2010 - 10
The basement has been completed, all the stuff has been moved back to its proper place, my books have been unpacked (55 boxes, but that's another blog) and all is basically right with the world.
And I'm not as tired anymore.
So I thought, just for the hell of it, I'd start making a list of my all-time favourite songs. I'll do about ten at a time. For the record, these are in no particular order. So without further ado, I proudly present the best songs ever made...
Year of the Cat - Al Stewart - 1976
This one always takes me back to a much simpler time in my life. It's 1976, I'm 13 and listening to either CFTR or CHUM am radio on the monster radio I got for Christmas. Initially, I was always caught by the title...what does "year of the cat" mean? Sounds like a Bruce Lee movie, yet the song evokes the grace and economy of a cat somehow. There there's all these strange references to things like Peter Lorre and Bogart. And the line, "She comes runnin' out of the sun like a watercolour runnin' in the rain" always caught my imagination. I've always been a sucker for an intelligent mellow song like this. There's understated bass, great strings, a beautiful, delicate acoustic guitar solo, an even better electric guitar solo and, best of all, a fantastic sax solo. Six and a half minutes of mellow goodness. From the Year of the Cat album.
More Than a Feeling - Boston - 1976
My God, did anyone ever have better pipes than Brad Delp? This song was just brilliant, start to finish, but has now taken on a tinge of sadness with some of the lines in the wake of Delp's tragic suicide..."it's more than a feeling, when I hear that old song play and I think I'm dreaming," and "so many faces have come and gone, I see them fade as the years go by..." But the song, this song, is perfect for me. "When I'm tired and thinking cold, I hide in my music, forget the day." That's me, that's what I do, and no one captured that better than Boston did on this song. It's always been in my top 5 and it always will be. It doesn't get much better than this. From Boston's self-titled first album.
Baker Street - Gerry Rafferty - 1978
Much in the same vein as Year of the Cat, this is a song of my youth. Rafferty's smooth vocals (I never would have guessed he's the voice behind Steeler's Wheel's Stuck in the Middle with You). But of course, the sell for this song, the detail that makes you fall in love with it immediately is that beautiful, soaring sax line. That and the sax solo by Raphael Ravenscroft (cool name, that, huh?) and Hugh Burns's note-perfect guitar solo seal the deal. From the City to City album.
Black & Blue - Van Halen - 1988
In case you were thinking I was getting a little soft here, along comes Van Wailin' to save the day. One of the rawest, crunchiest songs to ever blow out of Eddie's amps, this one is just a mindless, hangbanging ode to the joys of rough sex. This was Sammy's second time at the mike with the band (and I don't give a shit what anyone says, he kicked Dave's ass...dude's got the goods) and this was the absolute standout track from OU812 for me. Raunchy riffs, thudding drums, and Sammy's smokin' vocals riding over all of it. Like the subject matter, this song leaves you sweating, exhausted, but feeling fine and with a smile on your face. Crank it to 11. From the OU812 album.
Rikki Don't Lose That Number - Steely Dan - 1974
One of my all-time favourite bands and this song is almost a mini-symphony. It's all here, mellow, rock, piano-based, guitar-based. You can't go wrong. And of course, the brilliant musicianship of Donald Fagan and Walter Becker and the amazing array of studio musicians they assemble. Do yourself a favour and check out any of the original 7 studio albums 1972 - 1980. From Steely Dan's third outing, Pretzel Logic.
Piano Man - Billy Joel - 1973
One of what I would classify as my "opus" songs (the other three being American Pie, Born to Run and Good Vibrations). Joel's autobiographical song (he really does sing about people he knew..."the waitress is practicing politics" was eventually his first wife) provides a view into the situation he found himself in. After the fiasco of his first solo album, Cold Spring Harbor (he made an awful thudding heavy rock album as a duo called Attila), he was feeling the squeeze of an unforgiving recording contract, so he basically went into hiding, playing piano bars. And he pulled this phenomenal hit out of it. He's had a ton of hits since, and proved himself to be a consistent hitmaker. But this was the first, and, I think, one of his most emotionally naked tunes. From his second solo album, Piano Man.
Absolutely Right – Five Man Electrical Band – 1972
A perfect driving song, it's got that trundling bass line like a runaway train. The subject matter leaves a little to be desired...a guy admitting he's wrong to his girl? That's a slippery slope, dudes! But seriously, this is one of those songs you haven't heard in years, yet, when some DJ gets sick of playing the same 40 classic rock songs (25 of which are likely Led Zeppelin) and throws this little chestnut on, you instantly smile and you're young again. From their third album, Coming of Age.
Born to Run – Bruce Springsteen – 1975
"Tramps like us, baby we were born to run!" What can I say about this insane song that hasn't already been said. This was the song that put Springsteen on the map. Filled with his epic visions - "the highway's jammed with broken heroes on a last-chance power drive," "the mansions of glory and suicide machines" etc etc - all brought forth with Bruce's raw, visceral vocals...vocals I don't think I've heard before or since from the man. And who can resist that epic (yeah, there's really only one word for most of this song and it's "epic") percussive solo that thumps down to Bruce's count-in...you just gotta count in with him and use your best emotive wail to finish out the song. Epic. From, surprise surprise, the Born to Run album.
Crazy on You – Heart – 1976
Their first major hit. Pure, guitar-driven rock and a wicked-ass vocal from Ann Wilson. For me (and likely only me) I happened to be reading Stephen King's Carrie at the time this song was breaking, and for me, the two are irrevokably linked. I hear the song, I think of the book. I see the book, I hear the song. Smokin' song, smokin' album and, at the time, smokin' sisters! From their debut, Dreamboat Annie.
