Wag the Chin

Every weekday, I drive to work and I hear on the radio a selection of jokes from the previous night's Tonight Show with Jay Leno monologue.

I gotta say that, based on these daily comedy bits, there are some comedy writers out in LA who are making some pretty easy coin.

In terms of quality of content, I kinda equate The Tonight Show with the Air Farce: both are shows designed to appeal to The Greatest Common Denominator and/or grandmothers. Very safe comedy. Read: boring. It's greatest sin is that it tries to trick us into thinking it's comedy-on-the-edge. The sad thing is that so many people fall for the trick. It's not on-the-edge. It's repetitive and simple and mean. I like comedy that's mean, but to me, mean comedy must also be smart. Jay Leno jokes are not smart.

Coma Cure

People, if ever I fall into a coma, please, oh please get a television and a dvd player sent to my hospital room. Then play the movie The Master of Disguise.

I vow that this will cause me to rise out of my coma, get out of bed, and turn the damn thing off.

If I Was A Famous Woman...

...I'd want to be Janeane Garofalo. She's all right, in my book.

Error

Ever since George, on Seinfeld, came up with "Seven" as the name he'd like to call his child, the notion of coming up with an unusual name of my own has been percolating in the back of my head.

Lately, I've been coming back to 'Error' as a name. I realise it's absolutley awful, but still, I come back to it. I don't even think that, if one could discount the negative inherent in the word, it would be a good name, yet I'm fixated on it. It does have a celtic flavour to it, which is good if you're into that. Perhaps if it was spelled differently, it might work better? Eihrrohr?

I think naming a child Eihrrohr would be about the worst thing you could do.

What unusual name would you name, or not name, a child?

The Whispering Wheel

This article is another of those stories about a promising and excellent, exciting alternative to the current motor vehicle engine. This time, it's a Dutch company that's created an in-wheel electric motor. Basically, the engine is in the wheels of the vehicle. In fact, the engine is the wheels of the vehicle. It's supposed to reduce vehicle emissions by no less than 50 percent, and vehicle noise by 90 percent. Another small engine is required to produce the electrical energy required to supply the wheel engines. Read more at the link, above.

I always get excited when I read about these types of potential advancements, but they hardly ever materialize in any practical way. Nonetheless, I'm hopeful that this will succeed.

The Holidays are Go!

Enjoy fellowship, goodwill and turkey, y'all. And if you happen to get something to unwrap, all the better.

Free Family Circus!!!

Even though so many of them are anti-funny, the comics page lives on in many newspapers. There are many ways to view comics online, but here's one of the better ones I've come across yet: The Houston Chronicle gives you the option to build your own comics page. Just go to this link and choose your favourites, as many as you want. Click the submit button, then a new page comes up.

Simply bookmark this new page and you'll have a handy-dandy link to all your favourite comics, updated daily.

I Bet Those Lights'd Be Pretty

Once upon a time, for no real reason, I came up with a simple video sketch idea that might someday go in my huge as-yet-unproduced-sketch-comedy-show-that'll-never-happen. Basically, it's this feeble, old couple who drive around the city, looking at the Christmas lights. Only thing is, she doesn't know how to drive, and he has a condition that doesn't allow him to drive when it's dark. So, they drive around at noon, and have to imagine what the lights would look like if it was dark.

Well, tonight, I was driving home from St. Catherines and, I must say, I was glad I'm allowed to drive at night. Because it was a gorgeous night to be driving, and so many of the houses along the way home looked fantastic. I was mightily impressed with both the quantity and quality of houses decorated.

This year, I Scrooged and didn't bother to put up any lights or decorations outside the house. So, to those who made the effort this year to put up lights and such, I just want to say a big 'Thank you'.

Chicago Cubs Defeat Miami Dolphins!!

Sorry, everyone who don't care about sports, but here's another (long-ish) sports post.

One of the reasons I like NFL football more than other sports is this: The season is only 16 games long and the competition is so close that practically every moment, every play of every game can make the difference between a successful (making the playoffs), and a disappointing year. In hockey and baseball, where the season is so long, and where the game is so fluid, it’s hard to define specific moments in specific games that could be considered potential season-breaking plays. An individual mistake or bad play in a regular season game in these sports doesn’t have the same potential impact on a season that a bad or missed play in football can.

Case in point: With one regular season game still to play, my favourite team, the Miami Dolphins are now mathematcially eliminated from the playoffs. At the beginning of the year, the Dolphins were considered by many to be one of the teams expected to make it to the Super Bowl. The disappointment at them not making it to the playoffs is indeed huge, but is made even greater when one theorises that, if only one or two plays this season had different outcomes, the Dolphins probably would still now be favoured to get to the Super Bowl. That is how close the competition is in the NFL. That is how important every play of every game is for a team’s success or failure. In the NFL, one or two plays in the entire season can make the difference between winning it all, or going home early. That is what makes every game in the NFL so important, and therefore, so exciting.

In the Dolphins very first game of the year, late in the game, there was a penalty (which, by the way, NFL officials admitted afterwards was the wrong call) called on the Dolphins that changed the outcome of that game. It is not really a stretch to say that this one penalty played a major role in causing the Dolphins to lose that game. All things the same for the rest of the season, if that penalty wasn’t called, the Dolphins would now be in the playoffs.

In a mid-season game, the one game that, in my opinion, changed the course of the season for both the Dolphins (for the worse) and the New England Patriots (for the better), two totally unexpected and unusual field goal misses by the Dolphins caused them to lose the game. If either of those field goals were made, the Dolphins would have won that game, and most likely would now have a first week playoff bye, and have home-field advantage throughout the playoffs. But they didn’t make either of those FG’s, and are now out of the playoffs.

(To take these suppositions even further, the reason the Dolphins missed those field goals is because the kicker had to kick from the dirt on the field, instead of from the natural grass. The reason there was dirt on the field is because the Florida Marlins [who share the stadium with the Dolphins] were still alive in the National League Championship Series. The reason the Marlins were still alive was because that guy in that game in Chicago reached out for the ball and kept Moises Alou from catching it. So, if Alou caught the ball, and the Cubs won that game, the baseball infield would have been removed from the playing field and Olindo Mare, the Dolphins very accurate field goal kicker, would have kicked at least one of those two field goals, and the Dolphins would have won that game, and would today have enough wins to be in the playoffs)

Of course, it’s all for nought, now. Woulda coulda shoulda means nothing. You are in a wheel-chair, Blanche, and the Dolphins are out of the playoffs.

Cox'N'Ducks

Or "Everything's Ducky".

Last night, I was out with Dave S and after a couple of pints, we decided if we could come up with a sure-fire terrible movie. One that was sure to flolp.

This is what we came up with (a couple of additions I've made this morning): Cox'N'Ducks is about a single mother, Sandy Cox (played by Posh Spice with voice over-dubbed by Elizabeth Taylor) and her two kids (Johnathon Lipnicki and that girl who was recently in those Pepsi tv ads, the Curley Sue type girl). A rich relative has died, and in his will, he bequeaths a large amount of money to the Cox family. Providing that they take care of a family of ducks for a defined period of time; and provided that they can spend a night in the haunted house.

The care-taking of the ducks takes its toll on the family and tensions are high. The night of the haunted house arrives and everyone is angry at each other. Various creepy things happen: a horse chase (or was it a nightmare!!), a talking dog and a talking cat (both voiced by Nathan Lane) who live in the house, set up traps to get the family to leave. And the appearance of the (animated) ghost of the rich relative (voice of Emeril), who gets the family to understand the true value of family, by having them look at how well the duck family gets along.

It's the morning of the big duck inspection, duck inspector (Rowan Atkinson) arrives. One of the ducks is sick, however, and the Cox family asks the talking cat to dress up as the duck, to fool the inspector. In return, the Cox family will adopt the cat and dog. Cat agrees. The inspection occurs, ducks pass inspection, the Cox family wins the money. But more importantly, they learn the true value of family.

Can you make it worse?

Here's Today's Funeral Announcements

...suddenly, under the Lazy Susan in the kitchen of The Annekenstein Monster, on Sunday, December 14, 2003, of A. Pesky Mouse. Age one month.

Survived by Hopefully No Other Mouse. Hated nemesis of Resident Cat, Arista. Resting in the Green Compost Bin until Next Wednesday. Visiting hours anytime before that, if you're into that kind of thing. Interment later in Island Waste Management Corporation's Compost Facility.

In lieu of flowers, memorial donations can be made to help defray the cost of the mouse trap.

Ashes To The North Pole

My son is 10 years old. I am ready to give up the Santa Claus thing. I think he's already given it up, but is smartly playing it because he theorises that it means more gifts.

So, how to find out he's given up the jolly ghost without blowing it if he hasn't? Any ideas?

When I was a kid, I don't know how old exactly, but young enough to still believe, my older brothers stole my letter to Santa and took it outside. I followed, frantically trying to grab it back. My brothers held the letter out, and lighted it on fire. It burned to bits, the ashes floating here and there. I wailed. My brothers told me that this was the best way to get your letter to Santa. The ashes magically find their way to the North Pole.

I may have believed in Santa, but I knew a load of bull when I heard it. I knew there was no way to get all those ashes back together. How would Santa know I wanted a slinky if the ashes were strewn over our back yard? I wailed.

Well, I thought, this year, I'll pull the same story on Cameron. I'll threaten to burn his list. If he gets upset then I'll know he still believes. If he doesn't then chances are he's beyond Santa.

Out in the yard we go, me with the little propane lighter, him with his list. I tell him we're gonna burn his list. He doesn't comprehend this, mostly, I assume, because it's a ludicrous and foolish idea. So, I explain carefully the reason behind this technique of letter delivery. The ashes magically find their way to the North Pole. As I explain, I'm looking closely at his reactions to see him smirk or wink or anything that'll clue me in to where he's standing on Santa. Nothing. Nothing, that is, except "Cool, let's torch it."

