Traditional Traditions

It is interesting how traditions get born within families. They are not really something that can be forced. It is more that as a group you do something and as time passes on, it just becomes part of what you do. Our family made it a habit to sit down for dinner every night with some background music on. Nothing seemed quite complete unless all five of us were around the table, eating and rehashing the day while listening to some music playing. It has gotten to the point that I don’t think my son can eat a meal without humming. I am sure this is something his new wife is trying to embrace in a way that only new wives can.

One of the more recent traditions that my family has adopted was really only over the last few years, but has since become a required venture every Christmas Eve. After our sumptuous dinner of Prime Rib and Yorkshire Pudding (okay, two traditions on Christmas Eve), we all bundle up and drive down to City Park and take a walk through the iridescent, twinkling lights that decorate all the trees. It is quite magical, especially when the snow is falling. Seeing an undisturbed expanse of freshly fallen snow on the ground invariably causes one of the girls to flop on her back and make snow angels. There is nothing that makes hot chocolate more comforting than having a steaming mug full after a long walk on a cold, crisp December night.
Traditions do not always just occur during winter holidays. One of my earliest recollections of a family tradition was when we drove out to our cottage at Grippen Lake in the late 1950’s , just outside Lyndhurst about 30 km from Kingston. We would all pile into the family car and begin our trek to the cottage to start the summer season at the cottage. Just when we turned off Highway #15 onto Lyndhurst Road, there was a slight rise in the road and off to the right, if you strained your head high enough, you could see the shimmering reflections of the lake in the distance. The anticipation in the car was palpable, as the car edged forward, all eyes, I mean ALL eyes were skewed off the road trying to be the first one to see the lake. There was always a critical moment, just as the car reached the crest of the road that the lake became visible and then the anticipated explosion of someone yelling at the top of their lungs, “First one to see Grippen Lake”! I don’t know if my brothers and sisters still carry that echo in their heads as they drive out there, but I know I do. Even when driving alone I seem to race myself into being the first to see the lake. It shouldn’t come as any surprise that this was passed on to my kids. Although after the passage of 50 years of tree growth, it is getting harder and harder to make the lake out.

Sometimes though, such a tradition can cause some consternation. My brother once told me of a time back in the late ‘60’s he and his friends were driving to the Lake in his old Vauxhall with guys crammed in the front and guys crammed in the back. In this case, all of the passengers in the car knew of this tradition, but one. My brother in his youthful spirit, braked heavily just before the rise of the hill, flung open the door and started to sprint down the road to be the first to see the lake. He was quickly followed by the other young men who understood what he was doing and were equally eager to be the first. Soon all of them had abandoned the car and were running madly up the road, except for that one. In what can only be described as a moment of absolute fear and panic, this last passenger quickly surmised that the car was about to explode, hence the panicked run from the car by his friends. He bolted from the backseat and leapt into the water filled ditch beside the road to escape what was surely a fiery explosion. His act has lived on in infamy.

Holidays, in all faiths, have certain traditions that do endure from generation to generation, but these are more societal traditions, rather than familial traditions. Traditions seem to bind people together, rather like a mental holding of hands, the repetition and knowledge that doing something with the rest of your family or friends is one of those satisfying moments in your life. You can feel the warm hand of comfort surround you and support you. You just know, even if you are alone and living or working somewhere far away from your loved ones, that they are doing the same thing, thinking the same thoughts as you at the same time. Whether this is finding comfort in chewing food in rhythm with Paul McCartney, straining your eyeballs for some far off body of water or flopping onto your back in an untouched blanket of snow. Upholding traditions can and do bring people together to help remember what is most true in the world today. With all the pressures and tension that our global community throws at us each and every day, it is nice to fall back on those simple traditions that helped shape who we are.