This May Not Be The End of the World – John Mellencamp - 1996
And finally, just to show you I'm not completely stuck in the seventies, there's this album track from the Artist Formerly Known As Cougar. Likely anyone else listening to this song won't hear it as a breakout song, and I don't know that it really is. But there's something in those ambiguous lyrics, a deeper meaning I have not yet grasped that keeps pulling me back. And I'm a sucker for the chorus. "Hello all you losers, you've got nothing to fear (but fear itself). This may not be the end of the world, but you can see it from here." This album was a departure for Mellencamp, who's made a career out of taking little used roads. This time, he brought in Junior Vasquez who added a touch of dance beats and layers to the songs. Years later, I still think it's his best album. From Mr. Happy Go Lucky.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Tired
2010 - 09
I'm so tired, I don't know what to do.
John Lennon
Tired.
Tired of painting.
Tired of fighting with my wife over painting.
Tired of the house being a mess.
Tired of having paint on my hands.
Tired of having sore shoulders.
Tired of scanning walls for white spots.
Tired of dust.
Tired of dirt.
Tired of manouvering around obstacles.
Tired of looking at tools.
Tired of looking at boxes.
I'm just tired.
I'm so tired, I don't know what to do.
John Lennon
Tired.
Tired of painting.
Tired of fighting with my wife over painting.
Tired of the house being a mess.
Tired of having paint on my hands.
Tired of having sore shoulders.
Tired of scanning walls for white spots.
Tired of dust.
Tired of dirt.
Tired of manouvering around obstacles.
Tired of looking at tools.
Tired of looking at boxes.
I'm just tired.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
I feel one of my spells coming on...
2010 - 08
I love you period
Do you love me question mark
Please, please exclamation point
I want to hold you in parentheses
Dan Baird
I'm doing some judging for novels for a Canadian genre writing organization (I won't say which one yet, as the judging is ongoing).
But I've got a beef. I'm on the third novel to be read (oh trust me, there's more than three). And so far, it took everything in me to not throw the first one at the wall in disgust on an almost per-page basis.
When you think about authors...either those making a living at it, or those attempting to get to that stage, is one of your first thoughts that they should be...well...writerly? By that I mean, that anything they hand off for judging is written as best they can, gone over and over for any grammatical or spelling errors? Yeah? Me too.
So, to be clear, I'm not discussing plots, dialogue, believability of characters, anything like that. That's fine, and it'll be part of my judgement.
What I'm talking about here is basic English grammatical and spelling skills. I'm talking about misspelled words that, when run through a basic spellcheck, will show up in all their glaring erroneous glory.
I know all about the evil bane that is the spellcheck on computers. My most common mistake is to type "fro" when I really mean "for". It also comes out when I'm typing "form"...I get "from" and no spellcheck is going to highlight either word, as they're both fine words...just not the ones I want.
I'm talking about wanting to say "so" and instead typing "s o". Two stray letters floating around, lost in a sea of words.
I get the grammar issue a little more. I understand that many people don't know they have to enclose the comma within the quotes when typing dialogue. For example: "Hello," said John. Instead, I see the comma on the outside of the quotes, or no comma, or a period, or nothing at all. Again, if this was consistent, so the writer is doing the same thing over and over, no problem. They think that's correct. No problem. A little research--say, picking up ANY published book and looking at it--would solve the issue, as would a quick gallop through Strunk & White's brilliant "Elements of Style" but still, I get it.
It's when they do all of the above on a single page that drives me completely bugshit.
Getting back to it. Yes, I'm happily reading away. I'll admit the first manuscript I read was awful on all points. Grammar, spelling, plot, characters, dialogue, you name it. Simply wretched.
The second manuscript was the polar opposite. Professional, all mistakes have been removed with a fine-toothed comb and a great story to boot. Exactly what I expected from all the entries. The third one? Great story, great characters, not bad on the dialogue, but the grammatical and spelling mistakes are killing me.
And the sad thing? Had the author just taken the time to fix that aspect, this novel would have been just as much of a contender as the second novel I read. But I simply cannot excuse sloppiness.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not perfect and my guess is, there will be mistakes in this blog, as I rarely check them prior to posting. But this blog isn't being submitted to someone else for comparison to others with the shot at bragging rights and the good chance that someone will take a hard look at it to get it published.
Lazy. And I don't know why.
Bugs the crap outta me.
I love you period
Do you love me question mark
Please, please exclamation point
I want to hold you in parentheses
Dan Baird
I'm doing some judging for novels for a Canadian genre writing organization (I won't say which one yet, as the judging is ongoing).
But I've got a beef. I'm on the third novel to be read (oh trust me, there's more than three). And so far, it took everything in me to not throw the first one at the wall in disgust on an almost per-page basis.
When you think about authors...either those making a living at it, or those attempting to get to that stage, is one of your first thoughts that they should be...well...writerly? By that I mean, that anything they hand off for judging is written as best they can, gone over and over for any grammatical or spelling errors? Yeah? Me too.
So, to be clear, I'm not discussing plots, dialogue, believability of characters, anything like that. That's fine, and it'll be part of my judgement.
What I'm talking about here is basic English grammatical and spelling skills. I'm talking about misspelled words that, when run through a basic spellcheck, will show up in all their glaring erroneous glory.
I know all about the evil bane that is the spellcheck on computers. My most common mistake is to type "fro" when I really mean "for". It also comes out when I'm typing "form"...I get "from" and no spellcheck is going to highlight either word, as they're both fine words...just not the ones I want.
I'm talking about wanting to say "so" and instead typing "s o". Two stray letters floating around, lost in a sea of words.
