aforementioned artist’s book, I decide that what I will do is remove all the bits of wood which are NOT part of what I wish to carve.
After mulling creatively for a moment, I decided to turn this piece of wood into a stick. So, here’s me hard at work reshaping the wood into my artistic vision.
A minute later - told you it was a really good knife - voila! The finished product! A fine-looking stick.
Quite frankly, it wasn’t as difficult as it looks from the pictures.
I guess I’m epter than I thought as an artist. I just struggled for decades to find the right medium.
I’m mulling my next project now. It’s a three-inch long piece of wood about as big around as a pencil. Without hardly squinting at all, I’m pretty sure I see a toothpick in there, wanting to come out.
(All photos courtesy of Son #1)
I guess in a way, you folks can blame my artistic inability for the fact you’re reading this.
Sorry.
Anyway... I love art and admire artists. Over the last few years, I’ve begun collecting pieces of various descriptions. Most of them have been purchased at yard sales or flea markets. A handful have come from galleries or directly from the artist. They have very little in common with each other except that many depict animals and each of them spoke to me on some level. Surrounding myself with these carvings and sculptures and paintings and photographs reawakened my long-dampened dream to become an artist myself.
Many years ago, I was tremendously impressed when I read about a sculptor who was asked how he fashioned such lifelike, detailed figures from rock and wood. He said something along the lines of: “If I’m carving a horse, I just remove the pieces of wood or stone that aren’t a horse.”
Simple, eh?
Understand, that at 58 I hold few illusions about myself, my abilities, or lack of same. I didn’t buy paints or modeling clay. Been there - totally sucked - you wouldn’t have wanted the t-shirt.
Nope. I bought myself a fine, three-bladed pocket knife.
This is what it looks like:
Yes, me and that beauty are going to carve ourselves some wood. Now, I’m not fool enough to set my artistic bar overly high. I’m not going to carve a wood nymph being ravished by satyr, much as I might like to contemplate the project. Not right from the get-go, at least. I’ll need a bit of practice.
This is me sitting on the back porch steps with my first piece of raw material - a piece of wood:
Taking a leaf from the aforementioned artist’s book, I decide that what I will do is remove all the bits of wood which are NOT part of what I wish to carve.
After mulling creatively for a moment, I decided to turn this piece of wood into a stick. So, here’s me hard at work reshaping the wood into my artistic vision.
A minute later - told you it was a really good knife - voila! The finished product! A fine-looking stick.
I guess I’m epter than I thought as an artist. I just struggled for decades to find the right medium.
I’m mulling my next project now. It’s a three-inch long piece of wood about as big around as a pencil. Without hardly squinting at all, I’m pretty sure I see a toothpick in there, wanting to come out.
(All photos courtesy of Son #1)
Monday, November 02, 2009
The Renovator, The Ditherer & The Decider (#207)
There I was a couple of months ago, threatening you folks with more frequent postings and what happens?
Infrequent postings, that's what. Apparently, I fibbed.
Not on purpose, of course. My explanation/excuse is there's lots of work going on in the house. For the first time in 20-some years, much-needed repairs and decorating are transforming the place. But in the meantime, we’re living in chaos. I know, I know -- chaos describes most of the last 20-some years here. But this sort is different. This time there’s real hope for improvement on the other side of the mess. That light might not be an oncoming train at all. Could be a new fixture.
Let’s see...in the last two months I have replaced four sinks and a toilet. There’s new bathroom and kitchen floors and a new front door. The wreckroom ceiling is brand, spanking new. I replaced six light fixtures. As I write this, my living/dining room is about 1/3 hardwood floor, a beautiful, rich-looking, solid oak called “cognac.” (Which is what I want to drink a lot of after listening to a compressor and nail gun all day.)
By the way, I should mention I was using the royal “I” up there. My part in the renovations is swiping my credit card and writing cheques for the contractor. The actual work is being done by BillTheContractorGuy, assisted by Son #2.