Let Me Roll It

I had just settled back on to my comfy chair to watch the rest of a Formula One car race when a heard a voice reverberate through the hall, “Who put the toilet paper roll in backwards?” I sat for a moment churning this question through my mind, going through the various machinations of how it was even possible to put a roll of toilet paper in backwards. I didn’t have to wait long as my daughters head popped into the TV room and said, “Was it you?” I stopped with mouth half open and a fistful of greasy potato chips in my hand and looked over at her. To be honest, I have never really been confronted with this sort of accusation before and I stammered a bit before I did admit that it possibly, maybe, could have been, might have been me. I thought I was doing a grand gesture to even remember to put a new roll of toilet paper in the holder in the first place. How mistaken I was. She fixed me with a look that was a combination of exasperation and pity; of all the things she could have inherited from her mother, it would have to have been that look. “Dad, the toilet paper has to come over the top of the roll and hang down.” My only response to this was, “Really?” followed quickly by, “People worry about this sort of thing?” She told me that this was the way they do things at all the four star hotels. I thought about all the hotels that she has stayed at over the years and said,” I don’t think the Super 8 out by Pearson really qualifies as a four star hotel.” I then discovered that she had also inherited that other look that her mother gives me; the one that scares me. “Dad! Don’t you know anything?” Well, anyone who knows me, knows I know a lot of stuff. However, it is stuff that isn’t particularly important or necessary to get you through life. I can blather on and on about a variety of little known facts, but I had never in all my experience or reading ever, ever heard of a proper way to hang a toilet paper roll. In fact, I think I am one of the few who knows and practices the somewhat European etiquette of turning the tines of your fork down when you have finished your meal to signify that you are finished and do not want another serving. So hitting me with this new toilet paper formality was a bit of an eye opener.

But I really shouldn’t have been too shocked at this. The path to the toilet roll standard had been set a few months ago when I was informed that the new policy in the household was not to have folded towels, but instead they needed to be rolled and placed in a basket in the bathroom. This poor old dog was getting exposed to a snoutful of new tricks. It has taken me over half my life just to finally fold towels and put them in a closet in the first place... what next, I thought, roll my dress shirts? Separate my laundry? I did innocently ask what we were supposed to do with the towel racks now that they weren’t used to hold towels. I was told that I could do a physically impossible thing with them. Showing the wisdom acquired over years of self preservation, I declined to follow up on that line of questioning.

I finally ask my daughter what brought on all these changes. I laughingly told myself that they must have done an etiquette episode on “The Simpsons” as that seemed to be the educational stream of choice for my kids. Their knowledge of my music, history and pop culture have been learned through these yellow skinned people so it wouldn’t have surprise me if they somehow made Bart into some sort of cartooned Emily Post, that doyen of manners and etiquette. Well, it turned out it was a TV show, but not the Simpsons. Apparently, there are scores of people now on television that are redefining the conventions that we have all lived with, upsetting the applecart along the way and making life for old dogs very confusing. It is almost that they endeavor to change things just for the sake of changing things. But I guess they are no different than most television networks. Some chase news, some chase headlines and some chase style.

I don’t mind change, I embrace it at times. Even with all of these changes, I was coping with everything, not really noticing these slight alterations, well, until the toilet roll confrontation. But from all that I know of the growth of any civilization, the path to the betterment of society on the whole, is through change.

However, I am lost when it comes to how we can advance our society by having a correct way to hang toilet paper. Unless, of course some tyrant from a third world nation reaches for his toilet paper and finds it hanging underneath the roll and as a result decides to invade a country. Now, that would be news… and a reason to correctly hang toilet paper.

Look! Up in the sky! It's Supertaster!

When I was a child, I always had a rather up and down relationship with food, a kind of uneasy truce. I was what adults liked to distainingly call a “picky” eater. Not that I out and out rejected food on my plate as being just weird looking (although there were some food stuffs that definitely fell into that category), I was just acutely aware that I would get pretty sick to my stomach if I ate certain foods. Nowadays this is referred to as Hyper Sensitive Tastebud Syndrome, the possessors of this syndrome called Supertasters. It is probably the only group of individuals with the prefix super that I will ever be a member of. I know of several occasions I defied Newton’s Third Law of Physics where there is an equal and opposite reaction to an exerted force. I could put one piece of broccoli in my mouth and spew over three quarts of “unequal opposite reaction” back out.. It was definitely Linda Blair quantities. Still, food was more often than not, ordered from my plate to my mouth and then I involuntarily and inevitably delivered it back to my plate, the hallway and bathroom floor and point in between as I ran with hands plastered over my mouth. This always seemed to take people by surprise. It wasn’t that I didn’t particularly dislike the taste of whatever food it was, it was just once the flap of flesh at the back of my throat started the Sammy Davis Junior tap dance on the roof of my mouth, it was a foregone conclusion that whatever went down was going to come right back up and out.