I get the grammar issue a little more. I understand that many people don't know they have to enclose the comma within the quotes when typing dialogue. For example: "Hello," said John. Instead, I see the comma on the outside of the quotes, or no comma, or a period, or nothing at all. Again, if this was consistent, so the writer is doing the same thing over and over, no problem. They think that's correct. No problem. A little research--say, picking up ANY published book and looking at it--would solve the issue, as would a quick gallop through Strunk & White's brilliant "Elements of Style" but still, I get it.
It's when they do all of the above on a single page that drives me completely bugshit.
Getting back to it. Yes, I'm happily reading away. I'll admit the first manuscript I read was awful on all points. Grammar, spelling, plot, characters, dialogue, you name it. Simply wretched.
The second manuscript was the polar opposite. Professional, all mistakes have been removed with a fine-toothed comb and a great story to boot. Exactly what I expected from all the entries. The third one? Great story, great characters, not bad on the dialogue, but the grammatical and spelling mistakes are killing me.
And the sad thing? Had the author just taken the time to fix that aspect, this novel would have been just as much of a contender as the second novel I read. But I simply cannot excuse sloppiness.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not perfect and my guess is, there will be mistakes in this blog, as I rarely check them prior to posting. But this blog isn't being submitted to someone else for comparison to others with the shot at bragging rights and the good chance that someone will take a hard look at it to get it published.
Lazy. And I don't know why.
Bugs the crap outta me.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Valentine's Day...yeah, right
2010 - 07
Love stinks
J. Geils Band
I don't think there are adequate words in the English language to properly show how much I hate Valentine's Day.
Every day I tell my wife I love her. Usually more than once. Same with my kids. After work, I come home to my wife. Every night. We share a bed. Every night. I've been with the same woman and been faithful to her for over 22 years now. That's only 22 Valentine's Days, but actually more than 8000 days. I've helped raise two kids with her. We've laughed, cried, fought and loved each other without break for almost half my life and more than half hers.
Do I really need to buy her a card and chocolate to prove I love her? What utter, unmitigated bullshit. I mean seriously.
I'm beginning to think this day was designed by women so they can lord all the screw ups their men make on this day over them for the rest of the year to boost their Birthday and Christmas booty. Just my thought.
A few years back, The Wife said to me, "You know, Valentine's is a pretty artificial day. You really don't have to do anything for me."
Stupidly, I took that at face value.
In my own defence, it was earlier in my marriage, but really, I'd lived with the woman long enough that I should have realized what she was really saying was, "You know, Valentine's is coming up. You better not listen to anything I'm saying and go out and spend good cash on me, dammit, because I live with you and I can make your life a living hell." Yeah, shoulda picked up on that one. Didn't. Paid for it.
On the day, I woke up happy and content. Ah yes, Valentine's Day. No big deal, I got a woman who understands the artificiality of the whole thing. Life is good.
Then I got the, "I can't believe you didn't do anything for me!" speech. Which, perversely, left me speechless. Now I knew how all those people felt when they finally figured out they had just entered the Twilight Zone.
So, going forward, I never made the mistake again. I always get her something. Got my bases covered, right?
Wrong.
This year, I was having a discussion at the dinner table about the ghosts of Valentine's past, and I mentioned the above situation. My daughter piped up, "Oh Mom! You didn't! You didn't fall into that stereotype, did you?"
And I thought, yes! I'm bringing my kids up right. They understand the value of true feelings and are learning to despise crass marketing schemes. Good on me!
So, yesterday, in between running my son from guitar lessons to snowboarding lessons, I tried to get him to make like a Kleenex and put a little boogie in it so we'd have some time to pick up the Valentine's crap. As usual, my son is incapable of doing anything at a reasonable speed (took him 30 full minutes to drink one mug of hot chocolate), so we started falling behind. In the end, I was able to get The Wife's stuff, but I had to forgo the trip to William's Chocolate in Whitby (they really do make some kick-ass chocolate) where I usually buy my son his chocolate "H" and my daughter her chocolate "M". I asked how he felt if he didn't get his, and he--being male--was okay with it.
Today, Valentine's Day, I was driving my daughter to work and she had tears--actual tears--in her eyes because she didn't get her M.
I came home feeling like a shit.
And feeling like, after 47 years, I've learned nothing about the way women operate.
She came home from work and had a relapse. In fact, it was so epic, I think it may, in future, be referred to as The Great Chocolate Meltdown of 2010.
So I packed everyone up and took them out for dinner. And made sure my daughter got a chocolate lava cake for dessert. Apparently now that it's been consumed, life can continue on again.
So, next year? Yes, I'll be like every other man. I'll get that same vague feeling that some card or candy confectionary has put a heart-shaped gun to my head and told me to get out there and prove my love for my girls through the purchase of perishable edible sugary treats and recycled paper goods with pithy poems. Cuz nothing says lovin' like spending good cash, dammit.
In the end, I'll leave the phenomenal Warren Ellis to provide some words of wisdom on Valentine's Day that you can think long and hard on.
"Happy Valentine’s Day to all. And to those who hate the day, I say this: Valentine’s Day is a Christian corruption of a pagan festival involving werewolves, blood and fucking. So wish people a happy Horny Werewolf Day and see what happens." - Warren Ellis (WarrenEllis.com)
So, Happy Horny Werewolf Day to all!
Love stinks
J. Geils Band
I don't think there are adequate words in the English language to properly show how much I hate Valentine's Day.
Every day I tell my wife I love her. Usually more than once. Same with my kids. After work, I come home to my wife. Every night. We share a bed. Every night. I've been with the same woman and been faithful to her for over 22 years now. That's only 22 Valentine's Days, but actually more than 8000 days. I've helped raise two kids with her. We've laughed, cried, fought and loved each other without break for almost half my life and more than half hers.