Up it goes, in flames. No wailing. No worrying that his list won't get to Santa.

There you have it. Proof he no longer believes.

Right?

Would I Be A Bad Juror?

I consider myself someone who is able to play devil's advocate in most every situation. Whether it's a situation of personal calamity, or something that doesn't involve me in the least, I take a bit of pride in the fact that I can look at the situation from the other point of view. I can be objective.

When I saw the video of Hussein being swabbed, mouth open wide, red-aflame from the flashlight, I saw the emptiness, sadness, tiredness in his eyes and I felt bad for him. Yes, of course: He's a murderer of the worst kind. He's a human of the worst kind. He deserves punishment in the extreme. And, yes, I understand that the anguish, humiliation, fear, suffering that he was feeling at that time doesn't come close to the angusih and suffering he and his torturers have forced countless Iraqis to endure.

Still, watching the video of that moment, I felt for the man. I guess seeing a Fallen Human, no matter how despicable he is, in such a moment of weakness, touches the humanity in me.

Letting Christmas Down

Sigh.

When I lived with my parents, we had an artificial tree. It wasn't a great plastic tree, but it was all I knew. Then, when I got married, we made the leap to real trees. We didn't go so far as to trudge into the woods and cut one down. Our Christmas Tree Hunting involved little more than, a coupla weeks before The Day, driving to the Zellers parking lot, quickly looking at a couple, picking one out and buying it.

The first number of years, I really liked the concept of the Real Tree. Tying it to the top of the car; family driving home slowly; sawing off the bottom of the trunk; lugging it in the house; sweeping up the needles; letting it settle and acclimate for a day or so; sweeping up the needles; putting lights on; sweeping up needles; watering; decorating; watering; sweeping; watering; etcetera etcetera...

I think it was last year, the tradition of 'getting the tree' began to wear on us. So, this year...today in fact...we made the decision to get a fake tree. It was like we were letting Christmas down. Somehow it seems like putting up a plastic tree is another nail in the coffin of the tradition of Christmas.

We got a tree that has the lights already built into it. All white lights. It's a nice 7.5 foot plastic pine tree that actually looks pretty darn good.

There's no smell of pine (that can be, I assume, managed with potpourri), and that's too bad. But there's no needles on the floor, no watering.

Christmas, I hope we haven't let you down.

Now, That Was A Concert!

Okay, I'm granting you the chance to go back in time, to any place in the world, to any time in the 20th century to witness your favourite band/performer play one song live in concert. You will arrive in mid-concert amid the crowd already there, two minutes before the artist plays the song you chose, and then leave two minutes after the song is over.

You have to tell me who the artist is, where (time and place) the venue is, and what the song is. I'll even let you give me three choices. The best one choice gets to go.

My three choices are:

1) The Beatles in The Cavern in Liverpool in 1963 performing "Twist and Shout"

2) The Clash in any venue in London in 1977 performing "Complete Control"

3) The Pixies at U-Mass in Boston in 1990 performing "U-Mass"

3a) XTC anywhere at anytime playing any song.

Just don't look, okay

Seriously, this is not for everyone.

If you don't want to see a video of a guy shoving his head into a sheep and then being dragged (or is it drug) around a barn, just don't click on the link, okay.

Just don't.

Feral Skunky

Feral Skunky...you know, instead of Feargal Sharkey. Ha ha.

I had just started writing a comedy sketch about a couple of wild-men discovered on PEI as being raised by skunks (don't ask), when I came, quite co-incidentally, across this site listing feral children. Reading some of these stories kinda takes the fun out of writing my "Skunk Brothers" sketch.

I Am My Own Jeff Probst

Quite a while ago, on an online message board I use to frequent (which is now pretty much dead from inactivity), I developed an online version of Survivor. It was quite successful amongst those who frequented that board, and lots of fun. There were actually two 'seasons' of Survivor, and the same fellow, Kreskin, was the ultimate survivor each time.

Basically, those who chose to play were randomly divided into two teams (and then later, the remaining players played individually), and each team had to answer challenges that I gave (they would email me the answers, which I would then post for all to see). I was sole judge and jury of the challenges, and with some of the decisions being judgement calls on my part, there were a few accusations of favouritism and cheating. The losing team/players had to then vote one of themselves out of the game.

My all-time favourite answer, from all the answers to all the challenges, is below. It was given by Frankie, who sometimes visits this site. This answer allowed Frankie to win that challenge.

Here is that challenge, and Frankie's answer beneath it:

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

The Challenge:

I am a big-wig, hot shot producer of a sitcom called “Bottomless Cup”. The sitcom airs on NBC on Thursday nights. The sitcom is about a happy, friendly, somewhat naïve man named Bill Timmons. He has a sarcastic wife and 3 precocious kids. Bill owns his own internet café, called Bottomless Cup. He has a wacky staff of 4 (a doltish male, a sexist male, a sexpot female, & an unassuming pretty female). Many characters frequent his café, some recurring.

The sitcom divides its time between Bill’s ‘work’ life and Bill’s ‘home’ life.

The sitcom is a huge success for NBC, and has just been renewed for 2 more years.

You five are my team of comedy writers. (at this point there were 5 players still remaining)

Here is the problem:

This week’s episode is almost ready to be filmed (before a live studio audience). The script is great. Trouble is, one of the jokes just isn’t working right. It’s just not funny. We’re about to film the scene and we need a joke right now.

You each will submit a joke or punch-line that fits into the following scenario and script. The one who posts the joke that I will ultimately use in the episode will get a huge raise and will win immunity.

Scenario:

The police have just arrived at the Bottomless Cup because a prudish customer, whom nobody likes, complained that she saw some explicit and potentially illegal pornography on the café computer she was using.

Officer: Mr. Timmons, I’m afraid we’re going to have to confiscate that computer.

Bill: But officer, that’s not pornography!

Officer: It’s not? Well, if that’s not pornography, what’s that giraffe doing with that stewardess?

Bill: (insert joke here)

We need a big laugh joke here, because right after this we break for commercial.

-------

This is your challenge.

Good luck.

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

This was Frankie's, and the winning answer:

Officer: Mr. Timmons, I'm afraid we're going to have to confiscate that computer.

Bill: But officer, that's not pornography!

Officer: It's not? Well, if that's not pornography, what's that giraffe doing with that stewardess?

Bill: Well, uh, she's.....checking his baggage.

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

I just thought that was perfect.

Anyone got another punchline for this?

"Hands up," he said. "Haaaands up."

Today, during lunch, as I was walking (and walkman-ing) around the downtown core:

-a policeman was walking down the street toward me. I swear, it took all of my strength not to try and grab the gun from his holster as he walked past. This impulse wasn't one that built up as he approached. It was pure and intense and only instantaneous to his passing. I didn't want to do anything nefarious with the weapon, I just wanted to grab for it. Then I'd give it back. I wondered how the cop would react. By the way, in the end, I decided not to make a grab for the pistol.

-thinking about music, listening to music as I walked. Steven Garrity has posted his second Acts of Volition Radio Session and Matt's recent post referencing the Rolling Stone Top 100 got me thinking about music lists and playlists and such. Me, I prefer a lot of randomness to my music-listening adventures. I appreciate the studious and carefully compiled playlist of 10 songs which flow perfectly into the next, but ultimately I'd rather have a thousand or more songs randomly playing. I really like not knowing what's coming next, but knowing I'll like it well enough. As for Steven's 'theme' broadcasts, I thought 'great vocal performances' would make a great show. This thought struck me as I was listening to Tom Jones' "Delilah" (which was followed by X's "Los Angeles", then the theme to "Sanford and Son", then "Girl Afraid" by The Smiths, then...)

-I'm definately a stroller. Maybe even a saunterer. I take my time getting to where I'm going.

-I perceive myself as walking fairly erect. This may not be the case, maybe I stoop as I saunter, but I don't believe so. If anybody considers me a stooped saunterer, rather than an erect stroller, please let me know. But let me know gently, for god's sake.

Happy Birthday, Jean Emily Hume

On this day, a few years before the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbour, my mother, Jean Emily Hume was born.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

Love,

Rob

Chickawhaa Chickawhaa Whaa

My official porn name is and shall be: Nick Surewood.

What's yours?

The Standards Standard

Standards are a great thing. It's comforting to know that when I go to Canadian Tire to get plumbing material to fix a toilet, for instance, that the flange I buy will be the same size as the flange I'm replacing.

But today, as I was sitting there, I started to wonder whether standards, at some point, begin to hold us back, developmentally speaking. How do we break free from the current set of standards and implement new, better machines that require a new set of standards?

The toilet, as it is today, is a pretty efficient machine. But could it be better? I suspect that it could. Yet I doubt anybody is investing much effort into making the toilet a better machine, because its design would likely involve the need to fundamentally change the standards we currently used. It would likely involve a total redesign of the flange? It would require us all to invest in this new toilet for our homes, and who wants to do that? The current toilet is good enough.

But is it? Who knows what exciting, innovative toilet designs and functions are in the designer's brain? And what other facets of our lives are being standardized into complacency?

What Does Love Mean?

When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You know that your name is safe in their mouth. – Billy, age 4

Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other. – Karl, age 5

Love is what's in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and listen. – Bobby, age 7

Love is when Mommy gives Daddy the best piece of chicken. – Elaine, age 6

When you love somebody, your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you. – Karen, age 7

Yes, I Am "Nature Boy" of The Fairy Gang

When I was growing up in Parkdale, our neighbourhood was, except for one girl, Norma, free of females of my approximate age. There were probably a dozen boys of my age. This made for a rather testosterone-fuelled environment. In fact, it was common to hear that the boys were going to go to Ginger McKay's tractor junkyard and break some tractors, or that someone stole their mother's smokes and people were going to meet at the back of the park (down by the manhole) to smoke them.