(As longtime readers well know, I am not allowed to use power tools of any kind. I can hurt myself just fine with hand ones. Remarkably, #2 is adept with tools and eager to learn all aspects of repair and renovation, including using drills and saws and other lethal devices. DNA is weird, eh?)
Of course, my duties aren’t solely restricted to emptying my wallet. I also get to Frown Importantly while BillTheContractorGuy or a sales clerk from Home Depot are babbling about mortises or beveling or other equally incomprehensible contracting voodoo.
With apologies to George Bush, I am also The Decider. To me falls the burden of choosing flooring and fixtures and whatnot. I don’t know about you folks, but I’m the kind of Decider who prefers to have limited options. If there were only three colours, it would be darn sight easier to decorate.
Which brings me to giant warehouse stores.
I don’t much like giant warehouse stores. But apparently, nowadays, they are about the only places where contracting-type stuff is available.
Lots and lots and lots of it. Like, way more than three colours-worth.
When faced with too darn many choices, The Decider has a tendency to become The Ditherer. It’s difficult to select new light fixtures when there are many dozens to choose from. Especially when the person selecting has never, in his entire life, considered light fixtures beyond hoping they work when the switch is flipped.
Hilary offers a woman’s perspective when she’s here and something needs to be Decided. I always consider her counsel and have even been known to follow it. But she's only here for a couple of days every two weeks. So, more often than not, the burden of choice lies heavy on my shoulders alone.
Mine and the sales clerks from Home Depot.
Thank the gods many of those folks seem to know what they’re talking about! A nice lady helped me pick out the bathroom and kitchen floors and another helped with the front door. Yet another spent a half-hour giving me a crash course in hardwood flooring. She kindly paused whenever she noted my eyes glazing over, and would re-explain, using smaller words.
In any event, by the time all’s dithered and decided, I hope to have new windows, furnace and garage door too - perhaps even before winter sets in.
Unless, of course, there’s more than three kinds of windows, furnaces and garage doors.
I’ll keep you posted. Just not sure when, exactly.
Infrequent postings, that's what. Apparently, I fibbed.
Not on purpose, of course. My explanation/excuse is there's lots of work going on in the house. For the first time in 20-some years, much-needed repairs and decorating are transforming the place. But in the meantime, we’re living in chaos. I know, I know -- chaos describes most of the last 20-some years here. But this sort is different. This time there’s real hope for improvement on the other side of the mess. That light might not be an oncoming train at all. Could be a new fixture.
Let’s see...in the last two months I have replaced four sinks and a toilet. There’s new bathroom and kitchen floors and a new front door. The wreckroom ceiling is brand, spanking new. I replaced six light fixtures. As I write this, my living/dining room is about 1/3 hardwood floor, a beautiful, rich-looking, solid oak called “cognac.” (Which is what I want to drink a lot of after listening to a compressor and nail gun all day.)
By the way, I should mention I was using the royal “I” up there. My part in the renovations is swiping my credit card and writing cheques for the contractor. The actual work is being done by BillTheContractorGuy, assisted by Son #2.
(As longtime readers well know, I am not allowed to use power tools of any kind. I can hurt myself just fine with hand ones. Remarkably, #2 is adept with tools and eager to learn all aspects of repair and renovation, including using drills and saws and other lethal devices. DNA is weird, eh?)
Of course, my duties aren’t solely restricted to emptying my wallet. I also get to Frown Importantly while BillTheContractorGuy or a sales clerk from Home Depot are babbling about mortises or beveling or other equally incomprehensible contracting voodoo.
With apologies to George Bush, I am also The Decider. To me falls the burden of choosing flooring and fixtures and whatnot. I don’t know about you folks, but I’m the kind of Decider who prefers to have limited options. If there were only three colours, it would be darn sight easier to decorate.
Which brings me to giant warehouse stores.
I don’t much like giant warehouse stores. But apparently, nowadays, they are about the only places where contracting-type stuff is available.
Lots and lots and lots of it. Like, way more than three colours-worth.