Do I really need to buy her a card and chocolate to prove I love her? What utter, unmitigated bullshit. I mean seriously.
I'm beginning to think this day was designed by women so they can lord all the screw ups their men make on this day over them for the rest of the year to boost their Birthday and Christmas booty. Just my thought.
A few years back, The Wife said to me, "You know, Valentine's is a pretty artificial day. You really don't have to do anything for me."
Stupidly, I took that at face value.
In my own defence, it was earlier in my marriage, but really, I'd lived with the woman long enough that I should have realized what she was really saying was, "You know, Valentine's is coming up. You better not listen to anything I'm saying and go out and spend good cash on me, dammit, because I live with you and I can make your life a living hell." Yeah, shoulda picked up on that one. Didn't. Paid for it.
On the day, I woke up happy and content. Ah yes, Valentine's Day. No big deal, I got a woman who understands the artificiality of the whole thing. Life is good.
Then I got the, "I can't believe you didn't do anything for me!" speech. Which, perversely, left me speechless. Now I knew how all those people felt when they finally figured out they had just entered the Twilight Zone.
So, going forward, I never made the mistake again. I always get her something. Got my bases covered, right?
Wrong.
This year, I was having a discussion at the dinner table about the ghosts of Valentine's past, and I mentioned the above situation. My daughter piped up, "Oh Mom! You didn't! You didn't fall into that stereotype, did you?"
And I thought, yes! I'm bringing my kids up right. They understand the value of true feelings and are learning to despise crass marketing schemes. Good on me!
So, yesterday, in between running my son from guitar lessons to snowboarding lessons, I tried to get him to make like a Kleenex and put a little boogie in it so we'd have some time to pick up the Valentine's crap. As usual, my son is incapable of doing anything at a reasonable speed (took him 30 full minutes to drink one mug of hot chocolate), so we started falling behind. In the end, I was able to get The Wife's stuff, but I had to forgo the trip to William's Chocolate in Whitby (they really do make some kick-ass chocolate) where I usually buy my son his chocolate "H" and my daughter her chocolate "M". I asked how he felt if he didn't get his, and he--being male--was okay with it.
Today, Valentine's Day, I was driving my daughter to work and she had tears--actual tears--in her eyes because she didn't get her M.
I came home feeling like a shit.
And feeling like, after 47 years, I've learned nothing about the way women operate.
She came home from work and had a relapse. In fact, it was so epic, I think it may, in future, be referred to as The Great Chocolate Meltdown of 2010.
So I packed everyone up and took them out for dinner. And made sure my daughter got a chocolate lava cake for dessert. Apparently now that it's been consumed, life can continue on again.
So, next year? Yes, I'll be like every other man. I'll get that same vague feeling that some card or candy confectionary has put a heart-shaped gun to my head and told me to get out there and prove my love for my girls through the purchase of perishable edible sugary treats and recycled paper goods with pithy poems. Cuz nothing says lovin' like spending good cash, dammit.
In the end, I'll leave the phenomenal Warren Ellis to provide some words of wisdom on Valentine's Day that you can think long and hard on.
"Happy Valentine’s Day to all. And to those who hate the day, I say this: Valentine’s Day is a Christian corruption of a pagan festival involving werewolves, blood and fucking. So wish people a happy Horny Werewolf Day and see what happens." - Warren Ellis (WarrenEllis.com)
So, Happy Horny Werewolf Day to all!
So I LOSE it, I SNAP!
2010 - 06
"I'm losin' babe, what more can I tell ya?"
Elliott Murphy
Is it wrong to have a strong desire to beat someone to a pulp just because they're an idiot?
If it is...well then I'm wrong. Really wrong. In fact, to slightly butcher the Luther Ingram song...If beating you is wrong, I don't wanna be right.
Where is all this negativity coming from, you ask?
I think somewhere along the line, someone declared it National Cut-Tobin-Off-As-He's-Driving Week. I swear, I've been cut off by more drivers more times this last week than in the last six months. And that's a lot.
I don't get it. You need to qualify to get a driver's license. I know, my daughter's in the process right now. She knows the rules of the road better than me and The Wife combined. But still, it seems like the standard 80/20 rule applies. 80% of drivers are okay, behave themselves and don't piss me off.
But then there's that fringe 20% who seem to wake up with an agenda to irk me as much as possible.
I work for a mobile phone company. So I know what it's like to be in demand and expected to be reachable anywhere. That's why I have a Bluetooth handsfree speaker in both my cars and two Bluetooth headsets as well. I downloaded a free application for my Blackberry that will automatically read any new emails or texts that come in.
So when I'm in my car, I'm handsfree. It's the law, and I respect that. It makes sense.
So, why then, did I see someone driving eratically (by this, I mean slowing and speeding up, cutting across lanes, almost sideswiping cars, etc) in downtown Oshawa a week or so ago? And guess what sign she had in her back window? "Baby on Board"...yep that ubiquitous sign that signals that, no matter how careful you normally drive, you should be taking extra care right now due to the young'un.
I ended up beside the woman in the car at the next red light. Then I saw what she was doing. Get this: driving with her child in the carseat (yes, there really was a baby on board), while also talking on the cellphone wedged between ear and shoulder while simultaneously scratching a lottery ticket!!!!!!
I shudder to think what would have happened should she have won.