I say 'common to hear' because I seldom took part in such events. In fact, there were three of us, me and my two best friends, who chose not to go along with most of these deviant activities. As a result of our non-conformist decisions, we three were dubbed 'The Fairy Gang'. I suppose if they were a more literate group, they'd have called us 'The Faerie Gang'. This didn't necessarily cause rifts or divisions amongst us, the kids of the neighbourhood. We all got along pretty well during times when they weren't off causing havoc. We all played baseball, football together. We all played huge games of neighbourhood tag almost every summer night, and street hockey most every other night. We all got along well. It's just that we three were sometimes referred to as "The Fairy Gang."

Being upright and moral kids, we kind of embraced the handle, even though we understood the underlying implications. In fact, in later teenage years, when some of the kids upgraded their deviance to more serious vandalism and petty crime, there were some of the other kids who started hanging out more with us. They became unofficial members of The Fairy Gang.

One day, we were all playing football in the back field. It was the perfect field for playing football. A large rectangular, empty field of mowed grass that was contained within the center of our block. It was basically the field that was in back of everyone's back yard. On this day, I was relegated to blocking and blitzing duty. I wasn't pleased about this. I wanted to be a receiver, my usual position, but for some reason, I was blocking and blitzing.

Begrudging my position, I played half-heartedly, to the dismay of my team-mates. At one point, my lethargy and lack of effort caused me, instead of blitzing, to absent-mindedly pick up buttercups or dandelions. Of course, this behaviour was incongruous to a lineman on a football team, and it didn't go unnoticed by Moe, the boy who was built like a tree trunk. He called me 'Nature Boy', and naturally, the nickname stuck.

So, here I am, Nature Boy of The Fairy Gang.

My Three Wishes

Just in case it happens, I want to be ready. I want to have my three wishes all set, phrased in such a way that the devil or the genie cannot find any loop-holes to trick me. I’d hate to wish, for instance, for ‘good health’ and then be stricken to a wheelchair, unable to use my legs, with the genie saying ‘good’ is a relative term. I want my wishes to be locked-solid; to be unmistakable. I want it to be absolutely clear what I’m wishing for, and absolutely clear what I’ll get for my wishes.

For this, I humbly ask for your free advice. I would be grateful if any of you would look through my wishes and offer any suggestions, additions, deletions to them, with the goal of making them legally clear.

My three wishes, in their most basic form, are this:

1) I wish that I will never have to worry about money.

2) I wish that I will have good health, until the day I die a peaceful death.

3) I wish that I will be creative, clever and coherent until the day I die.

I am not locked into these wishes either. If someone has suggestions for better wishes, please let me know.

I just want to be ready, you know, in case the situation arises.

Be A Starr!

Unleash the drummer in you with this virtual drum kit.

In The Criminal Justice System...

Last week, it was reported that over half of the prime-time programming for all the major networks that week consisted of Law&Order and CSI episodes in their various incarnations. Let me repeat that: Over half of the prime-time programming consisted of Law & Order and CSI episodes. That's a lot of eggs in them there baskets. And that's not even counting syndication on other channels.

And yet, that wasn't too much Law & Order for me.

(cha-clang)

I've been a fan of Law & Order since I discovered it way back in its second year. In fact, it has consistently been one of my favourite shows ever since I first saw it. My favourite of the L&O series is the original "two separate yet equally important groups" version, but I do find the SVU spin-off to be a close second. I'm not a fan of the other spin-off, 'Criminal Intent', basically because of the 'brilliance' of the character played by, I believe, Vincent D'Onofrio.

I don't have anything against CSI. From the few times I watched it, it seems to be a good show. It's simply that I haven't allowed myself to become a fan of it.

(cha-clang)

I guess it's a testament to the popularity of these series that network executives will run them so often through a week. But, come on. Over half. That's a little pathetic.

A Very Meshuga Christmas

A friend pointed out to me, in a rather off-handed way, that lately some people, seemingly of the Jewish faith seem to have a vested interest in Christmas. There are a handful of Jewish performers, notably Kathie Lee Gifford and Barbara Streisand, who've released Christmas albums. I assume David Berenbaum, who wrote the screenplay for "Elf" is Jewish. When this was pointed out to me, I didn't really give it much thought.

And then, last night, I was watching TV and there was a commercial for Kay Diamonds. In it, a man whom I assume is Jewish (admittedly I assume this only because he has some of the physical attributes stereotypically associated with Jews) asks his girlfriend if she believes in Santa Claus. She says 'Yes' then he says: "He helped me pick this out" and gives her a diamond necklace in a jewellery-box.

I don't put any weight or criticism on this, other than I just find it somewhat odd. Then again, I don't believe in the Christian religion and yet I enjoy celebrating the season. I'll have an album coming out shortly.

Car!!!! (ad!)

The experiment of NHL Outdoors was rather interesting, but, ultimately, nothing that needs to be repeated, I don't think.

It was great to watch the (Ford-sponsored, if you hadn't noticed) Legends game and I was surprised that I got choked up for a moment when Guy LaFleur was introduced. The image of these legends scraping the ice with shovels between periods was fantastic. Seeing these players made me realise, however, how the current game lacks a superstar. Yes, there are great players right now, but none that stand out, head and shoulders above the rest.

I loved the image of Jose Theodore with the touque over his goalie mask during the game.

Mostly, though, being a Habs fan, I was glad that Montreal won the game.

You Lucky Leg-Crossin' Bastids!

I've always been envious of those people who can comfortably cross their legs when they're sitting down. Those with the long, Jimmy Stewart-thin pegs that fit together so well, one atop the other, knee above knee, top leg dangling all loosey-goosey.

Me, I'm blessed with a couple of work-horse legs, the trunks you call on when you need an anchor for the tug-of-war. I have the thighs of an ass. When I cross my legs, there's no dangling limbs, no looseness at all. It's all about contained pressure. The energy consumed to keep the top leg crossed over the bottom is enormous and barely worth the bother. There it trembles and quivers, the right ankle perched at right angle on the left knee, gravity thrusting its constant force down, down, down on the right knee which hovers over nothingness, unsupported. A coiled weapon, ready to be unfurled and sprung upon the unsuspecting, held back only by sheer force of will.

There's no comfort in that friends.

riff de la bum smell

So, I was browsing through the referring sites to this Monster and noticed for my first time some google search referrals, and I browsed through those. The search that caught my eye: "riff de la bum smell"

Plug that into your google search, and the Monster gets top billing. I feel so honoured, yet bad for the searcher, who, I assume, didn't find what they were looking for here. Let me rephrase: I hope they didn't find what they were looking for here.

Let It Be Naked

The Beatles' album Let It Be - Naked was released this week. As much as I am not a fan of the over-orchestration of the 30 year old Phil Spector-produced 'original', it's quite evident, after listening to 'Naked' that some form of production was required to make these songs come 'alive'. As the album title implies, the songs presented on 'Naked' are in their most basic form, and as such, are pretty flat and unexciting.

Somewhere between the over-produced Spector version and the un-produced Naked version, lies a better version of this album.

The Potato Grower's Prayer

I was listening to some music tonight, and Bud the Spud started playing, which reminded me of a sketch I wrote a long time ago, called The Church of the Blessed Sebago. Basically, it was a reverent recitation of Bud the Spud as if it was Gospel, written as bible verses. It was kind of a one-joke bit that never really went anywhere, and never really saw the light of day.

But the sermon did end with this Potato Grower's Prayer, which I rather like:

“Our tuber, which art in red soil

How good thy taste baked.

Fried, mashed or broiled, thy will be sold

To Cavendish Farms as much as to McCains.

Give us this day our maximum yield

And forgive us our PVY-n

As we forgive Maine their transport embargoes.

And lead us not into land use dilemmas

But deliver us from erosion

For thy pay the mortgage, the power, the grocer

For ever and ever, Amen.”

Anger And Teeth In The Modern Male

The following is not a fully-realised socio-scientific theory. In fact, it has only been tested a few times. Hardly enough to warrant endorsement of its viability or validity from the scientific-sociological community. And each time the theory has been tested, I believe, the theorist has been inebriated. Then again, so too were the subjects. However, based on the amazing similarity of results in each test, the theory does seem promising.

The theory is this: Commenting to a drunk man (test subject) about his teeth will cause insane vocal ramblings and violent physical manifestations to emerge from the test subject.

Case Study #1: Test subject was situated near the planted cannon on the Cow's corner. Pleasantries and cordialities were conveyed between the test subject and his group, and the scientist's group. The scientist then mentioned, in a purely innocent and off-handed manner, that the test subject's teeth appeared to be similar in size and stature to the teeth of actor Gary Busey. Test subject appeared not to recognise the Busey name, yet still became overwrought with fury and anger at the very idea. Subject's flailings arms and legs were, fortunately, subdued by subject's clique. Not so subdued were the subjects threats of violence to scientist as scientist continued his way to The Dip.

Case Study #2: Test subject was encountered on sidewalk outside the establishment known formerly as "The Playhouse". After pleasantries and cordialities were conveyed between the test subject and his group, and the scientist's group, the subject's group began to cross the street to where the Petro-Can station is situated. At some point in this crossing, the scientist mentioned, again in a purely innocent and unprovoking manner, that the test subject had "Tignish Teeth". There was a momentary lull in the experiment as the very concept of "Tignish Teeth" took its time to sink in. By the time the test subject made it across the street, it was presumed by members of his clique that "Tignish Teeth" is likely an insult. Upon hearing this, the subject was overcome with fury and anger and began to wildly flail his arms, legs, and limited vocabulary. Attempts by scientist to explain the definition of "Tignish Teeth" only seemed to infuirate the test subject even more, to the point where he was seemingly frothing at the mouth as he was loaded into the cab of his clique's pickup.