Over the years my attitude towards food changed. I am not sure if this empowerment of having a choice in what I ate, when I ate or even, if I ate. During my teens I often compared eating to an addictive drug. My rather flawed logic was you could die of an overdose of food, you suffered from withdrawal pains and you had massive cravings that only using food could ease. I would often trot this out when people told me I ate like a bird. Considering my past experience of regurgitation, they weren’t far off. However, as I got older I started to appreciate not only eating food, I should add that I did eventually get over the throwing up part, but also cooking has become one of my favourite things to do. As any cook will tell you, there is nothing more gratifying than having people enjoy what you have made.

Cooking is like any other pastime, the more you do it the more you find that you never seem to have enough tools to complete the job properly. I find this is true whether you are building a house or making a cake. On top of that, throw in enticements from any number of cooking shows on the Food Network where you’ll see an array of seemingly indispensable tools that every cook should have. Having the right tools just makes things easier, the secret is when to know you have enough of them. Unlike most guy’s, my attraction to gadgets didn’t stop with electronic stores or golf stores. Cooking stores have become one of my favourite haunts. I can browse the shelves for hours, first off trying to figure out exactly what the tool is for and then whether or not I would have any use for it. I am sure there are just a handful of things that are really needed, but that never stopped me before. I should show you my electronics drawer sometime. My wife is a bit more pragmatic about things. When in the height of strawberry season I thought we should buy a strawberry huller to take the cap off the strawberries she just looked at me, held up her hand and pinched her forefinger together with her thumb. My defending reason that the huller was shiny carried very little weight. I won’t go into her responses for (in no particular order) a pickle container (okay, she said “What? A jar?”), the difference between a vegetable scrubber, a potato scrubber and a mushroom scrubber, pizza scissors or an avocado slicer.

It was during one of these trips to a local store that when I looked down the row upon row of gadgets that included among other things, an individual slicer for every vegetable and fruit on the planet, planers, mandolin’s and graters of every size and configuration, pot holders, spoon holders, hard butter holders, soft butter holders, plastic banana, apple and orange holders (I am still waiting for individual ones for grapes) that it occurred to me that I would need a pantry the size of the master bedroom to hold every utensil that there is available. Although this was certainly an entertaining thought, the idea of determining which of the slicers is for which fruit or vegetable would probably send me into a spasm of indecision. Then there would be whether or not I would be violating some code of cooking ethics if I used an egg slicer to slice a small tomato. But I guess until I have one of those Food Network kitchens the size of a stadium and a budget to match, I will do with what I have available. If it was up to my wife, a utensil drawer would probably consist of a sharp knife or two. But fortunately for me, as long as I keep my strange little utensils out of her way and continue serving up some delicious morsels, she is quite happy to let me indulge in my collecting habit, however useless they may be.

It's not polite to stare, but sometimes....

There are many times when your eyes lock onto something or someone and for all the power in the world you just can’t tear your eyes away. I know it is not polite to stare. I was taught that when I was a kid and pretty much adhere to what I was taught as a kid, but sometimes you just can’t help it. I seem to get so curious about things that I find myself not only staring, but then analyzing what I have just witnessed.

You can sometimes see this with rubber neckers on the highway when an accident has occurred and try as you may, you find your own eyes, almost on their on volition locking onto the scene as well. Of course, this behaviour isn’t reserved solely for the highway, there are many instances where you know you shouldn’t stare, but again, try as you may, your eyes zoom in for a second confirming look. This also happens when it comes to fashion sense. I don’t get in trouble too much anymore, now that I have the troika of fashion police living at home with me. I have had my alertness honed to the point that all I need is one quick glance cast in my general direction that will send me scurrying back in my room to change the offending outfit.

I know it is beyond me to reproach people about fashion and the manner of their dress. When I was younger, if I had a function to go to, the extent of my fashion sensibility was to make sure that I wore the cleanest jeans that I could find on the floor. These were hopefully the ones without 6 months of cigarette ash rubbed into the thigh. If it was a really formal affair I would have at least put a pile of books on those jeans to put a nice crease down the front of the leg. Nothing but the best was my motto. But I was at one of those big box stores the other day and I found myself in wonder as I watched people drifting by in what appeared to be their pajamas. I looked for any signs proclaiming, “Pajama Bargain Days” or something, but there were none. I would have stood there forever with my jaw hanging down if it were not for a quick jab to the ribs from my wife and an admonishment not to stare.