But seriously, what series of unfortunate events needs to occur to cause the rational part of her mind to consider that paying most of her attention to a lottery ticket is the smartest thing to do. Let's say that's 60% of her attention. Then, as her multitasking skills desperately try to keep up, let's say another 25% is on the conversation she is having. Her lips were moving, so it wasn't one of those "...uh-huh...uh-huh..." conversations. She was involved. So now, that leaves around 15% attention to operate a two-ton moving vehicle, obey the rules of the road, survey her immediate surroundings for possible danger points, monitor her speed and direction and ultimately navigate to her desired location...all while keeping the baby on board safe.
Idiot.
An idiot in need of a beating.
This morning, as the ambulance's lights flashed in my rearview and the siren wailed, I pulled off to the far right lane and slowed to stop. The stupid ass behind me (and therefore that much closer to the flashing and wailing) thought this would be a good time to pass me while getting the bonus of blocking the lifesaving emergency vehicle at the same time. Then, abruptly, she changed her mind and cut into my lane without warning, cutting me off. Then the ambulance passed us both. She immediately scooted back out to the lane again, only to realize the accident was just ahead and blocking the lanes. The cop was very clearly pointing to her then stretching his arm out to indicate "turn left, turn left". I was in the far right lane preparing to drop off my daughter at work, then turn left, turn left. What does the idiot ambulance blocking dipshit do? You guessed it. Cut right and cut me off a second time.
Then waved at me.
And they wonder why humans kill other humans.
Either I need a roof-mounted howitzer with hands-free controls and unlimited ordinance, or I need to stop driving.
Idiots.
"I'm losin' babe, what more can I tell ya?"
Elliott Murphy
Is it wrong to have a strong desire to beat someone to a pulp just because they're an idiot?
If it is...well then I'm wrong. Really wrong. In fact, to slightly butcher the Luther Ingram song...If beating you is wrong, I don't wanna be right.
Where is all this negativity coming from, you ask?
I think somewhere along the line, someone declared it National Cut-Tobin-Off-As-He's-Driving Week. I swear, I've been cut off by more drivers more times this last week than in the last six months. And that's a lot.
I don't get it. You need to qualify to get a driver's license. I know, my daughter's in the process right now. She knows the rules of the road better than me and The Wife combined. But still, it seems like the standard 80/20 rule applies. 80% of drivers are okay, behave themselves and don't piss me off.
But then there's that fringe 20% who seem to wake up with an agenda to irk me as much as possible.
I work for a mobile phone company. So I know what it's like to be in demand and expected to be reachable anywhere. That's why I have a Bluetooth handsfree speaker in both my cars and two Bluetooth headsets as well. I downloaded a free application for my Blackberry that will automatically read any new emails or texts that come in.
So when I'm in my car, I'm handsfree. It's the law, and I respect that. It makes sense.
So, why then, did I see someone driving eratically (by this, I mean slowing and speeding up, cutting across lanes, almost sideswiping cars, etc) in downtown Oshawa a week or so ago? And guess what sign she had in her back window? "Baby on Board"...yep that ubiquitous sign that signals that, no matter how careful you normally drive, you should be taking extra care right now due to the young'un.
I ended up beside the woman in the car at the next red light. Then I saw what she was doing. Get this: driving with her child in the carseat (yes, there really was a baby on board), while also talking on the cellphone wedged between ear and shoulder while simultaneously scratching a lottery ticket!!!!!!
I shudder to think what would have happened should she have won.
But seriously, what series of unfortunate events needs to occur to cause the rational part of her mind to consider that paying most of her attention to a lottery ticket is the smartest thing to do. Let's say that's 60% of her attention. Then, as her multitasking skills desperately try to keep up, let's say another 25% is on the conversation she is having. Her lips were moving, so it wasn't one of those "...uh-huh...uh-huh..." conversations. She was involved. So now, that leaves around 15% attention to operate a two-ton moving vehicle, obey the rules of the road, survey her immediate surroundings for possible danger points, monitor her speed and direction and ultimately navigate to her desired location...all while keeping the baby on board safe.
Idiot.
An idiot in need of a beating.
This morning, as the ambulance's lights flashed in my rearview and the siren wailed, I pulled off to the far right lane and slowed to stop. The stupid ass behind me (and therefore that much closer to the flashing and wailing) thought this would be a good time to pass me while getting the bonus of blocking the lifesaving emergency vehicle at the same time. Then, abruptly, she changed her mind and cut into my lane without warning, cutting me off. Then the ambulance passed us both. She immediately scooted back out to the lane again, only to realize the accident was just ahead and blocking the lanes. The cop was very clearly pointing to her then stretching his arm out to indicate "turn left, turn left". I was in the far right lane preparing to drop off my daughter at work, then turn left, turn left. What does the idiot ambulance blocking dipshit do? You guessed it. Cut right and cut me off a second time.
Then waved at me.
And they wonder why humans kill other humans.
Either I need a roof-mounted howitzer with hands-free controls and unlimited ordinance, or I need to stop driving.
Idiots.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Gettin' Old, Part 2
2010 - 05
"Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be..."
Paul McCartney
I don't know about most of you, but I'm typically not the type that normally feels or acts my age. For the most part, I'm kicking around and staying somewhere in the neighbourhood of seventeen to a maximum of about twenty-five. Generally, people tend to take about ten years off when they're guessing how old I am.
I like that.
I like it a lot.
But then last Wednesday happened. Last Wednesday, I was ridden hard, whipped, beaten, treated real bad, and put away wet.
We'd just finished taking my daughter around to some universities (see "Gettin' Old, Part 1") and both The Wife and I were ready to get back to our real jobs. As well, over the past few weeks, we've been steadily purging our basement in preparation for someone with skills with powertools to come in and finish the basement. As of last Tuesday, we figured that was going to be in a week or two.