Even though this theory is yet only a theory, please be careful when out clubbing. Do not comment on a drunk man's teeth, no matter how innocent and innocuous you believe your comment to be.

That's Better

After only getting 4 picks right the last time, this week I was gloriously correct on 12 of 16. My son, who knows nothing about football, got 8 of 16 right.

RIFF: Rather Intolerable Films Festival

I went to the Reel Island Film Festival's presentation of RIFF Shorts 3 (this year's third screening of shorts). I went because 'Florid', a movie I co-wrote and acted in, was being presented.

Let me tell you about 'Florid'. It's a 22 minute black comedy about 4 street bums who, deep in the middle of an Island winter, try to raise enough money to go and bum in the warm sun of Florida. It's got a lot of genuinely funny laughs, some enjoyable performances, some pretty funny lines, and some really bizarre, ugly (intentional), and embarrassing (less so intentional) moments too. It's a film many people seem to enjoy. But it's not the best movie, story-wise. There are wide gaping holes, scenes missing, and the ending probably needs an interpreter. Yet, it is funny. However, because of its shortcomings, I believe 'Florid' would have trouble getting into most 'Real' film festivals.

Let me tell you about the RIFF Shorts 3. I would suggest that 'Florid' (yes, even after discounting any bias I have), and perhaps one or two others, were the creme of the crop. Most of the rest were pure claptrap. (Note to editor: remove 'most of'). Probably an hour and a half, out of the two hours, was intolerable at worst, bland at best. From what I heard, the other screenings were comprised of just as many awful films too, with only a few worthwhile entries.

So, I once again ask: Why must PEI continue to celebrate mediocrity? Especially where artistic endeavour is concerned, Islanders sure seem content to support, and create, blandness. And with the unwritten "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" method of criticism in full effect and force on PEI, it's sure to stay that way for some time. The worst offense someone could perpetrate on an Island theatrical production, for instance, would be to say something negative about it in public. The underlying reason for the fear of public criticism, I believe, is "We're only a small island, and we're not that good, so we don't deserve to be held up to the standards of the rest of the world." This, of course, is bullshit.

Another question: Why in the hell is this festival 5 days long? Where in the hell were they going to get enough content to warrant 5 days of screenings? (Tuns out they didn't) I suppose someone was told Real festivals are 5 days long, so RIFF had to do the same to give the appearance of a Real film festival. Quality of content, be damned! If RIFF looks like a real film festival; if RIFF sounds like a real festival; if RIFF smells like real festival, then that's the goal. That makes it easier to get funding for next year. Trouble is, the sound this year was terrible and the smell this year was shit.

Here's what I'd do with next year's RIFF: make it a weekend long, only. Get someone in who doesn't have trouble saying "I'm sorry, your film isn't good enough."

Would You Mind, Terribly...

Tonight's episode of Joan Of Arcadia, as written up in the TV Guide: God asks Joan to convince Adam not to enter his sculpture in the art show.



Okay, first of all, since when does God 'ask' anything? Secondly, why doesn't God just phone Adam himself and ask him not to enter? Better yet, why not just give Adam severe cramping and diarrhea, so severe that it keeps him from entering his sculpture in the art show?

I've never seen the show, probably never will, but it sure sounds like Joan's got God and/or Adam pussy-whipped.

Dag, Yo, It's Hella Tight

Homestar Runner dot com is one funny site. And Teen Girl Squad, starring Cheerleader, So and So, Whats Her Face, and The Ugly One is hilarious.

"it hurts my head like a hundred dogs"

If the quote in the title (in reference to The Strokes 'Soma') of this post doesn't get you the check out these music reviews from kindergarten kids, then maybe this excerpt will:

In reference to the song "You Stood Out From The Crowd" by The Salteens:

MA: Do you like the song?

Ana: This is my bracelet that my mom gave me. You can't have it.

MA: It's very nice. What do you think of this music?

Ana: I heard this song in my class. But I wore my dress and I wore my jacket.

MA: Felipe, do you like it?

Felipe: Oooooh! Oooooooh!

Alejandro: He's pretending to be monkeys. And monkeys can't talk!

MA: Ok. Monkey, can you tell me in monkey language if you like it?

Felipe: Ooooh! Oooooh! (high, squeaky voice) I don't like it! I like to climb a tree!

Seven Spanish Senators

I don't know who else caught the Chretien tribute on TV tonight. I saw about 40 minutes of it, and I don't know if it's my advancing age, or what, but I rather enjoyed what I saw.

I turned to it just as a wicked jazz trio were cooly burning down the joint (don't get me to explain the physics of that). Sorry, didn't remember the name of the piano jazz guy (which, by the way, is perfect Canadiana: a big tribute to your leader, and many of the performers are not household names), but they kicked it.

That was followed by the hosts' banter. One host was Justin? Trudeau, the other's name was Caslladh Shdohidsh (my ears avoided hearing her name). Their schtick was pretty standard, although Justin seems like a kinda hip, comfortable guy. In fact, their banter seemed very relaxed and off the cuff, even though it obviously wasn't. So, kudos to them (can someone please inform them that I deemed their efforts kudos-worthy?)

Of course, one of the crosses we Canadians have to bear (bare?) is the bilingual official functions. I don't mind it when people speak French then English. I don't like the interpreter, though. An interpreter is necessary if one is watching the House of Commons (then again, so is Nembutol), but when it's a casual speech or emcee situation, the interpretation really bugs me.

It was at this point that Karyn called out from the bath "What is that? It sounds like an American rah-rah propaganda type show". I said that this show was, in fact, just the opposite of what the Americans would put on air, and that the next act was living proof of that theory.

The next act, of course, being some aged senator (no, not Daniel Alfredsson) and his two cronies performing a version of Seven Spanish Angels. Good god, I thought. Were BNL booked elsewhere? Gripping the couch cushion, I prepared myself for the worst. Turns out it was the highlight of the 40 minutes that I watched. They were fantastic. Not the greatest singers, looked nervous and all that, but it was totally charming. And charming in the best way, not in the 'grade 4 recital' charming way.

The Barra MacNeils performed next, but I yawned through that bit of done-to-death East Coast Representation. Then came Cirque de Soleil. Outstanding.

The last thing I saw before I switched to Survivor was the hosts announcing: "And now, Oscar Peterson!!" Oops, Oscar's not ready yet. Fill Fill Fill...fill fill fill...fill fill fill. They were still filling time when I turned the channel. When I turned back during a commercial, I saw a couple of awful "congrats' from the common-folk, and then the end of Paul Anka (as opposed to Paul Anka's end...and I am, you know... opposed to Paul Anka's end) singing what appeared to be a vegas-y rendition of My Way. So, maybe the 40 minutes I saw were the best?

All in all, this was a much longer post than I expected. But, then again, so was Chretien's reign, so it all works out in Paul Anka's end.

Picks on Someone Your Own Size

It's taken me a full two weeks, after my abysmal pigskin prognosticating in which I went 4-10, to summon up the courage to post another round of weekend picks. Last time, I went up against 50/50 odds, up against the toss of a coin. I lost, with the coin getting 6 of 14 correct.

This time I go up against what I consider will result in a sure victory for me. I test my NFL picking skills against the skills of an NFL Neophyte, a mere babe-in-the-woods. This week I take on my 10 year old son, who chooses to know nothing about football.

So, here are the picks this week. (MP) indicates my picks, (CP) indicates Cameron's:

Texans at Bills MP: Texans CP: Bills

Redskins at Panthers MP: Panthers CP: Panthers

Rams at Bears MP: Rams CP: Rams

Chiefs at Bengals MP: Bengals CP: Bengals

Cardinals at Browns MP: Browns CP: Cardinals

Ravens at Dolphins MP: Dolphins CP: Dolphins

Falcons at Saints MP: Falcons CP: Saints

Giants at Eagles MP: Eagles CP: Eagles

Jaguars at Titans MP: Titans CP: Jaguars

Chargers at Broncos MP: Chargers CP: Chargers

Jets at Colts MP: Colts CP: Jets

Vikings at Raiders MP: Vikings CP: Raiders

Lions at Seahawks MP: Seahawks CP: Lions

Packers at Buccaneers MP: Packers CP: Buccaneers

Cowboys at Patriots MP: Patriots CP: Cowboys

Steelers at 49ers MP: Steelers CP: 49ers

If I lose this week, next week I go up against my interpretation of cloud formations.

I am 87% Nerd Pure

Only 13% nerd. A very tolerable level of nerdity, if you ask me. Find out how Nerd you are here.

My test results:

You answered "yes" to 13 of 100 questions, making you 87.0% nerd pure (13.0% nerd corrupt); that is, you are 87.0% pure in the nerd domain (you have 13.0% nerd in you).

Your Weirdness Factor (AKA Uniqueness Factor) is 26%, based on a comparison of your test results with 378675 other submissions for this test.

The average purity for this test is 73.7%.

Hair de Har Har Har

I have a thick head of straight, fine hair. For as long as I can remember, it's been the same style, same look. Parted on the side, combed back off the forehead. Also, for as long as I can remember, I've used gel to keep it in place. Over time, I have become far too dependant on the gel, to keep my hair in place. Too much in place, I realise, but, over time, it's gotten to the point where I couldn't go out without the gelled-hair.

But no more! Today I went gel-less for the first time in years. Yes, the hair was all over the place, all floofy and whatnot. All down over my forehead and straight and floofy. I don't particularly like the feel of hair on my forehead, but by god, I'm gonna stick with it.

Let's see where this gel-free head of hair takes me.