When faced with too darn many choices, The Decider has a tendency to become The Ditherer. It’s difficult to select new light fixtures when there are many dozens to choose from. Especially when the person selecting has never, in his entire life, considered light fixtures beyond hoping they work when the switch is flipped.
Hilary offers a woman’s perspective when she’s here and something needs to be Decided. I always consider her counsel and have even been known to follow it. But she's only here for a couple of days every two weeks. So, more often than not, the burden of choice lies heavy on my shoulders alone.
Mine and the sales clerks from Home Depot.
Thank the gods many of those folks seem to know what they’re talking about! A nice lady helped me pick out the bathroom and kitchen floors and another helped with the front door. Yet another spent a half-hour giving me a crash course in hardwood flooring. She kindly paused whenever she noted my eyes glazing over, and would re-explain, using smaller words.
In any event, by the time all’s dithered and decided, I hope to have new windows, furnace and garage door too - perhaps even before winter sets in.
Unless, of course, there’s more than three kinds of windows, furnaces and garage doors.
I’ll keep you posted. Just not sure when, exactly.
Monday, October 19, 2009
October Is The Best Month Because (#206)
1- Summer’s heat is gone - replaced by pleasant days and cool, almost cold nights. The air smells cleaner and feels lighter.
2- All the major North American sports seasons overlap. On any given day one can watch baseball, hockey, basketball or football. Sometimes, in an eyeball-bending orgy of remote control button mashing, one can watch eight or more games a day. (Not recommended for the casual sports fan. Sprains are common and hernias not unheard of.)
3- Mosquitoes are history ‘til June.
4- The fall colours are spectacular. October is the month in which Mother Nature reverts to childhood and finger paints her world. The lush green of the past several months still exists but now it’s in patches, surrounded by gleeful splashes of yellow, orange, red and brown.
5- Rainbow trout (Steelhead) start staging at the mouths of creeks that empty into the Great Lakes. There are few prettier sights than a crimson-slashed, sliver slab of finned muscle leaping at the end of one’s line.
6- The crowds thin out along my favourite walking paths. The salmon run is over (finally!). Ben and I start having stretches of creek and field to ourselves again.
7- The falling leaves make bird-spotting an easier task.
8- Children are settled back into school. Adults (who don’t teach for a living) seem to be in better humour. Probably not a coincidence.
9- The cool, nearly-cold nights make sitting around a fire more than just a pleasant indulgence. It awakens ancient, dna-deep memories of huddling around flames when doing so was necessary to stay alive.
10- It’s a time of plenty. The last harvests are coming in. Mason jars and other canning equipment appear on store shelves. I don’t “put up” jams or tomatoes or that sort of thing myself but I like to think others are. It reminds me of my youth when my mother and grandmothers prepared goodies that would last through the winter months.
11- Halloween.
12- There’s still two full months before having to panic about Christmas shopping.
2- All the major North American sports seasons overlap. On any given day one can watch baseball, hockey, basketball or football. Sometimes, in an eyeball-bending orgy of remote control button mashing, one can watch eight or more games a day. (Not recommended for the casual sports fan. Sprains are common and hernias not unheard of.)
3- Mosquitoes are history ‘til June.
4- The fall colours are spectacular. October is the month in which Mother Nature reverts to childhood and finger paints her world. The lush green of the past several months still exists but now it’s in patches, surrounded by gleeful splashes of yellow, orange, red and brown.
5- Rainbow trout (Steelhead) start staging at the mouths of creeks that empty into the Great Lakes. There are few prettier sights than a crimson-slashed, sliver slab of finned muscle leaping at the end of one’s line.
6- The crowds thin out along my favourite walking paths. The salmon run is over (finally!). Ben and I start having stretches of creek and field to ourselves again.
7- The falling leaves make bird-spotting an easier task.
8- Children are settled back into school. Adults (who don’t teach for a living) seem to be in better humour. Probably not a coincidence.
9- The cool, nearly-cold nights make sitting around a fire more than just a pleasant indulgence. It awakens ancient, dna-deep memories of huddling around flames when doing so was necessary to stay alive.
