Living in a small town, we don’t get the spotlight of international media focused on us in anyway that is really notable. A few years back a friend of mine called me from Smyrna, Tennessee, a Kingstonian by birth. The reason he called me beside the usual banter that old friends share, was that down in the old US of A his hometown was being mentioned on CNN and other news sources and not in particularly glowing terms. The press down there were reporting that two of the terrorists arrested in Toronto during a massive sweep lived in Kingston, Ontario. “What the heck (or words to that effect) is going on?”, he asked.. “Terrorists? In Kingston? What’s next?” However, what the press failed to mention of course, was that the terrorists arrested were citizens of Kingston only by virtue that they were inmates at one of our penitentiaries. But the damage had been done. The only mention of Kingston in any form of media in all his years in the US was this piece of misinformation. It was only after I straightened him out that he settled down.
There are literally thousands of news items each day that warrant coverage and wading through them at times I am sure is overwhelming for any news organization. So I thought I would offer my assistance to the news media to prevent them from picking up on the wrong story that focuses on my hometown.
There was an ad in the local paper a while back, it made such an impact on me that I clipped it. It was in the Classifieds, right under an ad for Whiskey Willy’s who were looking for some wait staff. The ad read, “Wanted: Volunteer Mars Genesis mission vehicle administrator. Write to...” and then gave the gentleman’s name and address to write to. Now, either there was this incredibly secret Mars mission going on right under our own noses or the gentleman who placed the ad believed he had an incredibly secret Mars mission about to launch. To give him some administrative credit, he also felt that he could find such a vehicle administrator for the Mars mission by placing a 4 line ad in a local small town newspaper. I am sure NASA could get its’ budgetary problems under control by using a similar method.
The other news item involved a teen whose life of crime will forever be punctuated by the fact that he robbed a sex shop. Call me crazy but from every thing I have ever read about crime, one of the primary motivating factors of theft is to steal money. Not this lad. It was reported that instead of absconding with the moola he opted to steal a sex toy. Okay... that’s a bit offbeat but what separates this story from the more mundane new items was that after he was caught by the police shortly after the theft, the item could not be returned to the shop because it had been used. I will just let that thought rest with you for a moment.
Somehow, in his flight to freedom when most criminals high-tail it out of the neighborhood, this criminal had the notion that he should stop fleeing and use his sex toy. Now, I am a pretty open-minded kind of guy and try as I might to rationalize this story, it is beyond my comprehension.
First of all I think, at least for a male, you need to be in a certain ummm, physiological condition to utilize these devices and I would think being at least partially naked might be helpful. How in the world does a fleeing thief, while eluding the police, manage to get in the mood? For most normal people, to do so usually involves at least a nice dinner and a bottle of wine. Maybe instead of a life a petty crime, this guy should write a book. Just think of the options for book titles. Sex on the Run could be one of them or maybe, Now, That’s a Stickup. Those are just two that come to mind. I am sure my friend from Smyrna would prefer to see this kind of story featured on CNN. At least he could say to his American friends that up there in Canada, we don’t blow up buildings, we blow up dolls.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Snakes Don't Have Legs
Groucho Marx had what I consider to be one of the greatest lines ever uttered on national TV. During an introduction of a contestant on his game show, You Bet Your Life, an elderly looking woman was asked her age. She responded, “ I am approaching 50”, to which Groucho quipped, “From which side?”
As I am approaching 50 - I‘ll leave that to you to decide from which side - I continue to be amazed how little things have changed for me, at least from my perspective. I still feel like the same guy I was 30 years ago, I still have relatively the same values and still harbor the same misguided confidence I had back then.
Through many years of foolish endeavors, of completely asinine thought processes and flagrant disrespect for what can happen to a human body, I soldiered on, inflicting the most unfair punishment on myself - from hurtling down snowy slopes on skis to loosing my grip on a horizontal bar while in the midst of a giant swing and tumbling head over tail across half of the gymnasium floor. I have ricocheted from wave to wave, falling off of boats at high speeds, and tumbled down so many cliffs, trees and buildings that I have lost count. But never in all my escapades did I ever end up with more than a few stitches or the odd cast. That is, until a little while ago.
In a period of a few months I faced surgery not once, but twice. One time to repair a lingering problem, and another due to an emergency situation I had no control over. With this surgery, I saw the inside of an operating room for the first time. What fascinated me the most was the whole process of getting into surgery. I have a whole new appreciation of why the costs are as they are for our much-maligned health care system. The care and absolute attention to detail astounded me. It was an eye-opener to discover that when I went into surgery, it was not simply a matter of a doctor grabbing a scalpel and starting to slice and dice. My surgery was the culmination of many, many people working to make sure everything went smoothly. By smoothly, I of course mean that I emerged from the end of the surgery, a) alive and b) minus the right parts.