On Tuesday, he said he'd be here Thursday. Two days.
So I quickly arranged for another vacation day. And on Wednesday, for about nine solid hours, broken only by a quick trip to the dump, all I did was go up and down stairs with something in my hands.
For the first few hours, it was boxes. I brought virtually every box we own from the basement to the main floor of our house. It's still up here, and basically it's filled our dining room from floor to ceiling, about a third of our living room from floor to ceiling, the downstairs bathroom, part of our foyer...hell, I even have a rocker in my kitchen...and I'm not talking about a dude that likes KISS either.
Yes, as I said, I'm a packrat. I couldn't tell you how many boxes of books, comics and CDs I hauled upstairs. But it was a lot.
Then, when that was all done, it was time to drag all the construction stuff in my driveway into the house and down the stairs. Ceiling tiles, doors, two-by-fours by the boatload, I can't even tell you what all. Oh, and then there was the drywall.
When I was in my very late teens, I used to help my Uncle Floyd do drywalling. I used to haul those bastards all by myself, and trust me, I was never Hercules Unbound or anything like that.
So it came as quite a surprise when I could barely move them. I eventually gave up on getting them down the stairs and settled for the garage instead.
So, let's do a status check of where I was by 6 p.m. Wednesday evening, shall we? Sweating like John Goodman disco dancing, aching like I'd run the Boston Marathon, bruised in places I didn't think I could bruise. Tired. In fact, I was so tired (and sweaty and dirty) that I didn't have the energy to change clothes or have a shower, so I laid down on the floor of my bedroom and fell asleep. So tired that when my dog parked his ass near my face and farted, I didn't even move. I just breathed through it. Yeah, that tired.
..and then there were my knees.
My traitorous knees.
They were rubber by the time I was done. I couldn't even walk the last few two-by-fours down the stairs for fear of my damn knees giving out. My wife said I looked like her mother trying to get around on the stairs. That ain't a compliment.
It took a good couple of days for them to come back. It's Sunday today, and today's the first day I haven't noticed it when I've done any stairs.
For the first time in my life, I felt every single day of my 47 years.
I really didn't enjoy it. Don't ever want to feel like that again.
Getting old sucks.
"Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be..."
Paul McCartney
I don't know about most of you, but I'm typically not the type that normally feels or acts my age. For the most part, I'm kicking around and staying somewhere in the neighbourhood of seventeen to a maximum of about twenty-five. Generally, people tend to take about ten years off when they're guessing how old I am.
I like that.
I like it a lot.
But then last Wednesday happened. Last Wednesday, I was ridden hard, whipped, beaten, treated real bad, and put away wet.
We'd just finished taking my daughter around to some universities (see "Gettin' Old, Part 1") and both The Wife and I were ready to get back to our real jobs. As well, over the past few weeks, we've been steadily purging our basement in preparation for someone with skills with powertools to come in and finish the basement. As of last Tuesday, we figured that was going to be in a week or two.
On Tuesday, he said he'd be here Thursday. Two days.
So I quickly arranged for another vacation day. And on Wednesday, for about nine solid hours, broken only by a quick trip to the dump, all I did was go up and down stairs with something in my hands.
For the first few hours, it was boxes. I brought virtually every box we own from the basement to the main floor of our house. It's still up here, and basically it's filled our dining room from floor to ceiling, about a third of our living room from floor to ceiling, the downstairs bathroom, part of our foyer...hell, I even have a rocker in my kitchen...and I'm not talking about a dude that likes KISS either.
Yes, as I said, I'm a packrat. I couldn't tell you how many boxes of books, comics and CDs I hauled upstairs. But it was a lot.
Then, when that was all done, it was time to drag all the construction stuff in my driveway into the house and down the stairs. Ceiling tiles, doors, two-by-fours by the boatload, I can't even tell you what all. Oh, and then there was the drywall.
When I was in my very late teens, I used to help my Uncle Floyd do drywalling. I used to haul those bastards all by myself, and trust me, I was never Hercules Unbound or anything like that.
So it came as quite a surprise when I could barely move them. I eventually gave up on getting them down the stairs and settled for the garage instead.
So, let's do a status check of where I was by 6 p.m. Wednesday evening, shall we? Sweating like John Goodman disco dancing, aching like I'd run the Boston Marathon, bruised in places I didn't think I could bruise. Tired. In fact, I was so tired (and sweaty and dirty) that I didn't have the energy to change clothes or have a shower, so I laid down on the floor of my bedroom and fell asleep. So tired that when my dog parked his ass near my face and farted, I didn't even move. I just breathed through it. Yeah, that tired.
..and then there were my knees.
My traitorous knees.
They were rubber by the time I was done. I couldn't even walk the last few two-by-fours down the stairs for fear of my damn knees giving out. My wife said I looked like her mother trying to get around on the stairs. That ain't a compliment.
It took a good couple of days for them to come back. It's Sunday today, and today's the first day I haven't noticed it when I've done any stairs.
For the first time in my life, I felt every single day of my 47 years.
I really didn't enjoy it. Don't ever want to feel like that again.
Getting old sucks.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
Gettin' Old, Part 1
2010 - 04
"Oh mercy mercy me,
Things ain't what they used to be..."
Marvin Gaye
How do you know when you're getting old?
When you start doing campus tours...for your kid.
The Wife and I took our daughter around to a few area universities last week. Ryerson, York and U of Toronto, Scarborough (UTSC). She's looking to get into Journalism, which is very exciting for me, the frustrated writer of the family.
But this is my little girl...wasn't she just a baby I could rock to sleep with one arm only a couple of years ago? Where has the time gone?