No Orange Headed Monster, This

But it'll do, pig. It'll do.

Will God Really Save The Queen?

At the cenotaph today, a couple of things struck me:

1) it's rather neat to hear the low rumble of a few hundred people mumbling The Lord's Prayer.

2) the song "God Save The Queen" fails me on both counts (or I fail it?). I don't believe in God, and I don't respect the divinity, or observance, of royalty.

3) I've further pinpointed what it is about the Remembrance Day ceremony that gets to me, emotionally. It's when the veterans, each one, comes up to the monument and salutes. I imagine them, in that salute, remembering a particular awful memory, momentarily reliving the extraordinary hell of losing a friend or comrade, or the less-extraordinary hell of wet boots in the midst of gunfire, or the hell of whatever. That moment of salute, when the old soldier is once again the soldier he once was, rips a bit of my heart out of me.

Lest We Forget

Of all the 'holidays', Remembrance Day is the one that means the most to me. Really, it is the only one I can stand behind and endorse. It's the only one that moves me. The religious holidays are nice for getting together with family and friends, but to my non-believing mind, they don't have much of an impact. Thanksgiving is okay, but there is that 'we stole your land' vibe to contend with. Canada Day (our wedding anniversary, btw) is always fun, and does a good job at instilling the patriotic feeling, but it's just a carnival.

Remembrance Day, though, is Honest and True.

I wonder what kind of soldier I'd have been in a combat situation. I would hope that I'd be the type who was among the first up the hill, or the type who'd sacrifice my life for others. I suspect, however, that I'm more selfish, more cowardly, more analytical than that. Of course, it's because I've lived my life completely in a safe and secure country that I can afford to be selfish, cowardly and analytical. I wonder how I'd perform in a combat in which I truly believed I was fighting for right. I don't know. For that lack of knowledge, I am thankful.

What I do know, though, is that I get very emotional at the Cenotaph when the old soldiers march and the bus of ailing veterans drives by. I appreciate true and honest sacrifice.

Jason Bateman. Yes, Jason Bateman

This is something of a confession: I've always appreciated the acting stylings of Jason Bateman. His talent, I thought, always was better than any TV show in which he could be found. Perhaps I'm confusing 'talent' with 'ability to convey his likable personality', but whatever it is, he made bad shows better.

Now he is in the new Fox sitcom Arrested Development, along with Jeffrey Tambor (of Larry Sanders fame), David Cross (of Mr. Show fame) and other quirky, enjoyable castmates. [I feel so Matt Rainnie, gone link crazy!] I saw my first episode (the series' second episode) last night, and I found it quite funny. I recommend everybody check it out quickly, as I fear it'll be cut down and cancelled soon by lack of viewership. This is the norm for most shows that don't stick to the basic rules of sitcom success.

The Prams Have Been Zapped, Gentlemen

Just a friendly ('you got some mayonnaise on your chin' type) reminder that the conference is over now, yet advertising for it continues to be displayed on many sites. You might want to remove the ads and links to it.

Are We There Yet? Are We There Yet?

or "The Voyager Probe Has Left The Building"

Yes, after more than 26 years and 8 billion miles of hurtling through space, the Voyager space probe is leaving our solar system. How can we put that in perspective, in terms of how that relates to the rest of the universe? Here's one explanation that caught my imagination:

If the universe was 100km long, then Voyager has so far travelled the grand total of 10 millimetres.

Also, the nearest stars to us are multiple light-YEARS away from us. So far, Voyager has travelled one-half of one light DAY.

The Theory of Everything

Thanks to Steven Garrity for pointing me to the theory of everything. Now I'm looking for a spoon to scoop up my brain, since it's leaked out of my ears upon watching the 3 fantastic hours.

String Theory theorizes that *everything* is based on, and created from, infintesimally small strings of energy. How small? It's impossible to imagine. However, imagine that an atom (already too-impossibly small to imagine) is the size of our universe (already too-impossibly large to imagine). A single string would be the size of a tree in this universe-sized atom. That's small.

String Theory was discovered/invented/imagined so that a single, unifying mathematical equation or formula could be used to explain our universe. The problem with String Theory is that it cannot be proven or disproven. Scientists are excited about it because the math seems to indicate that it's viable, even if they are forced to invent/imagine a universe in which 11 dimensions must exist for string theory to work.

Of course, after watching the program, I am now an expert, and have a valid opinion on the whole thing. My opinion is this: String Theory is as valid to string theorists as the existence of God is to Christians. It is no more factual and likely than any other philosophy of existence. To me, there are simply too many leaps of faith, assumptions, and if-then scenarios required of string theory, many of which are unprovable, to put my faith in it.

If this kind of stuff interests you in the least, I highly recommend watching this. It's mind-blowingly fascinating.

Are You A Pop Icon Know-It-All?

So far, I've managed to identify 42 of the 95 pop icons from the quiz at this site. It's an .xls file, so you need some type of Excel program in order to open it.

Some of them are pretty tough and obscure. The majority are music related, with a slight 80's and British slant to it. One of them is Rick Astley, for cripe's sake, so what does that tell ya?

Don't Squeeze The Royale

In reference to this story about what Prince Charles did or didn't do, I would just like to make it clear that I also heartily disclaim any knowlings or involvementations of any and all such events which have and/or have not taken place; also I impunicate myself from any and all such events which may have taken place but not with my direct involvementary physication or brainial attunedness; or of any and all such events which may have taken place, and of which I was informationally implicatory to, yet moralistically disinclinated from.

That being said, does anyone have any idea what Prince Charles supposedly was involved in?

The first year of 24,

The first year of 24, I was sucked into it big time. I could look past the wonky time-jumps (5 minutes to drive from downtown L.A. to the outskirts of town?) and illogical plots and motivations, and just enjoy the action-packed goodness that year 1 of 24 provided. I even enjoyed the situations that Jack Bauer's daughter Kim got herself into.

The second year of 24, I was sucked into it even bigger time. The illogicals were still there, but the energy and excitement was elevated greatly. The Year-2 "Kim" plotline was ridiculously awful but not to the point where it could derail the show entirely. Scenes with Kim merely had to be tolerated last year.

The following was written between 10:30am and 10:33am:

10:30 tick tick tick tick...

So far this year (granted, only 2 episodes into the 24), the show has been slow to get going, and I am skeptical that it will ever catch fire like it did last year. Both Karyn and I screamed in agony when we saw that Kim was back and inexplicably working as a computer/terrorist expert at CTU. So far, her storyline continues her penchant for whiny, self-absorbed petulance, and this year, it's really dragging me down.

10:32 tick tick tick tick...

But I'll still watch and expect that it will get more exciting than it's been so far. I think the problem this year is that the time-gimmick doesn't seem to play a part yet. That is, the urgency of time hasn't yet emerged in the storyline. I expect it will. I expect I'll continue to hate any scene in which Kim is involved. And I expect you will be able to guess where I am every Tuesday night at 10pm for the next 22 weeks or so.

...tick tick tick tick 10:33

Here are some absolutely awful

Here are some absolutely awful album covers.

I must say that Julie's 16th birthday doesn't look like it's a great day.

Parity (through the salary-cap structure)

Parity (through the salary-cap structure) in the NFL means no teams dominate anymore. Means that there still can be some god-awful teams, but that the rest tend to rise to about the same level of quality and ability. It means that it's that much harder to pick who's going to win each week.

At least that's what I'm blaming this week's abysmal record on. Usually, I manage to hover around 60% accuracy. This week, though, my picks fell apart big time.

Out of 14 games played this weekend, I only picked 4 winners correct. Horrendous.

My Toin-Coss experiment, however, managed to get 7 right. 50%. Just what one would expect if winning was a random event. Which, in the NFL, it seems to becoming.

Next week, though, I suck it up and make some more picks. Forget about going against the randomness of coin-flipping. Next week, I take on a babe in the woods. Next week, I go up against my son and his NFL-innocent picks.

Okay, I've been reading (to

Okay, I've been reading (to the limit of my comprehension, it seems) responses here to the following puzzle:

You are in hell and facing an eternity of torment, but the devil offers you a way out, which you can take once and only once at any time from now on. Today, if you ask him to, the devil will toss a fair coin once and if it comes up heads you are free (but if tails then you face eternal torment with no possibility of reprieve). You don’t have to play today, though, because tomorrow the devil will make the deal slightly more favourable to you (and you know this): he’ll toss the coin twice but just one head will free you. The day after, the offer will improve further: 3 tosses with just one head needed. And so on (4 tosses, 5 tosses, ….1000 tosses …) for the rest of time if needed. So, given that the devil will give you better odds on every day after this one, but that you want to escape from hell some time, when should accept his offer?

The replies have gotten over my head somewhat, but I'm wondering if they are all missing the boat on what the answer is. Or do I just not understand probability mathematics?

It would seem to me that you should take the devil's offer on the very first day. Because wouldn't your odds remain the same - 50% - each day, regardless of how many flips of a coin you get each day? Isn't it incorrect to make the assumption 'if I have x number of flips today, my chances are greater that one of them will be heads'? Don't you have to take each flip individually, as a separate entity unto itself? And don't the odds remain the same - 50% - for each flip?

In other words: with one coin flip, there's a 50/50 chance it'll turn up heads. In a thousand coin flips, there's also a 50/50 chance that each flip will turn up heads. Am I wrong in assuming that your odds don't improve the more times you flip a coin?

If I am wrong, then am I also wrong in my assumption that the 649 Atlantic from Atlantic Loto is a rip-off? They are selling you the notion that because it's only played in Atlantic Canada, you have a better chance of winning (winning a much smaller jackpot, by the way), when in fact, you still have to match 6 of 49 numbers. They (or, we the gullible buyers) incorrectly imply that you are competing against fewer people so your chance of winning is greater. But you're not competing against others. Your competing against the odds of matching 6 of 49 numbers. So, your chance of winning the 649 Atlantic is as slim as winning the national 649. Or am I wrong on that too?