Closer to home, we were eating supper the other night, just the four of us at the table now that my son is engaged and living away from home. We were having a late summer meal of corn-on-the-cob, nothing offside about that. I was just tucking into my cob when I looked around the table and saw my wife and youngest daughter nibbling away on their cobs after applying the required amount of butter, salt and pepper. Each of them proceeding down the length of the cob with their teeth moving in a rhythmic workmanlike fashion. But something struck me odd about our eldest daughter as she ate her cob. That was when I was locked into a stare. Something was not quite right in what I was staring at, but nothing seemed to register on me what it was. I felt like a character in a Stephen King novel. You know the character I am talking about. He is always the one who is staring at something intently just before the head explodes and a creature comes charging out of the blood spurting neck. I didn’t really expect that to happen, but I was preparing myself nonetheless. Then it struck me what was wrong. She was eating the corn off the cob in an entirely unacceptable manner. She wasn’t eating down the row of corn, she was eating around the cob, over the top. She stopped in mid bite when she sensed I was staring at her. “What?” She asked inquisitively. ”Do I have something on my chin?”. “Why are you eating your corn that way?” I didn’t try and sound too accusatory, then I illustrated what I meant. She just shrugged her shoulder and said, “I don’t know, I just like to eat it that way”. “But that’s not the way to eat corn on the cob. We all know that. Didn’t you ever see the old cartoon where they eat the corn like it was a typewriter and it dinged at the end and then they started on the next line? That is the proper way to eat corn-on-the-cob”. She fixed me in a stare that my daughter always uses when she puts me in my place. “First of all, what’s a typewriter?” She always knows how to hit deep. “Secondly, if it happened in a cartoon before the Simpson’s it doesn’t count and finally, I didn’t know there were rules about eating corn. I thought it was more a matter of nutrition than it was in following a set of arbitrary rules as set down by some fictional animated rendering that came from an age where grown up people thought the height of hilarity was watching a duck with a speech impediment dressed up in clothes and talking like a human.” It was at that point I realized we shouldn’t have sent her off to university to develop her critical thinking after all.

I did eventually tear my eyes away, even before I got a jab in the ribs from my wife, but I did punctuate my point. At the end of every row on my corn-on-the-cob I dinged and started on the next row down. Let her stare for a bit.

A Quintessential What?

What would it take to be considered a quintessential Kingstonian? The only benchmark that I have ever heard of is how many generations of ancestor’s you have buried in Cataraqui Cemetery. That in itself is kind of limiting if you consider what the population of Kingston was 5 or 6 generations ago. According to the research carried out at the storied Institute of Higher Lernin’, located in my basement, a generation can be defined as anything ranging from 25 years to 40 years, whereas most genealogists now reckon the length to be around 35 years. That would make the population of Kingston about 3,500 people in the 1830's or if you exclude the Irish, the English and the drunks, just about two people. Consider also the death and pestilence of that era, and the lure of the big cities up and down the river, it certainly doesn’t lead to THAT many people who could leave their footprints behind allowing future generations to call themselves true Kingstonian’s. Another deciding factor could be if your family bears a street name, that would certainly identify you, unless of course your street has come onto hard times and it is now located in a particularly scuzzy part of town that you really don’t want to be identified with it. I won’t name any streets for fear of alienating some people (ever vigilant of political correctness around here) or group of people . Even an historical street name doesn’t seem to be sacred anymore, in these times of budgetary constraints, things have a tendency to go up for sale in the city. Given this atmosphere, even your street name might not last another few years. In my view, having your family’s bones buried up on the hill could be paralleled to what New Yorkers called the “Café Society” in the 1950's. These were prominent families in New York’s high society, some of whom had ancestors that landed at Plymouth Rock. However, their bank accounts were depleted long before their heritage ever would be and they continued to dine out on their name alone. In the case of this hometown, just because there is a weathered headstone over in the cemetery, certainly doesn’t make you that much more of a Kingstonian than anyone else. Although counting corpses in a cemetery is well, a kind of Kingstonian thing to do.