10- It’s a time of plenty. The last harvests are coming in. Mason jars and other canning equipment appear on store shelves. I don’t “put up” jams or tomatoes or that sort of thing myself but I like to think others are. It reminds me of my youth when my mother and grandmothers prepared goodies that would last through the winter months.
11- Halloween.
12- There’s still two full months before having to panic about Christmas shopping.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
I Hab A Bad Code (#205)
But they’re the only kind I bother getting these days. Lemme s’plain.
Years ago, throughout my teens, 20s and 30s, I caught a lot of colds and every other one turned into a tonsil and/or sinus infection. Each bout of infection dragged on for weeks. Seemed I was always on antibiotics. Sometime in my late 30s I started taking garlic tablets daily along with vitamin C.
Back in the day, the famous Dr. Linus Pauling touted the benefits of mega doses of vitamin C. And somewhere I must have read something that convinced me to try garlic tablets as well.
I wasn’t about to emulate Pauling’s dosages of umpteen thousand milligrams a day, though. I started taking a daily dose of 500 mg of C and one garlic tablet (or capsule) which contained the equivalent of one garlic bulb’s goodness.
I haven’t had a sinus or tonsil infection since. Honest to Godfrey Daniel.
I also noticed I was getting fewer colds and found that doubling my dosage at the first sign of a tickly nose or slightly sore throat would often banish the symptoms entirely by the next day.
Although other factors could certainly have come into play, I believe that combination of agents helped eliminate (to date - touch wood!) my infections and prevent many colds.
In other words folks, for the last 20 years I’ve been packing a pretty darned impressive immune system. (Heart attacks don’t count.) When I swagger into a room, bacteria whimper and viruses flee. I radiate robustness.
Mostly.
The problem is, since my aforementioned Stupid Heart Attack (has it really been almost five years already?) I’ve had to take a bunch of pills every day. And I don’t like taking a bunch of pills every day.
Admittedly, it’s a relatively small price to pay for staying alive and I don’t begrudge it much but what happened is I started backing off on my daily garlic and C regimen. I just didn’t feel like adding more pills to the pile. Instead, I’d take a double dose at the first sign of something happening and still usually warded it off.
But alas, I am no longer invulnerable. The toughest, gnarliest, battle-hardened viruses now occasionally find a chink in my armour. The last few years, I’ve been getting a cold every year or eighteen months, almost like normal, non-robust people do.
This latest insidious virus slipped through a crack without triggering an alarm. Before I knew it, come last Sunday evening, I was righteously smote by viral vengeance. Yea, brothers and sisters, I was laid low.
With the suddenness of a summer storm, I was beset by chills, a sore throat, runny nose and streaming eyes. Knowing it was too late, I nevertheless gobbled down a garlic and C, almost - lapsed Catholic that I am - like a desperate Act of Contrition.
I was not saved.
Over the next 48 hours my initial symptoms were joined by headaches, congestion, an overproduction of phlegm and a painfully strained rib cage muscle (an unwelcome and unpleasant byproduct of coughing).
I bought a chicken and fixin’s and made soup. My only other medication was an occasional acetaminophen washed down with a hot toddy. Or maybe three hot toddies. My memory is a tad hazy because I was delirious.
Anyway, today, following a pretty good night’s sleep, I’m happy to report feeling quite a bit better.
And I’ve decided to renew my garlic and C habit. There aren’t that many heart meds, really. I’m down to five a day, from seven, so I really have no excuse.
It may well be that I’ll never get a cold again.
Although, those toddies were good. Kinda like a tonic. Hmm...might be helpful to add them to the garlic and C preventative strategy....
Yes folks, yet again, your kindly servant is prepared to sacrifice himself on the bleeding edge of medical research in order to learn Important Things which he will then, of course, pass on to you.
You’re very welcome.
Hot Toddy Recipe: Fill 2/3rds of a large mug (mine holds about 16 ounces or half a litre) with hot/boiling water. Add a capful of lemon juice concentrate, a teaspoon of honey and a generous splash of whisky, spiced rum, or my new favourite, Alpenbitter No. 7. Mix well and sip slowly. Reheat and repeat as necessary.