That is the day I

That is the day I can expect to die, according to The Death Test. I will be 75 years old. There is a 40% chance my death will be from cancer or heart attack. 10% chance that it'll be from alien abduction. 7% chance that either loneliness or auto-fellatio will be the culprit.

Personally, If I have to go then, auto-fellatio seems like the preferred method.

Driving out by C.Tire today

Driving out by C.Tire today and some slow-moving, decrepit van-driving moron gives me the finger. Gives me the finger because HE's moving so slow!

or

I see Nils at the Canadian Tire today, give him a 'howdy neighbour' honk, and the bastard shoots me the finger.

or

I was nowhere near Canadian Tire today.

Yes, Reinvented was my first.

Yes, Reinvented was my first. Peter was the first who posted in his blogroll a link to this monster. While appreciating the nod, I do think Peter, as far as his blogroll is concerned, is something of a suave ladies man (if blogs were ladies, that is). His blogroll is like his little black book; the links are phone numbers to all the ladies he meets, whether he's dated them or not. It's his security blanket. He doesn't want a Friday night go by, and him without a date, so he's got his ever-growing roll of names, you know, just in case some bird leaves him in the lurch. Peter is such a great guy, though, that us girls don't really mind being lumped all together. And besides, since breaking my cherry, Peter's even called me a few times and given me compliments.

There are other sites I visit, blogs I'm interested in, and I occasionally check out their 'friends list' to see if I've been added. And even though their lists are smaller and presumably more selective, you know, it still hurts a little bit when I see a blog I like - I mean LIKE like - and it doesn't even seem to know that I exist. I mean, what's wrong with my blog? I know sometimes my posts are fat, but I can't help it. It's glandular (or is it glanular?). I have a lot to say, sometimes. Besides, my friends all say my blog has a great personality, and lots to offer the right blog reader. I don't need those other blogs' links. Any blog that doesn't link to me just doesn't know me. It's their loss, not mine!

But, Oh! Joy of joys. About a week ago, I noticed that one blog I visit daily finally added me to his roll. And then tonight, I noticed another did too. Like Sally Field, you really like me!

Now, though, I'm wondering if my address is written on some online washroom wall? Do these people think I'm easy? I'm loose with my words. Is that what you're thinking?!

Well, I'm not. Although I am partial to daquiri's and download sites. But I'm not implying that offering a few of either of those to me will get you anything.

I have a reputation to build and maintain, you know.

Here is an experiment. As

Here is an experiment.

As my wife and son can attest, I am a huge NFL football fan, and even bigger Miami Dolphins fan. I start thinking about next week’s game around Tuesday. I keep tabs on all the teams, but not in any statistically anal way. I generally know which teams seem to be doing better than, or worse than, expected but don’t bother with things like how injuries will affect teams (other than the Dolphins and who they’re playing each week), or how team A’s offense stacks up against Team B’s defense.

I tell you this, only so you get an idea as to my general knowledge of football and how that relates to this experiment, which is: I am going to post my predictions as to who will win each game this weekend. I will also post the prediction of a coin-flip. The experiment is to see how much better I do than a seemingly random guess.

On each line below are the matchups, visitor first, home team second. After that will be my expert pick (MP:), followed by the toin-coss pick (TC:).

I’ll inform you of the results next Tuesday, as if you give a shit.

San Diego @ Chicago - MP: San Diego TC: Chicago

NY Giants @ NY Jets - MP: NY Jets TC: NY Jets

New Orleans @ Tampa Bay - MP: Tampa Bay TC: Tampa Bay

Jacksonville @ Baltimore - MP: Baltimore TC: Jacksonville

Indinapolis @ Miami - MP: Miami (of course) TC: Miami

Oakland @ Detroit - MP: Oakland TC: Detroit

Carolina @ Houston - MP: Carolina TC: Houston

Cincinatti @ Arizona - MP: Cincinatti TC: Arizona

Pittsburgh @ Seattle - MP: Seattle TC: Pittsburgh

Philadelphia @ Atlanta - MP: Philadelphia TC: Philadelphia

St.Louis @ San Fransisco - MP: St. Louis TC: St.Louis

Washington @ Dallas - MP: Washington TC: Dallas

Green Bay @ Minnesota - MP: Minnesota TC: Minnesota

New England @ Denver - MP: New England TC: New England

I'm not what you would

I'm not what you would call political in a social sense. I'm not the type that typically joins things, groups, organisations, etc. I'm like Squiggy's pal Lenny: I'm a Lone Wolf.

I'm not one to protest, either.



Yet, driving home from work last night, listening to Mainstreet and the coverage of the Souris blockade of the seiners, I had a momentary compulsion to go and join the Souris fisherman. Granted, I don't know the complexities of the situation, but on the surface it sure seems like what the seiners do is bad for local fisherman. And right or wrong, it can't be denied that the fisherman feel strongly enough about the state of affairs to risk going to jail.

That got me wondering what is important enough in my life to risk going to jail for. I can come up with plenty of if/then scenarios where I'd do whatever I had to do in order to try and right something I thought was wrong. Things like if my son was molested by someone and that someone was being protected from prosecution for whatever reason, then I'd willingly risk anything to try and get justice. All the scenarios I come up with, though, have personal or selfish motivations to them. Yet, nothing in my life currently is in such a sorry state of affairs where I feel compelled to rectify it through protest or other drastic measures. I guess for that I should be thankful. Or else I should be shown my blindness to the injustices around me.

What about the people who travel to protest G7 and World Trade meetings? Do they protest from a specific personal need to do so, or is it a general sense of social outrage, or are their motivations something else altogether? I suppose for some, trade summits are akin to seiners. If I feel a momentary compulsion to stand with the Souris fishermen, I suppose that I can imagine myself, in an alternate world, feeling compelled to go to BC and stand with the G7 protestors too. In my current world, though, things like mortgages and living paycheque to paycheque tend to temper any simmering social activism in me.

Locally, I see people who protest Social Injustices. It's usually the same group of people at each event. It almost seems not to matter to them the specifics of what they're protesting, just that they're protesting. Whatever the protest, they sure sounds like it's important to them. I suppose it is, otherwise they wouldn't bother? However, when you're protesting legalised abortions on Wednesday and protesting dog leashes on Thursday, it seems to me that you end up devaluing both.

So, I guess I'm keeping quiet until compelled to stand up against whatever it is that ends up pissing me off enough.

I think all people who

I think all people who wear prescription glasses would agree. We hate it when other people ask to try on our glasses. We hate those few times when we cave in and let them try them on. We hate the inevitable reaction of 'Whoa!' or 'Holy shit, these are strong!'. We hate our apologetic feelings of inadequacy that accompany such outbursts; the implied superiority inherent in the 'Whoa'; the squinting fish-out-of-water feeling we have during those brief unfocused moments.

Or maybe it's just me.

Never one to indulge, overly,

Never one to indulge, overly, in self-promotion (this flaw, by the way, is the only reason [so I keep telling myself] I've never become as famous as I'd have liked), I nonetheless feel compelled to tell the world about a couple of things I've been involved in that will be presented at the upcoming Reel Island Film Festival, November 12-16 in Charlottetown.

The first is the 22 minute film Florid. It's a black comedy about 4 bums ("We're bums, not assholes!") who, in the dead-cold of a Charlottetown winter, get the idea to move to Florida and bum in warmer climes. The movie records their endeavours to raise the capital necessary for the move. I play one of the bums. I also co-wrote (along with good pal, Dave Stewart, who directed). This project took far too long (over 3 years, I believe) to complete and has some rather significant plot holes. Yet, beyond all that, it's a pretty funny, warped movie.

The other involvement is in the showing of the pilot for a TV series called Cinemaniax created and produced by good pal Dave Moses. The format has, I believe, changed somewhat since this pilot production, but the concept was: 3 teams of 2 film-makers are given an idea for a film, some actors and some equipment. They then have 2 days to write, film and edit their short movie, afterwhich the 3 films are presented to an audience which votes for their favourite. Good ole Dave Stewart and I were one team for the pilot, Team Smithee. I believe the 3 short movies created for the pilot are still available for viewing at the Cinemaniax website. The Team Smithee entry is called 'With This Job'. We didn't win.

The recent renewed interest in

The recent renewed interest in drug-enhanced athletes has me wondering whether drug-testing of athletes should just be dropped altogether. Afterall, the cheaters will always be ahead of testers, always using the newest and so-far-undetected drugs to enhance their performances. With the recent investigaions, it's now to the point where practically any athlete who excels, whether professional or amateur, is assumed to be cheating, even if tests imply innocence. The sad thinking now is that that individual just didn't get caught.

Obviously, athletes can't be allowed to use performance enhancing drugs carte blanche. "Have at it, girls, whatever it takes to be the fastest, strongest" would eventually turn into nothing more than a Hulking freak show. Not to mention the miriade of side effects such embibing would cause.

I wonder if artificial performance enhancing would eventually level out, though? Would there be a line in free-for-all open-knowledge drug-enhancement that athletes wouldn't be willing to cross? "I want to win, but I don't want seven toes". Of course, there'll always be someone else who will be willing to go that extra step to gain the slightest advantage. And if that person goes that far, then others will have to follow suit, repurcussions be damned, otherwise, they'll be left in the dust.

I think we all (even athletes) would like a sports world where athletes test the *natural limits* of the human body and mind. I don't think there's any way we can have that world. Drug-enhanced athletes are here to stay. So, what do we do?