Just down the road in Gananoque, they have a much more succinct way of describing their own. It is said that unless you were born on your Grandmother’s kitchen table, you are not a Gananaquian. No quibbling over generations there, just kind of a dinner-ending thought to your kids meal if they happen to be dining at your Granny’s table one evening. Pierre Burton famously got into the act of defining what is Canadian by saying that only a true Canadian knows how to make love in a canoe. I think of the millions of words he had written over his life span and these are the ones that most Canadians are familiar with. Hell, when it comes to canoes, I can barely carry one, let alone make love in one. With my luck, I would be complimented on my technique when I was truly only trying to keep my balance. I get downright Homer Simpsonish when it comes to canoes. “Oooo. Both ends are pointy. Which end goes first?” Molson’s got in on the act as well with their, “I Am Canadian” television commercial first aired in 2000. Although, “Joe” mostly defined what he was not, he certainly got the message across. More recently the Ferguson Brothers, Ian and Doug produced an hysterical book entitled “ How to Be A Canadian”. I sometimes think this should be required reading for many of our citizens and newcomers alike.

I have gotten away from the root question, though. What makes a quintessential Kingstonian? I certainly feel I am a Kingstonian. I, along with my numerous brothers and sisters were born and raised here even though my family are relative newcomers on the block when it comes to Cataraqui Cemetery. However, in light of this argument I must note that, I do not plan on moving in there at any time soon just so that my kids can gain another generation in the place. I guess I could list some of the esoteric qualities that we, as Kingstonian’s all like to exude, our love of the water being one of them, or I could mention some of the negatives qualities, that maybe we are as a community, tied to the past with no vision of the future. I don’t know how many times I have read in the media that people from outside Kingston repeatedly and reportedly have said, “Nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there”. This is very similar to my feelings about Cataraqui Cemetery.

Well, maybe that is what makes a quintessential Kingstonian. Maybe it is our doggedness to stay here in light of our city’s squandered growth opportunities, or our desire to maybe hold on tightly to our past while others seemingly throw it away for the shiny and new. Our willingness to forsake success for comfort, to disregard the unknown for the known. Even our willingness to look at prisons for their architectural value and not reflect on their criminal contributions to our town might qualify us. I am certainly not an expert on who should or should not be considered a Kingstonian, personally I think it what resides in the heart and not what resides in a particular cemetery that should qualify you. We have often been accused of being a bit cliquish and elitist and in many ways we are. How can we not be? It is not our fault that we see life as the big picture and not count on the immediate and sometimes temporary results that many of our other Canadian cities demand. Maybe we just live on tried and true. How is that for being an elitist?

Numbers, Numbers, Numbers

Numbers have always held a special fascination with me. I am not sure why I was blessed/cursed with this. Even before proper schooling the pattern and rhythm of numbers often came to the forefront of my thoughts; albeit, it was not always in the ways my father would have enjoyed. When I was a child, preschool if I remember, I took an orange crayon and wrote on virtually every conceivable surface of our house the numerical sequence, 7 x 7 = 77. Not mathematically correct, mind you, but it had a certain symmetry both in a physical sense and in a rhyming sense. It was shortly after this that my father started using addition/multiplication flash cards with me to help develop my skills. Maybe he saw a twinkling of an innate mathematical ability or maybe he was just worried that I would continue along the path of mathematical mayhem of using graphic symmetry to reach a scientific conclusion instead of using empirical data.

As a student, I was never at the top of my class, it just wasn’t one of those goals I strived for. I always did well enough, but certainly not up to the standards that I was always told I could achieve scholastically. When confronted with those pesky IQ tests, on the whole they didn’t make a lot of sense to me, but it was also an opportunity for those patterns and rhythms of numbers to help me out. Nestled in those questions of “what number follows in this sequence” or “which set does not belong”, I was always able to easily see what was next or out of place. Not that it helped me out a lot, it just gave those people who said I just needed to work harder to achieve the goals they set for me. Now, after a reading Malcolm Gladwell’s book “Outliers”, I can now attribute my middling success at school to my birthdate. Being an October baby I was brought into the educational system almost a full year before my fellow students. To put it bluntly, my brain just wasn’t up to snuff when I started school.

The other day I started to think about the days of the year that bear significance to people. You might question first of all why in the world would I even think of writing an article about the number of important days in a life. Well, it does reflect back on my affinity for numbers, but more importantly it was the birth of our great niece on March 8. I started to think that perhaps a year ago to Alicia and Joey (the parents), March 8 was just another day in the year. One that would roll on by without a second thought. But now, just a year later it is one of the most important days in their lives. A day they will chronicle and remember until their last breath. I have always enjoyed bringing a little morbidity to joyous occasions.