Years ago, throughout my teens, 20s and 30s, I caught a lot of colds and every other one turned into a tonsil and/or sinus infection. Each bout of infection dragged on for weeks. Seemed I was always on antibiotics. Sometime in my late 30s I started taking garlic tablets daily along with vitamin C.
Back in the day, the famous Dr. Linus Pauling touted the benefits of mega doses of vitamin C. And somewhere I must have read something that convinced me to try garlic tablets as well.
I wasn’t about to emulate Pauling’s dosages of umpteen thousand milligrams a day, though. I started taking a daily dose of 500 mg of C and one garlic tablet (or capsule) which contained the equivalent of one garlic bulb’s goodness.
I haven’t had a sinus or tonsil infection since. Honest to Godfrey Daniel.
I also noticed I was getting fewer colds and found that doubling my dosage at the first sign of a tickly nose or slightly sore throat would often banish the symptoms entirely by the next day.
Although other factors could certainly have come into play, I believe that combination of agents helped eliminate (to date - touch wood!) my infections and prevent many colds.
In other words folks, for the last 20 years I’ve been packing a pretty darned impressive immune system. (Heart attacks don’t count.) When I swagger into a room, bacteria whimper and viruses flee. I radiate robustness.
Mostly.
The problem is, since my aforementioned Stupid Heart Attack (has it really been almost five years already?) I’ve had to take a bunch of pills every day. And I don’t like taking a bunch of pills every day.
Admittedly, it’s a relatively small price to pay for staying alive and I don’t begrudge it much but what happened is I started backing off on my daily garlic and C regimen. I just didn’t feel like adding more pills to the pile. Instead, I’d take a double dose at the first sign of something happening and still usually warded it off.
But alas, I am no longer invulnerable. The toughest, gnarliest, battle-hardened viruses now occasionally find a chink in my armour. The last few years, I’ve been getting a cold every year or eighteen months, almost like normal, non-robust people do.
This latest insidious virus slipped through a crack without triggering an alarm. Before I knew it, come last Sunday evening, I was righteously smote by viral vengeance. Yea, brothers and sisters, I was laid low.
With the suddenness of a summer storm, I was beset by chills, a sore throat, runny nose and streaming eyes. Knowing it was too late, I nevertheless gobbled down a garlic and C, almost - lapsed Catholic that I am - like a desperate Act of Contrition.
I was not saved.
Over the next 48 hours my initial symptoms were joined by headaches, congestion, an overproduction of phlegm and a painfully strained rib cage muscle (an unwelcome and unpleasant byproduct of coughing).
I bought a chicken and fixin’s and made soup. My only other medication was an occasional acetaminophen washed down with a hot toddy. Or maybe three hot toddies. My memory is a tad hazy because I was delirious.
Anyway, today, following a pretty good night’s sleep, I’m happy to report feeling quite a bit better.
And I’ve decided to renew my garlic and C habit. There aren’t that many heart meds, really. I’m down to five a day, from seven, so I really have no excuse.
It may well be that I’ll never get a cold again.
Although, those toddies were good. Kinda like a tonic. Hmm...might be helpful to add them to the garlic and C preventative strategy....
Yes folks, yet again, your kindly servant is prepared to sacrifice himself on the bleeding edge of medical research in order to learn Important Things which he will then, of course, pass on to you.
You’re very welcome.
###
Hot Toddy Recipe: Fill 2/3rds of a large mug (mine holds about 16 ounces or half a litre) with hot/boiling water. Add a capful of lemon juice concentrate, a teaspoon of honey and a generous splash of whisky, spiced rum, or my new favourite, Alpenbitter No. 7. Mix well and sip slowly. Reheat and repeat as necessary.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Yep, Another Excerpt From: Walking With Benny (#204)
First, a bit of background about Jack Russell Terriers, of which Benny is one: Reverend John Russell, of Devonshire, England, originated the breed in the mid-late 1800s. He wanted the perfect dog for hunting foxes. And he pretty much got it. They are compact, strong, agile and intelligent. (Debate, in some circles, still rages over the latter characteristic.) However, most of today's JRTs aren't getting much fox action at all. It's been my experience, via Benny, that they have happily adapted to chasing squirrels as their primary raison d'etre.