If we allow athletes to use steroids and other enhancements, ask them to declare what they're on, without fear of reprisals or sanctions, how far would they take that freedom? How far would we, as spectators, allow athletes to take it before we say 'this is foolish' and stop caring? The problem is, once we reach that plateau, athletes will stop declaring the 'too foolish' enhancements, yet still take them, and then we're back to exactly the place we are now: a sports world where we're all suspicious of any feat of strength or speed or grace.

She just makes me mad.

She just makes me mad.

I am witnessing an odd

I am witnessing an odd event happening outside my window.

The street in front of our house has the slightest decline. The hill is not so steep that you couldn't push a car-that-does-not-start up it. Believe me, I know.

There are currently 5 girls, about 12-14 years old, taking turns pushing each other, in a little red plastic wagon, down this slight hill. Two or three will run and push the rider and wagon afterwhich they go maybe 30 yards on their own. Then they pull the rider and wagon back up the hill for another girl to take her turn. Another indicator of just how slight the hill is: a girl pulling the wagon back 'up' can pull the wagon and two riders as well. This is not steep.

Now, what is unusual to me about this event is that it's 5 girls. Five boys doing this wouldn't seem odd. Even if, say, 2 of the 5 were girls, it wouldn't seem that odd. But it's five girls. I think this is great. What also strikes me as odd is that they chose this part of this street. About a minute away there is a street that has a slightly steeper hill.

Somewhere, I'm sure, there are 5 newly-teenaged boys Easy-Baking.

I am picky about the

I am picky about the (so-called) reality shows I watch. I refuse to watch any that attempt to match two people in some false true-love ending (even though I've only spent 31 days with you, and in those 31 days, I've also spent time making out with 11 other women, I really do love you, contestant number 3. Will you marry me and share in the million dollar prize?). There is something dirty and whore-ish about those. I also don't watch the ones where the object is to dupe the contestants (what Gwendolyn doesn't know is that her 12 potential male suitors are in fact transvestites!!!... go ahead tv-hollywood, take that idea). And the contests of foolishness and fear are also shows I'll not watch (tonight's fifty thousand dollar winner will be the contestant who is brave enough to shove razor blades and spiders up their butt!!!)

I do like a few reality shows however. The Amazing Race is my favourite, followed closely by Survivor. This current edition of Survivor is quite good. The producers and editors do a great job of focusing each episode towards its conclusion, maximizing suspense. Last night, going to Tribal Council, I was sure that Rupert had convinced the others, specifically Sean, to vote out Trish. Yet, when Sean went to write his choice for eviction, he said something "You thought this was your game. Well, now you're gone, and the game is mine."

I'm thinking: "Why are you saying that? You'd never say that about Trish. The game was never hers. You can only be talking about Rupert!" So, I thought he had double-double crossed Rupert and Rupert'd be gone. Of course, they did vote to evict Trish, and now blonde-haired John (who was in cahoots with Trish) is in deep shit.

This is why I like Survivor. They do a great job of manipulating the audience, without making the audience feel like they're being cheated.

As we were watching Survivor last night, CB says "I don't like that guy with the underwear." Which guy? "The bald guy" On which tribe? "The guy that doesn't do anything. The lazy one." Who's the lazy one? "The guy who's scared of animals."

I knew who he was talking about (Osten), but I wanted to see how long it'd take him to define Osten by his skin colour. He never did. I think that's pretty neat.

I don't like the word

I don't like the word 'blog'. Having been in this blog-world for a month or two now, there are acquaintances I now meet who will say something like "I like your blog." or "I read your blog everyday".

While I appreciate the compliments, and am somewhat thrilled that anybody at all bothers to read the nothingness I write, I nonetheless feel slightly embarrassed when I hear the word 'blog' in association to me. I think part of my dislike of it is that I've never been one who willingly participates in fad-ish things, and 'having a blog' is currently such a huge fad.

So, when I hear "I like your blog", in a way I'm hearing "You're a good Texas two-stepper", or "That ChiaPet of yours is getting nice and hairy".

Elliot Smith has died, of

Elliot Smith has died, of apparent suicide. I didn't even know he was sick.

For those who don't know who he was, he was a singer/songwriter who, I think, had more potential than he had success. Reading a few tributes/memoriums to/of him, apparently, he also had depression and trouble with alcohol and drugs.

His music was featured prominently in the movie Good Will Hunting.

I became a fan of his soft-sung music about a year ago. Apparently, he self-produced and pretty much played all the instruments (of which there aren't many, admittedly) on his albums.

Two of my favourite songs of his are "Say Yes" and "Somebody That I Used To Know". You could do worse than to download those two songs.

How close does this top

How close does this top ten list of scary movie moments compare to your own? What's the scariest movie moment according to you?

Me? I think the linked-to list favours a few too many recent movies. And while there are many movies that have given me longer-duration scares, I'd have to say that the biggest scare I got from a movie was the ending of Carrie.

Also, for me, Halloween (the original) is pretty much 90 minutes of tension and nerves.

In the last week, I

In the last week, I have taken to distrusting our sump pump. It seems to take longer to pump the water out of our sump-pump basin. There is also a curious gurgling sound that accompanies the sumping and/or pumping. A couple of times, it's taken an interminable amount of time to run through its process. I believe the problem is that one of the stoppers (the one that is set to turn the pump off) keeps sliding up the metal pole. I believe I have fixed this problem with the sump pump.

In my attempted manipulations of the sump pump during this last week, I have learned to appreciate the brilliant simplicity of this machine. I suspect that the people who have invented and perfected the sump pump will most likely not be reading this post, however I feel I must offer a shout out to them: Well done, sump pump people. Well done.

We've all probably heard the

We've all probably heard the saying "a million monkeys at a million typewriters" and how it'd take a million years for them to reproduce one of Shakespeare's plays.

Well, someone created a Monkey Shakespeare Simulator (Java enables) to test the theory. You go to the page, and the program starts up, recording a simulation of the daily activity of thousands of monkeys randomly tapping at keyboards.

What it is checking against is the first page of each of Shakespeare's works. So, if 'Gloucester' was the first word of one of the plays (not counting title, written by, etc.), the simulator would only acknowledge a match from a monkey that typed 'glou' as part of its random typing. In this instance, a result of 4 letters matched would be recorded.

Currently, the record is 8 letters matched. Or in other words, some simulated monkey managed to randomly type the first 8 letters to one of Shakespeare's works. Not a great record.

Last night, I let the simulator run all night long. When I got up this morning, my simulated monkeys had been typing for over 30,000 days and had managed to tie the current record, as one of them had randomly typed the first 8 letters to "The Merry Wives Of Windsor". As I write this post, I've had the simulator running, and its 50 million monkeys (and population growing) have, in 2000 simulated days, managed several instances of matching the first 7 letters from several of Shakespeare's works.

Co-incidentally, over the night last night, the monkeys were successful in reproducing the complete text to Nils Ling's "The Truth About Daughters".

Go to the Box Office

Go to the Box Office Oracle and fill in your own blanks to have the oracle tell you how much money your movie willl make. Since Hollywood is all about dollars, see if you can beat me. I grossed (domestically) 14-24 million dollars.

Here's what I did with a movie called "The Annekenstein Monster" (due to a problem with my browser, I couldn't use the 'choose other' option. If I could, I'd have made totally different picks):

The Annekenstein Monster (PG-13)

(Revenge Fantasy/Talking Animal)

Starring Ewan McGregor and Rosario Dawson

Also Featuring Orlando Bloom, Viggo Mortensen, and Maggie Gyllenhaal

Directed by John Woo

Screenplay by Stephen Gaghan

Projected Budget Range: $70-79 Million

Planned Release Date: November

Projected Box Office Receipts:

$16.63 million (Opening Weekend)

$94.86 million (Total Domestic Gross)

Chance of getting Oscar Nomination: 9%

Chance of winning at least one Oscar: 2%

Critic Most Likely to Praise: Ron Wells, Film Threat

Critic Most Likely to Skewer: Michael O'Sullivan, Washington Post

I guess some topics are

I guess some topics are just guaranteed blog-worthy. The aim, I also guess, is to be the first in your incestuous circle of bloggers to publish a post on those items. Because once posted by another, nobody wants to be a copycat.

So, I'll not post about the Habs third jerseys.

Perhaps Peter's 'post outside the box' reply to this is the bee's knees when it comes to contemplating new posts.

When watching professional baseball, moreso

When watching professional baseball, moreso than in any other sport, you can still see the little kid in the athlete.

Football (American) players are too hidden by the equipment. Hockey players too. Golfers look too much like dads. Football (the rest of the world) players aren't hidden by equipment, yet, for some reason, don't imply the little kid that they once were.

I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that baseball players spend a lot of time standing around, waiting. In all other sports, the athletes are active, and in that activity we see the professional. When ball players stand around, waiting, we can glimpse the Little Leaguer who stood around. They kick the dirt, bite the strings on their gloves, chew gum, young and old alike.

Just an observation.

I swear, I had this

I swear, I had this movie pitch written up weeks ago.

So, here's the movie:

Well-off, successful, happy businessman Ben Oldfield (Tom Hanks) is a huge Cubs fan. Trying to catch a foul ball, he may have caused the then-leading Cubs to lose Game 6 of the NLCS. Ben has to be escorted away by park security. Cubs lose game, and all hell breaks loose for Ben and his family. Cubs lose game 7 and it gets much worse for Ben.

The rest of the movie is how Ben and his family (wife: Diane Lane, kids: whoever) cope, suffer and strive to regain the normalcy of their lives amid the insane and fanatic hatred and anger they receive from many of the people of the city in which they live. It's all about fate and the delicate thread upon which we live our lives.

I swear I had this pitch written weeks ago.