And when we're walking around the campuses, while I'm being blown away at what's at the disposal of an 18-year-old now for learning, I'm also seeing signs that some things never change. The papers tacked and taped up everywhere offering up parties. The people yelling out of residence windows at any group of people they deem "not of the university as yet". What do they yell? "Ryerson fuckin' ROCKS! YEEEEEOOOOOOO!" School spirit is alive and well in Toronto.
But perhaps the most disturbing sign is the guys walking on campus checking out my daughter. I know what's going through their heads. "Fresh meat." Because that's exactly what I did at the same age. I wasn't necessarily that guy yelling out the window, but I was definitely looking for as much attention as I could gather at that age. Hell, I wore a fork in my jean jacket just for the comments. Yeah, I know. Don't judge.
But the other thing I experienced was the unexpected trip to three decades ago when a skinny kid getting ready to graduate Grade 13 (yes, back when there was a Grade 13 and none of this "victory lap" crap). Six-foot-three and most of my scrawny body weight coming from my zits and the big-ass auto-polarizing aviator-style glasses I wore...yes, I was a catch back then ladies...okay well, not so much.
But I definitely was a walking hard-on.
But enough of that. We did university tours for U of Toronto, McMaster in Hamilton, and both Wilfred Laurier and Waterloo in Kitchener. I can specifically remember being more interested in getting myself to a record store to pick up some LPs (again, yes, this was a long time ago). But I can still remember picking up both Harlequin's "Love Crimes" album (remember the song "Innocence" or "Thinking of You"?) and The Alan Parsons Project's "The Turn of a Friendly Card" (remember the song "Time" that seemed to be played at any funeral for any teen that died in the early Eighties?). Yeah, I was having a hell of a time focusing on what I wanted to do with my life.
My mother was going through a nasty divorce and my only serious thoughts were on making sure she had some support. I was able to ensure she was out of the situation and living on her own before I eventually went off to DeVry Institute of Technology to waste four months of my life thinking I wanted to be a computer programmer. I did very well in the classes, graduating my first time with a 98% average before leaving, never to return.
I know it shocks The Wife when she asks my daughter what her friends want to do for a career and she only has vague ideas. Back in my time, I had no clue what my friends wanted to do with their lives. Most of them went on to engineering degrees at McMaster. I went on to a four-year hibernation of the mind working for the fast food industry...Arby's.
I eventually went back to college as a mature student and got a Graphic Design Diploma.
And here I am, working at TELUS as a manager for the Leadership Development Program. Why did I spend all that money? Why did I take so long to figure out what I wanted to do?
And what the hell happened to all that time?
And now I'm full circle, walking around campuses, not as the prospective student, but as the prospective wallet for my daughter.
My God, I'm old.
"Oh mercy mercy me,
Things ain't what they used to be..."
Marvin Gaye
How do you know when you're getting old?
When you start doing campus tours...for your kid.
The Wife and I took our daughter around to a few area universities last week. Ryerson, York and U of Toronto, Scarborough (UTSC). She's looking to get into Journalism, which is very exciting for me, the frustrated writer of the family.
But this is my little girl...wasn't she just a baby I could rock to sleep with one arm only a couple of years ago? Where has the time gone?
And when we're walking around the campuses, while I'm being blown away at what's at the disposal of an 18-year-old now for learning, I'm also seeing signs that some things never change. The papers tacked and taped up everywhere offering up parties. The people yelling out of residence windows at any group of people they deem "not of the university as yet". What do they yell? "Ryerson fuckin' ROCKS! YEEEEEOOOOOOO!" School spirit is alive and well in Toronto.
But perhaps the most disturbing sign is the guys walking on campus checking out my daughter. I know what's going through their heads. "Fresh meat." Because that's exactly what I did at the same age. I wasn't necessarily that guy yelling out the window, but I was definitely looking for as much attention as I could gather at that age. Hell, I wore a fork in my jean jacket just for the comments. Yeah, I know. Don't judge.
But the other thing I experienced was the unexpected trip to three decades ago when a skinny kid getting ready to graduate Grade 13 (yes, back when there was a Grade 13 and none of this "victory lap" crap). Six-foot-three and most of my scrawny body weight coming from my zits and the big-ass auto-polarizing aviator-style glasses I wore...yes, I was a catch back then ladies...okay well, not so much.
But I definitely was a walking hard-on.
But enough of that. We did university tours for U of Toronto, McMaster in Hamilton, and both Wilfred Laurier and Waterloo in Kitchener. I can specifically remember being more interested in getting myself to a record store to pick up some LPs (again, yes, this was a long time ago). But I can still remember picking up both Harlequin's "Love Crimes" album (remember the song "Innocence" or "Thinking of You"?) and The Alan Parsons Project's "The Turn of a Friendly Card" (remember the song "Time" that seemed to be played at any funeral for any teen that died in the early Eighties?). Yeah, I was having a hell of a time focusing on what I wanted to do with my life.
My mother was going through a nasty divorce and my only serious thoughts were on making sure she had some support. I was able to ensure she was out of the situation and living on her own before I eventually went off to DeVry Institute of Technology to waste four months of my life thinking I wanted to be a computer programmer. I did very well in the classes, graduating my first time with a 98% average before leaving, never to return.
I know it shocks The Wife when she asks my daughter what her friends want to do for a career and she only has vague ideas. Back in my time, I had no clue what my friends wanted to do with their lives. Most of them went on to engineering degrees at McMaster. I went on to a four-year hibernation of the mind working for the fast food industry...Arby's.
I eventually went back to college as a mature student and got a Graphic Design Diploma.
And here I am, working at TELUS as a manager for the Leadership Development Program. Why did I spend all that money? Why did I take so long to figure out what I wanted to do?