I was amazed with the activity around me during both, the amount of tests that were done and the monitoring of all metabolic levels, some levels, I didn’t even know I had. When I was first put on a gurney and started to be wheeled into surgery, I was surrounded by a phalanx of people. I felt like Mohammad Ali entering into the stadium for a fight. I had my “crew”of four or five people all flanking me as I was wheeled down a hallway and into the OR. Most were encouraging me, letting me know everything that was going on and what to expect. For the first experience I opted for an epidural so I was conscious for the whole operation. This is a good thing and a bad thing: the good thing was there was no “hangover” effect of anesthesia, the bad thing is that I could see and hear everything that was going on. If my arms weren’t stretched out on either side of me I could have twiddled my thumbs to past the time. As it was, I listened to the music that was playing, thankfully the surgeon didn't opt for The First Cut is the Deepest.
The second round was much more of a rush situation, but still it amazed me how many people were looking after me. Because I had abdominal surgery, I didn’t have an option for anesthesia; I was getting a general. I remember the anesthesiologist saying to me that I should start to get light headed and as the room started to spin, I think my last words to the nurse were, “…and I used to spend $60.00 on a bottle of Glenfiddich for the same effect.” Next thing I knew I was in the recovery room, and after an hour or so, I was moved to a ward room.
I slowly became aware of my surroundings and just lay there listening to the three other men in my room. They were all talking about the major procedures they had undergone. Each was facing daunting changes in the ways in which he was to lead the rest of his life. When they became aware that I was back in the conscious world, one of them asked me, “So what are you in for?” It was at that moment I understood how Arlo Guthrie must have felt when he was assigned to the Group W bench in his anti-draft anthem, Alice’s Restaurant. Just as he reluctantly confessed to these father-rapers that he was in for littering, I told my ward-mates that I was in for an appendix. I am sure that if they could have gotten up, they would have all moved away from me. But like Arlo, when I started to create a fuss, repeatedly pushing my call button and demanding more morphine, things got better between us.
I was released from hospital the follow day and told not to do very much. That is a lot harder than it sounds. I spent time reading and getting my kids to do most of the running around for me. What I didn’t keep in mind, however, was the medication I was on and how it could affect my thought processes. During dinner, I tried to explain to everyone about an article I read; it was about why we can approach animals in the wild more easily in a canoe or a bicycle instead of walking. The article said it has to do with the unnatural rhythm of our walking motions and how the animal’s instincts of a predator are thrown off by this. It also related why some people don’t like snakes, again having to do with this unnatural type of movement. When they asked me what this has to do with snakes, I said, rather authoritatively, “Well, you know. Snakes don’t have legs.”
The stunned silence was overwhelming. In that drug induced moment of what I thought was a rational thought, I think my kids finally found what they believe is a fitting epitaph for my headstone. Of all the intelligent and thoughtful things I have ever written or said, “Snakes don’t have legs” is the one that they think will last.
As I am approaching 50 - I‘ll leave that to you to decide from which side - I continue to be amazed how little things have changed for me, at least from my perspective. I still feel like the same guy I was 30 years ago, I still have relatively the same values and still harbor the same misguided confidence I had back then.
Through many years of foolish endeavors, of completely asinine thought processes and flagrant disrespect for what can happen to a human body, I soldiered on, inflicting the most unfair punishment on myself - from hurtling down snowy slopes on skis to loosing my grip on a horizontal bar while in the midst of a giant swing and tumbling head over tail across half of the gymnasium floor. I have ricocheted from wave to wave, falling off of boats at high speeds, and tumbled down so many cliffs, trees and buildings that I have lost count. But never in all my escapades did I ever end up with more than a few stitches or the odd cast. That is, until a little while ago.
In a period of a few months I faced surgery not once, but twice. One time to repair a lingering problem, and another due to an emergency situation I had no control over. With this surgery, I saw the inside of an operating room for the first time. What fascinated me the most was the whole process of getting into surgery. I have a whole new appreciation of why the costs are as they are for our much-maligned health care system. The care and absolute attention to detail astounded me. It was an eye-opener to discover that when I went into surgery, it was not simply a matter of a doctor grabbing a scalpel and starting to slice and dice. My surgery was the culmination of many, many people working to make sure everything went smoothly. By smoothly, I of course mean that I emerged from the end of the surgery, a) alive and b) minus the right parts.