9/20/09
There’s a sleek, young-looking black squirrel at the top end of the grove who has begun waiting for me every morning. Or more properly, waiting for my peanuts. I leave two in his territory, one on each of two adjoining cedars. At first I’d rarely see him, but on the return portion of our walk some 20 minutes later, the two peanuts were nearly always gone.
Sometimes I’d spot him on our way back, usually higher up in one of the cedars. But recently, on a couple of occasions, he appeared to shadow me as I walked through the grove, hopping from tree to tree alongside me, some 10-15 feet away. It dawned on me that the little beggar recognized me now and, having stashed or eaten the first two peanuts, was hoping for another for the road.
I’ve always believed diligence should be rewarded. I told him so and left one.
So for about the last week, as Ben and I were on the home leg of our morning walk, there he’d be - all but checking his watch and tapping his foot - awaiting his third peanut.
Unfortunately, a couple of days ago, Ben cottoned on to this. Usually, he’s 30-50 feet ahead of me and intent upon his nose’s business. But on this day, he happened to turn and saw the little guy scurry down the tree trunk to get his bonus treat. So, both yesterday and today, Ben has dashed ahead to those trees, looking for the squirrel who is looking for me. (Okay, my peanut.) As the squirrel clambers down a tree at my approach, Ben tries to clamber up it to meet him. The squirrel is not at all fond of this game and retreats a foot or two.
Ben, of course, interprets this as him winning! So, he redoubles his tree-climbing efforts.
Party pooper that I am, I call a halt to the proceedings by leaving a peanut and calling Ben away.
Many of the folks I meet on our walks, especially those who profess familiarity with terriers in general and JRTs in particular, comment on how well Ben listens when off the leash. I adopt an appropriately modest expression and mutter something about it taking a lot of work. And that’s no lie. But I think one practice in particular has helped.
Ben eats two smallish meals a day, morning and evening, and I always walk him before he’s eaten. I theorized that a hungry dog is more apt to want to stay in touch with his meal ticket.
I mean, if a full-bellied, content dog happens upon a really interesting scent that went WAY over thataway, why should he heed that vaguely familiar voice receding in the distance? What the heck does he need you for now?! We’re talking a really interesting scent, possibly a skunk!
So, there’s one of the secrets to becoming a Jack Russell whisperer and I suspect it’s applicable to every breed: Walk a hungry dog.
Sure, he’s going to swallow every rotten salmon egg he comes across but the occasional bit of barfing is better than chasing him all over heck’s half-acre.
9/20/09
There’s a sleek, young-looking black squirrel at the top end of the grove who has begun waiting for me every morning. Or more properly, waiting for my peanuts. I leave two in his territory, one on each of two adjoining cedars. At first I’d rarely see him, but on the return portion of our walk some 20 minutes later, the two peanuts were nearly always gone.
Sometimes I’d spot him on our way back, usually higher up in one of the cedars. But recently, on a couple of occasions, he appeared to shadow me as I walked through the grove, hopping from tree to tree alongside me, some 10-15 feet away. It dawned on me that the little beggar recognized me now and, having stashed or eaten the first two peanuts, was hoping for another for the road.
I’ve always believed diligence should be rewarded. I told him so and left one.
So for about the last week, as Ben and I were on the home leg of our morning walk, there he’d be - all but checking his watch and tapping his foot - awaiting his third peanut.
Unfortunately, a couple of days ago, Ben cottoned on to this. Usually, he’s 30-50 feet ahead of me and intent upon his nose’s business. But on this day, he happened to turn and saw the little guy scurry down the tree trunk to get his bonus treat. So, both yesterday and today, Ben has dashed ahead to those trees, looking for the squirrel who is looking for me. (Okay, my peanut.) As the squirrel clambers down a tree at my approach, Ben tries to clamber up it to meet him. The squirrel is not at all fond of this game and retreats a foot or two.