MetaFilter today has a post

MetaFilter today has a post linking to a site where people can post their confessions, big or small (an internet rip-off of my Canadian Confessions idea). This got me thinking about what I might confess, and that drummed up this repressed memory:

When I was 18 and in my first year at UPEI, I shoplifted a pair of black fake-leather pants from Zellers. I did this because I planned to go the The Barn’s Halloween party dressed as Billy Idol, and I needed those pants. I couldn’t afford, nor bring myself to purchase, a pair of awful nogahyde pants that I’d only wear once. So, I went to Zellers with every intention of stealing them. And I did. It was easy. I felt exhileratingly guilty about it. I think it was the only time I ever shoplifted.

The night of the dance came and I prepared the rest of my costume. I already sported the blond spiked hair, and could manage the Idol snarl whenever I needed it. I also had the punk-inspired gloves, all I needed was a black vest, black studded wrist bands and some cool footwear. I had none of that. So, I went to the kitchen and got a black garbage bag, cut out a vest to wear over my shirtless torso. Then I cut out a couple of black garbage bag wrist bands and painted some white liquid-eraser studs on them. Only the footwear left, and all I could find that were black were my father’s black rubber overshoes. Well, what’s an Idol to do, so I wore them, too many sizes too small, to boot.

Out into the frozen night I went, dressed in garbage bag and stolen pants.

At the dance, “Rebel Yell” inevitably played, and I, at this point needing little coaxing, went out on the floor by myself and slam-danced the hell out of that song.

Surprise of surprises, I won the costume contest, too. I didn’t even know I was entered. I won a 50 dollar bar-tab and shared it with all my friends that night, new-found and old.

So, take that, Crime Doesn't Pay.

However, as an offer of humility, and to show the error of my ways, I offer up this photo as a sort of penance. You have to imagine the sneer.

In the movies, here are

In the movies, here are three moments that are guaranteed to make at least one tear fall from my right eye (I find that my left eye is more tolerant of emotional drama).

In It's A Wonderful Life, George Bailey forego's his honeymoon and heads back to the Savings and Loan to try and hold off a bank run. He uses his honeymoon money to keep his customers satisfied until the uncertainty ends, and goes about asking each of them how much they need to get by. When the old lady asks for 53 dollars (or whatever the small amount is) and George hugs her, I'm teared up fine. There are a few moments in that movie that consistently get to me, but that one is a sure bet.

In Lonesome Dove, after they've reached their destination in Montana, and Cap'm Call is about to take off back to Texas to bury his friend; just as he's about to depart, he leaves Newt in charge. He desperately wants to tell the kid that Newt is his son; and Newt desperately wants to hear what he already knows, but all Captain Call can muster is to give Newt his best horse. That's a for-sure tear-up moment among many more tear up moments in that excellent movie mini-series.

In Rudy, at the end of the movie, and Rudy finally gets to dress for the final Notre Dame home game. With only a few seconds remaining in the game, ND sure of victory, his team-mates start chanting 'Ruuudy, Ruuudy' attempting to get him in the game. The crowd joins in, and sure enough, Rudy gets in for play and manages a sack on his only play. He gets carried off the field, triumphantly, and my right eye drips.

Want to know your true

Want to know your true Pirate Name? Head to this site and fill out the 20 questions.

Turns out I'm a scoundrel called Captain Roger Vane. This is how I'm described: Even though there's no legal rank on a pirate ship, everyone recognizes you're the one in charge. You tend to blend into the background occaisionally, but that's okay, because it's much easier to sneak up on people and disembowel them that way. Arr!

Get ready to be boarded!!!

I'm pretty sure we all

I'm pretty sure we all know the commercial from which this quote is taken. When it first came out in the 1980's (and for years afterward), it was parodied quite a bit and became something of a catchphrase (during a time when everything was a catchphrase).

I hadn't heard, or thought of, the phrase for a long, long time. I heard it today on the radio on my way to work. It was played, sort of as an "aren't we a cool station for playing this clip" clip that gets played during the lead in to a song. I was taken aback at how I reacted to it.

A couple of weeks ago, my mother, who is getting up there in age, fell while trying to keep her great-grandson from running out onto the road. She hit her head, which resulted in a huge lump over her deeply-blackened eye. She also hurt her knee and hip, which were already delicate and achy. She was shaken up rather badly, but is recovering okay, I guess.

Because of her fall, when I heard the phrase, I imagined my mother falling, her momentary helplessness, and it kind of hit me.

I pulled the car over, and I wept.

No, not really, but I was surprised at how the phrase that I had heard thousands of times without really hearing, suddenly seemed so relevant.

Now, it's got me wondering what circumstances will occur that will cause me the same types of feelings when I hear "Where's the beef?"

This idea is free for

This idea is free for the taking by any entrepreneurially-adept, forward-thinking producer; or by Craig Mackie.

A nationally-aired weekly, one-hour radio program called “Canadian Confessional”. It’s a phone-in program where Catholics can call in and anonymously make their weekly confessions of sin. A priest is on hand to offer the necessary penances from damnation. Perhaps there could be weekly guest priests. Maybe the week's best confession could win a prize, like a Mainstreet license plate, or a CD of Stuart MacLean's latest stories. Rex Murphy would not be involved.

Any other ideas to make this radio program a sure-fire hit?

Watching baseball yesterday and this

Watching baseball yesterday and this thought hit me:

Why does the crowd have to be quiet when golfers golf? I mean, is the golf swing that much more difficult than the pitcher's pitch that everyone in the vicinity of it must hold their breath? Same goes for tennis, too.

I say it's time the crowds stopped pussy-footing around these athletes and started getting vocal. Get a wave going all around him as Tiger tees off on number 9. Get into a Williams' head as she's serving: "Veeeeee-Nuuuuuusssssss. Veeeeeee-Nuuuuusssssss."

I used to love baseball

I used to love baseball and I used to love the Expos. I remember, as a teenager, meticulously going up and down the radio dial some nights trying to find a broadcast of the games, and watching any game that was on TV. Then, maybe 15 years ago, for some reason I don't know why, I couldn't watch baseball anymore. I just found it incredibly boring. I didn't watch, and didn't get caught up in it, when the BlueJays won it all, and probably haven't watched more than a couple of innings total in the past 10 years.

Until this year. I didn't watch a single game all year, never kept up with the statistics at all, except with a rough gauge as to where the Expos were in the standings. But I find myself, inexplicably, watching this year's playoffs. I don't know why. But I'm kind of enjoying baseball again.

Watching baseball yesterday reminded me of my greatest moment as an Expos fan. It was 1983, and I and my friend Rob Kelly went to Montreal to watch a few games in person. At one game, the old veteran Woody Fryman was pitching for the Expos. I think, that year, Woody Fryman, who was 43, had pitched only a handful of innings and his ERA was something like 20. Not good. Anyway, he was out there, late in the game, for a rare appearance. I don't remember the details of this particular game; who was winning and stuff. But the crowd was quiet. My friend and I, who'd both been enjoying the liquid concessions during the game, decided to start a rally cry for the Woodman. So we stood up and started chanting "Let's go Woody, let's go." Nobody joined us, but we were persistent. Slowly, we began to hear the chant coming from other areas of the Big O. Eventually, most of the crowd was chanting with us. It was a pretty cool feeling knowing we started it. I don't know if it helped Woody or not. That, quite possibly, may have been the last inning he ever pitched.

That was my greatest moment as a baseball fan. Maybe that's why I gave up on baseball.

I went into Burger King

I went into Burger King to buy CB some hashbrowns, because today's his birthday and that's what he wanted..

While waiting for them to heat up, I make eye contact with the guy sweeping up behind the counter. I nod, he smiles, seemingly, with recognition of me. Now, I am terrible with remembering people, both names and faces. Since he recognizes me, I assume I should know him, but I don't. Perhaps he saw me in a show, I think.

"You know what I always think about when I see you?" he says as he continues sweeping. Somewhere in the back of my brain I imagine that it's something from Annekenstein or 4Play, or something likewise pleasant. But in the front of my brain, I know exactly to what he's referring.

"It must've been about 10 years ago, now," he adds. Yeah, I know exactly what it is. Here it comes.

"The Peter Pan."

Sigh.

"Yeah, that's one I can't escape," I say.

"Huh?"

"I took a lot of ribbing for doing that."

"What is it you said? 'Peter Pan, Peter Pan, Peter Pan!', and the high voice."

"That's it, pretty much."

"That was a good one."

"Memorable, anyway."

Off he goes to sweep in back. Leaving me with the young girl who was bagging the hash browns, who obviously had no idea what we were talking about.

Someday, people like her will be all that remain. I look forward to that day.

Just on the (not so)

Just on the (not so) off chance that somebody reading this doesn't know about Loudon Wainwright III, and on the further off chance (or would that be "offer chance") that reading this would cause somebody who was previously unfamiliar with LWIII to discover him and enjoy his music even a tenth the amount that I do, I'm gonna post this request...

Check out some Loudon Wainwright III songs. The excellent live album "Career Moves" would be a good start.

I was informed that someone

I was informed that someone was having difficulty reading some of the older posts further down the page, that the first couple of posts were okay but the rest of the page was all 'orange gibberish'.

Is anyone else having this problem viewing the page? If so, please let me know by posting a comment, or emailing me at sendit2me@myway.com (link to the left)

I realise much of my stuff is nothing more than gibberish to begin with, but I won't tolerate it being orange gibberish. I just won't!

Well, every Island blog I

Well, every Island blog I go to seems to have Juan post after another talking about the storm and the damage it's done.

I feel inadequate because I have no stories. No toppled trees on my land. No disappeared deck chairs. No shorn shingles.

Just a loss of power and telephone for a day or two.

Who's blowin' down the streets of the city, smilin' at everybody she sees; uprooting trees and knockin' down light poles; everyone knows - it's Juan-dy.