And what the hell happened to all that time?
And now I'm full circle, walking around campuses, not as the prospective student, but as the prospective wallet for my daughter.
My God, I'm old.
Monday, February 01, 2010
Bear mace? Really?
2010 - 03
There's a lot of times when my son comes home and asks if he can go out and play "manhunt". Apparently manhunt is a cooler term than hide and seek, because when he describes what manhunt is, it's plain old hide and seek.
Now, me, I like to see the kid get out and get some fresh air, get a little rosy glow in the cheeks, get some exercise. My wife is a touch overprotective and usually declines him. She's always worried about predators and all the bad things that can happen to kids these days. I don't disagree with her, but I'm usually of the mind that they gotta learn their way in this world somehow, getting out to experience it is a good first step.
Besides, it's hide and seek. I mean, really, what the hell can go wrong. Am I right?
So, tonight, he asked again. One of his friend's was at the door. How could I say no? It was only for an hour or so.
I was just leaving to teach a course when he was coming in, but I had to say I was pleased to see that rosy glow in his cheeks. He grabbed a glass of water and took a couple of mouthfuls and spit. No biggie, probably caught some bad taste in his mouth.
He casually mentioned that one of his friends had found a can of bear mace in the bushes where he'd been hiding. "Hmph!" I said. I didn't know there was such a thing.
And with that, I left for my course.
Ten minutes later, I was getting a call from my wife. Was I aware that they had found a can of bear mace? Yes I was. Was I aware that one of the kids had actually sprayed some of it? No, but I figured that curiousity would demand that one of them would have to give it a go. Was I aware that my son had been downwind and caught a face full of it?
What?
Apparently, he did. His first reaction, and I must say, likely a smart one, was to grab a couple of handfuls of snow and rub his face. And likely the -6 degree air helped a lot too.
So, really, it wasn't until he came home and was in the warm air that it started to hit him. Then it sunk its teeth in and really bit down hard. His face and neck were burning. My wife didn't want to do much until she checked...who knows...maybe water made it worse.
She checked online and found some pretty horribly written stuff. "Bear mace is twenty times more lethal than regular mace." Twenty times more lethal? So...it can kill you twenty times worse?
And since when was mace lethal? It's a freakin' repellant!
Okay, so I'm thinking they were going for "powerful" instead of "lethal" but still...panic inducing for an already fairy freaked mother.
In the end, after a call to poison control, he was to get into a shower for twenty minutes (ended up doing this twice), and he's gone to bed feeling okay.
But now, here's some things I'm left with...
There's a lot of times when my son comes home and asks if he can go out and play "manhunt". Apparently manhunt is a cooler term than hide and seek, because when he describes what manhunt is, it's plain old hide and seek.
Now, me, I like to see the kid get out and get some fresh air, get a little rosy glow in the cheeks, get some exercise. My wife is a touch overprotective and usually declines him. She's always worried about predators and all the bad things that can happen to kids these days. I don't disagree with her, but I'm usually of the mind that they gotta learn their way in this world somehow, getting out to experience it is a good first step.
Besides, it's hide and seek. I mean, really, what the hell can go wrong. Am I right?
So, tonight, he asked again. One of his friend's was at the door. How could I say no? It was only for an hour or so.
I was just leaving to teach a course when he was coming in, but I had to say I was pleased to see that rosy glow in his cheeks. He grabbed a glass of water and took a couple of mouthfuls and spit. No biggie, probably caught some bad taste in his mouth.
He casually mentioned that one of his friends had found a can of bear mace in the bushes where he'd been hiding. "Hmph!" I said. I didn't know there was such a thing.
And with that, I left for my course.
Ten minutes later, I was getting a call from my wife. Was I aware that they had found a can of bear mace? Yes I was. Was I aware that one of the kids had actually sprayed some of it? No, but I figured that curiousity would demand that one of them would have to give it a go. Was I aware that my son had been downwind and caught a face full of it?
What?
Apparently, he did. His first reaction, and I must say, likely a smart one, was to grab a couple of handfuls of snow and rub his face. And likely the -6 degree air helped a lot too.
So, really, it wasn't until he came home and was in the warm air that it started to hit him. Then it sunk its teeth in and really bit down hard. His face and neck were burning. My wife didn't want to do much until she checked...who knows...maybe water made it worse.
She checked online and found some pretty horribly written stuff. "Bear mace is twenty times more lethal than regular mace." Twenty times more lethal? So...it can kill you twenty times worse?
And since when was mace lethal? It's a freakin' repellant!
Okay, so I'm thinking they were going for "powerful" instead of "lethal" but still...panic inducing for an already fairy freaked mother.
In the end, after a call to poison control, he was to get into a shower for twenty minutes (ended up doing this twice), and he's gone to bed feeling okay.
But now, here's some things I'm left with...
- Apparently, you cannot buy regular mace in Canada. It's illegal. However, you can very easily buy bear mace, a compound that's twenty times more powerful (or lethal, depending on your vocabulary). One of the things that make you go, "hmmm!"
- How in the hell does bear mace get left in a public park? Who's the asshole I have to pummel for that one?
- What kind of morons does my son hang out with exactly, when they're actually emptying the entire featherpluckin' can!!!??? Sure, give it a squirt if you gotta, but to spray out the whole thing? Brilliant.
- And finally, be careful what you wish for. My son went to bed with rosy cheeks. Not exactly what I wished for. I'll be much more specific next time.
And now, all I've got is the tune of Bon Jovi's "You Give Love a Bad Name" going through my head...
Shot in the face
And Kyle's to blame
You shot my face
With bear mace!
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