Ben, of course, interprets this as him winning! So, he redoubles his tree-climbing efforts.
Party pooper that I am, I call a halt to the proceedings by leaving a peanut and calling Ben away.
###
Many of the folks I meet on our walks, especially those who profess familiarity with terriers in general and JRTs in particular, comment on how well Ben listens when off the leash. I adopt an appropriately modest expression and mutter something about it taking a lot of work. And that’s no lie. But I think one practice in particular has helped.
Ben eats two smallish meals a day, morning and evening, and I always walk him before he’s eaten. I theorized that a hungry dog is more apt to want to stay in touch with his meal ticket.
I mean, if a full-bellied, content dog happens upon a really interesting scent that went WAY over thataway, why should he heed that vaguely familiar voice receding in the distance? What the heck does he need you for now?! We’re talking a really interesting scent, possibly a skunk!
So, there’s one of the secrets to becoming a Jack Russell whisperer and I suspect it’s applicable to every breed: Walk a hungry dog.
Sure, he’s going to swallow every rotten salmon egg he comes across but the occasional bit of barfing is better than chasing him all over heck’s half-acre.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Autumn & Arboreal Appreciation (#203)
Well, I wasn’t fibbing. Hilary and I went to the cottage last week and had a fine time. There’s something to love about every time of year up there but autumn is my favourite. Days are still warm, nights cool and refreshing. The surrounding woods are busy with squirrels, chipmunks, raccoons and birds looking to fatten up before weathering winter’s chill, or heading south ahead of it.
The fishing is generally poor but being bathed in warm, golden September sun while keeping an eye out for eagles and other wildlife makes up for it.
And best of all...the mosquitoes are history. Hallelujah and pass the wieners! I love sitting around a fire in the evening but hordes of skitters make doing so unpleasant in the summer months (unless we get a rare, strongish, on-shore evening breeze).
I can’t think of a finer way to celebrate the passing of a beautiful day than sitting around a fire, sipping a soothing beverage, admiring the stars and listening to loons calling goodnight to each other.
So, I spent a portion of every day gathering firewood for that evening’s fire. This involved trundling up the driveway with a wheelbarrow and sorting through the deadfall which blankets the surrounding forest floor.
Much of the wood is punky, having lain too long against the ground and absorbing too much water but a lot of it is fine. Most of my focus is on birch, maple or oak limbs about as big around as my fist but I also gather a lot of finger-width kindling and a handful of wire-thin twigs for starter fuel.
Some of the pieces of wood are up to 12 feet long. The thinner ones I snap with my hands or across my knee. The thicker ones I prop against the wheelbarrow or tree trunk and break with a kick.
Benny, who rarely lets me out of his sight, no longer accompanies me on these missions. I finally scolded him VERY severely one day a couple of years ago. I got fed up with having to wrestle with him for every single piece of wood I touched. Now, he stays with Hilary when I fetch the wheelbarrow.
It takes about a half-hour to 40 minutes to gather a load of wood that will keep burning for a few hours. A half-hour to 40 minutes of bending, stretching, dragging and stomping. It didn’t used to take so long. But apparently gravity’s gotten stronger over the years, resulting in each piece of wood getting slightly heavier and increased effort being required to straighten up again after bending and lifting. I can only surmise that all the scientists are too darn busy focusing on global warming to notice this new threat.
On my third gathering foray, my lower back started yelling at me. It had muttered a tad the day before but I found it easy enough to tune out -- like when your Significant Other is talking about something non sports-related.
There was no ignoring it this time, though. It went from a dull ache to an ouchy cramp in no time. I needed to rest it somewhere for a minute or three.
A nearby poplar, about as big around as me, was listing at about a 25 degree angle. Chances are, it will join its brethren on the forest floor in 10-15 years. For now though, it still had a goodly grip on the soil. I found I could brace my feet on its protruding roots, skootch down a smidge and lean back against its trunk, easing my discomfort considerably.