I was amazed with the activity around me during both, the amount of tests that were done and the monitoring of all metabolic levels, some levels, I didn’t even know I had. When I was first put on a gurney and started to be wheeled into surgery, I was surrounded by a phalanx of people. I felt like Mohammad Ali entering into the stadium for a fight. I had my “crew”of four or five people all flanking me as I was wheeled down a hallway and into the OR. Most were encouraging me, letting me know everything that was going on and what to expect. For the first experience I opted for an epidural so I was conscious for the whole operation. This is a good thing and a bad thing: the good thing was there was no “hangover” effect of anesthesia, the bad thing is that I could see and hear everything that was going on. If my arms weren’t stretched out on either side of me I could have twiddled my thumbs to past the time. As it was, I listened to the music that was playing, thankfully the surgeon didn't opt for The First Cut is the Deepest.
The second round was much more of a rush situation, but still it amazed me how many people were looking after me. Because I had abdominal surgery, I didn’t have an option for anesthesia; I was getting a general. I remember the anesthesiologist saying to me that I should start to get light headed and as the room started to spin, I think my last words to the nurse were, “…and I used to spend $60.00 on a bottle of Glenfiddich for the same effect.” Next thing I knew I was in the recovery room, and after an hour or so, I was moved to a ward room.
I slowly became aware of my surroundings and just lay there listening to the three other men in my room. They were all talking about the major procedures they had undergone. Each was facing daunting changes in the ways in which he was to lead the rest of his life. When they became aware that I was back in the conscious world, one of them asked me, “So what are you in for?” It was at that moment I understood how Arlo Guthrie must have felt when he was assigned to the Group W bench in his anti-draft anthem, Alice’s Restaurant. Just as he reluctantly confessed to these father-rapers that he was in for littering, I told my ward-mates that I was in for an appendix. I am sure that if they could have gotten up, they would have all moved away from me. But like Arlo, when I started to create a fuss, repeatedly pushing my call button and demanding more morphine, things got better between us.
I was released from hospital the follow day and told not to do very much. That is a lot harder than it sounds. I spent time reading and getting my kids to do most of the running around for me. What I didn’t keep in mind, however, was the medication I was on and how it could affect my thought processes. During dinner, I tried to explain to everyone about an article I read; it was about why we can approach animals in the wild more easily in a canoe or a bicycle instead of walking. The article said it has to do with the unnatural rhythm of our walking motions and how the animal’s instincts of a predator are thrown off by this. It also related why some people don’t like snakes, again having to do with this unnatural type of movement. When they asked me what this has to do with snakes, I said, rather authoritatively, “Well, you know. Snakes don’t have legs.”
The stunned silence was overwhelming. In that drug induced moment of what I thought was a rational thought, I think my kids finally found what they believe is a fitting epitaph for my headstone. Of all the intelligent and thoughtful things I have ever written or said, “Snakes don’t have legs” is the one that they think will last.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Simple Gestures
In a world that is getting increasingly louder and bigger, where everything is improved and upgraded, in a place where the more the better, in a life where money equates happiness, it is always nice to find some solace in small things. Sometimes, as you pile-drive your way through life, you can miss the things that sit quietly on the side of the road. Every life can be complicated, every decision can be wrenching, every horizon can be cloudy. But that in itself is a choice. It has been my experience that it takes as much, if not more effort to be miserable than it does to be happy. Sometimes, it can be the little things that do set you off. If you imagine a glass that is full to the rim and just one more drop of water will cause it to overflow, that is what life is like sometimes. But all in all, a small gesture is what is needed at times.
I am certainly not suggesting that everyone go out and do something nice. That in itself would be too forced and too phony, too much like a random act of kindness and a little too Hollywood for my taste (coming from a screen-writer that says a lot). Sometimes, the best of all gestures are when you are really unaware that you are doing something nice for someone. Maybe, in fact, you don’t even know you have brightened someone’s day. It could be holding a door open for someone, or smiling, just because you feel like smiling. Just a small gesture to someone to let them know how much you care for them. It doesn’t have to be flowers or presents, it doesn’t have to be dinner. A simple touch of the hand or a knowing smile, it doesn’t have to be anything big. It just has to be.
Just a few weeks ago, my cousin called me one evening and mentioned to me that his parents were downsizing their possessions a bit. His father had given him a coat and he thought it might be nice if I had it. He told me it was one that my mother had knitted for his Dad, my mother’s younger brother. He said it was in great shape for a 50 year old wool garment. He just thought maybe I would like. At first glance, just a small gesture from a thoughtful cousin.