As an infant, days really had no meaning to me, in fact the singularly most important day of my life, my birthday didn't even register until it was programmed into me. My world was happy just to be filled with a dry diaper and a wet breast. Days had no bearing unless there was an opportunity to wake somebody up when I wanted attention. This began to slowly change. Like most children, as I grew older there were only a few days in the year that meant anything to me at all. Those in particular were my birthday and Christmas, soon thereafter Hallowe’en was added to the mix. All the rest of days just sort of circulated around the Big Three, my own personal Holy Trinity. I eagerly anticipated each one with the next one quickly focused on no matter how far advanced it was.

But as I started to grow older, I started to collect days that became part of what formed me. Easter soon loomed, not for the religious aspect as most people would like to believe. No, it was for candy. Then as I got in school, Valentine’s Day and all the cinnamon hearts. So you see, gifts and candy really earmarked my important days. As I became less self-centred (the snickering you just heard was my wife), I began to celebrate other members of my family with their birthday. I was never that comfortable about giving at that point, but I did recognize their own days. By this point I now had 10 days dedicated out of 365. Then Labour Day became a touchstone for it signaled the end of summer and the slogging back to the books. New Years for the parties and the dawning of another year. Thanksgiving for family time and so on and so on, they keep piling on as years go by.

As we all progress through life, important dates are added to our calendar like charms on a bracelet or links on a ball and chain, it depends on your particular slant on life. Birth dates, weddings, funerals, holidays, anniversaries, death dates and monumental historical dates keep adding up. Sometimes they are significant, sometimes not as much so. In my own personal inventory, “International Talk Like A Pirate Day” (September 19) and the “Star Wars Day” (May 4; May the fourth be with you) hold almost an equal stature to that of the definitely in need of a new name, Civic Holiday. I did a quick calculation and came up with about 48 dates in the yearly calendar that hold some significance to me and I am not really that old yet. Well, old in the big scheme of things. The great irony is that as you get older and all these dates are collected and begin to seriously accumulate, in all likelihood your memory is fading and you start to forget them. This takes us back full circle to only one date that is important to you and that is a date you will never remember. The day you die. Isn’t that pleasant.

Parental Timeout? Nawwww.

It is not very often I lose control over my emotions. I have always tended to be a fairly level headed individual, not given to extremes in either way. But a little while ago I was driving along in my car, just listening to some talk radio on CBC-FM when an interview not only got my attention, it caused me to grip the wheel and start yelling at my radio and in the process spraying the interior of my car with both invectives and spittle. I am quite surprised that the people at Queen’s Park haven’t legislated against talk radio as a distraction to drivers. I mean, I have had a car phone (since the days they were referred to by that name) since the late 1980's and in all those conversations, both pleasant and angry, I haven’t been distracted to the point that I caused a car accident. However, I do have to admit that I have nearly rear-ended someone after committing a Linda Blair. More than once I have twisted my neck through an unnatural arc trying to catch the swaying motions of a woman who sauntered down the street in a dangerously short skirt. Personally, legislating against attractive people walking on the street would probably do more to keeping eyes on the road than banning cell phone conversations.

The interview I was listening to was with a woman who was advocating against yelling at your children. Kind of ironic that such a topic could make me scream, huh? She thought that yelling at your children would cause them untold levels psychological trauma. She acknowledged that parents can and do become angry at children for not doing what they are told. Her solution to avoid the inevitably escalating argument was for the parents to take a time out. Really. I ain’t lyin’, she said this. Thinking back to when my children were young, it seemed to me that they made it a sport to see which parent would explode first. Maybe in this woman’s world, the sun rises in the west, animals talk to her in the morning and birds help her dress, but in my gritty reality, raised voices were not just to make a point but it was a matter of survival of the loudest. It was a challenge to even be heard over the din of three young children. She suggested a situation that if you are running late and the kids just won’t get dressed for school that you say to the children... in a soft reassuring voice, “I am going to go into the next room for a time out and in that time, if you can think of a way to help me get you ready for school, I would really appreciate it.” Then, I suppose magically, after a parental time out, she would return and the children would all be lined up at the door, in declining order of height, hair combed and lunch bags firmly in hand with self-satisfied smiles plastered on their cute little faces; a Von Trapp moment. In my world the script would read more like, ”John, I know you are focused on the world of science and in your quest for the betterment of society on the whole. I am also proud that you are pursuing the goals and dreams of an inquisitive 5 year old mind, but I am going into the next room for a time out and in that time if you could possibly rethink the idea of encouraging your baby sister to put that dinner fork in the electrical outlet. Your mother, the entire staff at the Emergency Ward and I would greatly appreciate it.”