Greatly appreciative, I thanked the tree and rested against it. Then I began to consider all that trees do for us.
They provide shelter, food, medicine and protection for animals and man. As if that isn’t enough, while they’re at it, they produce oxygen for the whole planet. We use them to build houses and furniture, to make newspapers and toilet tissue. We gather their broken limbs to warm us and cook food and keep us safe against the things that go bump in the night.
We climb them for adventure, enjoy their shade on hot summer days and string hammocks between their trunks.
And sometimes we lean against them to soothe a sore back.
While doing so, and several times since, I tried to think of another form of life nearly so beneficent to mankind. Couldn’t.
Still can’t.
Have you thanked a tree today?
The fishing is generally poor but being bathed in warm, golden September sun while keeping an eye out for eagles and other wildlife makes up for it.
And best of all...the mosquitoes are history. Hallelujah and pass the wieners! I love sitting around a fire in the evening but hordes of skitters make doing so unpleasant in the summer months (unless we get a rare, strongish, on-shore evening breeze).
I can’t think of a finer way to celebrate the passing of a beautiful day than sitting around a fire, sipping a soothing beverage, admiring the stars and listening to loons calling goodnight to each other.
So, I spent a portion of every day gathering firewood for that evening’s fire. This involved trundling up the driveway with a wheelbarrow and sorting through the deadfall which blankets the surrounding forest floor.
Much of the wood is punky, having lain too long against the ground and absorbing too much water but a lot of it is fine. Most of my focus is on birch, maple or oak limbs about as big around as my fist but I also gather a lot of finger-width kindling and a handful of wire-thin twigs for starter fuel.
Some of the pieces of wood are up to 12 feet long. The thinner ones I snap with my hands or across my knee. The thicker ones I prop against the wheelbarrow or tree trunk and break with a kick.
Benny, who rarely lets me out of his sight, no longer accompanies me on these missions. I finally scolded him VERY severely one day a couple of years ago. I got fed up with having to wrestle with him for every single piece of wood I touched. Now, he stays with Hilary when I fetch the wheelbarrow.
It takes about a half-hour to 40 minutes to gather a load of wood that will keep burning for a few hours. A half-hour to 40 minutes of bending, stretching, dragging and stomping. It didn’t used to take so long. But apparently gravity’s gotten stronger over the years, resulting in each piece of wood getting slightly heavier and increased effort being required to straighten up again after bending and lifting. I can only surmise that all the scientists are too darn busy focusing on global warming to notice this new threat.
On my third gathering foray, my lower back started yelling at me. It had muttered a tad the day before but I found it easy enough to tune out -- like when your Significant Other is talking about something non sports-related.
There was no ignoring it this time, though. It went from a dull ache to an ouchy cramp in no time. I needed to rest it somewhere for a minute or three.
A nearby poplar, about as big around as me, was listing at about a 25 degree angle. Chances are, it will join its brethren on the forest floor in 10-15 years. For now though, it still had a goodly grip on the soil. I found I could brace my feet on its protruding roots, skootch down a smidge and lean back against its trunk, easing my discomfort considerably.
Greatly appreciative, I thanked the tree and rested against it. Then I began to consider all that trees do for us.
They provide shelter, food, medicine and protection for animals and man. As if that isn’t enough, while they’re at it, they produce oxygen for the whole planet. We use them to build houses and furniture, to make newspapers and toilet tissue. We gather their broken limbs to warm us and cook food and keep us safe against the things that go bump in the night.
We climb them for adventure, enjoy their shade on hot summer days and string hammocks between their trunks.
And sometimes we lean against them to soothe a sore back.
While doing so, and several times since, I tried to think of another form of life nearly so beneficent to mankind. Couldn’t.
Still can’t.
Have you thanked a tree today?
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
A Clue To My Whereabouts
and what I'll be doing for the next several days.
You're an astute lot. I know you'll figure it out.
Here it is:
You're an astute lot. I know you'll figure it out.
Here it is:
Keep well. See you soon.
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