Over the years, my wife and I have been given things from my father that belonged to my mother who passed away in 1961. We have some furnishings from their first home, some wedding presents and even a silver trophy awarded to my Mom from high school for winning the Junior Broad jump and the Junior 75 yards race in 1933. But nothing really tangible, nothing that was quite literally from my mothers heart and soul. When Stephen brought the jacket over and I felt the weight of it, it really hit me that this was something that she had worked on, spending hours knitting away. The more I thought about it, the more meaning this has had for me.
A few days later my sister dropped by to visit and I showed her the jacket and she told me that the pattern was a Mary Maxim design and made with Mary Maxim wool. Apparently, this lady was the Martha Stewart of the 50's. Sell the lifestyle, sell the design and the accompanying product. It was the design my mother always used. She always used 100% pure wool (hence the weight of the thing).
Over the past few days as I weighed this jacket in my hands and looked at the continuous ridges in the wool. I saw the flowing change of colors in the wool, which line by line eventually became a recognizable design. I can only imagine the hours of planning and detailing that would occur to knit something like this. The occasional mistake can be seen, a missed loop, but that only adds to the reality of it. Looking closely at it, this jacket, even though the implications to me are immense, it is simply made up of a few simple movements of knitting needles. The love and effort put into knitting this and the anticipation I am sure my mother felt when my uncle first slipped the jacket over his shoulders, brought real joy to my mother. I am sure many people who, in any way, creates something for someone they love have felt this rush of euphoria. It was then that I realized the irony of what I held in my hands. How could she ever have known, that so many years after she left, I would be the recipient of her hours of love. Just simple movements of knitting needles that becomes something more. Kind of like a series of simple gestures.
I am certainly not suggesting that everyone go out and do something nice. That in itself would be too forced and too phony, too much like a random act of kindness and a little too Hollywood for my taste (coming from a screen-writer that says a lot). Sometimes, the best of all gestures are when you are really unaware that you are doing something nice for someone. Maybe, in fact, you don’t even know you have brightened someone’s day. It could be holding a door open for someone, or smiling, just because you feel like smiling. Just a small gesture to someone to let them know how much you care for them. It doesn’t have to be flowers or presents, it doesn’t have to be dinner. A simple touch of the hand or a knowing smile, it doesn’t have to be anything big. It just has to be.
Just a few weeks ago, my cousin called me one evening and mentioned to me that his parents were downsizing their possessions a bit. His father had given him a coat and he thought it might be nice if I had it. He told me it was one that my mother had knitted for his Dad, my mother’s younger brother. He said it was in great shape for a 50 year old wool garment. He just thought maybe I would like. At first glance, just a small gesture from a thoughtful cousin.
Over the years, my wife and I have been given things from my father that belonged to my mother who passed away in 1961. We have some furnishings from their first home, some wedding presents and even a silver trophy awarded to my Mom from high school for winning the Junior Broad jump and the Junior 75 yards race in 1933. But nothing really tangible, nothing that was quite literally from my mothers heart and soul. When Stephen brought the jacket over and I felt the weight of it, it really hit me that this was something that she had worked on, spending hours knitting away. The more I thought about it, the more meaning this has had for me.
A few days later my sister dropped by to visit and I showed her the jacket and she told me that the pattern was a Mary Maxim design and made with Mary Maxim wool. Apparently, this lady was the Martha Stewart of the 50's. Sell the lifestyle, sell the design and the accompanying product. It was the design my mother always used. She always used 100% pure wool (hence the weight of the thing).
Over the past few days as I weighed this jacket in my hands and looked at the continuous ridges in the wool. I saw the flowing change of colors in the wool, which line by line eventually became a recognizable design. I can only imagine the hours of planning and detailing that would occur to knit something like this. The occasional mistake can be seen, a missed loop, but that only adds to the reality of it. Looking closely at it, this jacket, even though the implications to me are immense, it is simply made up of a few simple movements of knitting needles. The love and effort put into knitting this and the anticipation I am sure my mother felt when my uncle first slipped the jacket over his shoulders, brought real joy to my mother. I am sure many people who, in any way, creates something for someone they love have felt this rush of euphoria. It was then that I realized the irony of what I held in my hands. How could she ever have known, that so many years after she left, I would be the recipient of her hours of love. Just simple movements of knitting needles that becomes something more. Kind of like a series of simple gestures.
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