Not that yelling is inherently a good thing, but, in my opinion, it is far from being the traumatizing incident that some people may think. Marjorie Gunnoe, a psychologist at Calvin College in Michigan states that, “When afraid, children learn poorly. Fear is a very bad teacher.” Sorry Marj, I beg to differ. Fear is a very good teacher. Specifically, it is how we learn not to do dumb things... again. She says that time outs or a firm, ”No” are better than yelling. But isn’t a firm “No” on the border of yelling? I am sure that if you look closely enough in the Bible, the Lord or somebody else spake in a booming voice to the rabble that always seemed to gather around mountains and such.

France has introduced a law making it a criminal act to yell at your spouse, citing the psychological violence it inflicts. I will agree that in some cases, words can be a fearful weapon and can have an horrendous effect on someone. But there is a difference between yelling and verbal abuse. The idea that you can be convicted of a criminal act for yelling at your spouse for not putting the cap on the Crest is a bit much. France, that beacon of rational thought in the 18th century, a pillar of republican ideals and causes for hundreds of years has wholeheartedly embraced the political correct craziness of the 21st century. However, I do have the feeling, that this law must have been enacted by men. It has been my experience that a woman’s retort by far is much more rapier-like than a man’s standard response of, “Oh yeah?”

So what it really comes down to is this; in a perfect world, just like in a perfect economy, some people think that the way things should progress, is the way they will progress. The real world is far removed from that way of thinking. Yelling may not be the best tool we have to raise our kids or interact with our spouses, but raising your voice in frustration or in trying to make a point is as much a part of life as talking. In all my years of sports, from the gentlemen-like nature of cricket where we all wore white ducks, to the rough, tough and bloody scrum of rugby, yelling was part of the game. Even at the best jobs in the world, someone at some point is going to start yelling at you for whatever reason. Be it the coffee is too hot, or if you looked at someone the wrong way or if someone’s animals didn’t talk to them that morning, you can count on the fact someone will take it out on you. If you are not equipped to handle someone yelling at you and you never experienced such action when you were a child, how will you ever deal with it as an adult? Maybe as was suggested, you could propose to your coach or boss, that if they could take a time out in the other room before they raise their voices, things might work out for the better. But something tells me not to hold my breath over that one.

The Transmigration of Tom Cruise and Other Scarey Thoughts

There are some who argue that as a child we are born tabula rasa, that is a blank slate without any influence of genetics or any other influences bred into us. There are others who believe that we are born preconditioned with lessons and experiences imprinted on us. Nature versus nurture. I am not sure where I lie in this argument, some people feel that they have some sort of past life that has been encoded into them, while others feel that there was nothing before them and all that shaped them were present day living. There are certainly arguments floating around on both sides of the issue, but really only one entity knows for sure and apparently He or She isn’t sharing that with us at this point.

There are the discussions of Plato who argued that there are a fixed amount of souls. According to the writings of Aristotle, the soul is not what makes a body move. Even before that step, a soul must first take what biological entities we are made up of, all those different chemicals and water and turns that into a body. A corpse is not a body and as such a body is not a corpse, contrary to all those police procedural dramas on TV. The soul is what makes it exist as a living body. Unlike the body, which has being only through the soul, the soul itself is a principle of being, and therefore, once created, cannot not be. In other words, the soul is incorruptible, and never ceases to be what it already is. And the circular notion of that argument is supplanted only by the poison scene in Princess Bride.

The Greeks jumped in with their idea of Metempsychosis (μετεμψύχωσις, for those of you who crave detail) which is a philosophical term again referring to transmigration of the soul. Scientology believes that there are only a fixed number of souls, which means that Tom Cruise has really existed for eternity and it certainly felt that way if you ever had to sit through Mission Impossible 3. The Taoist also have similar thoughts and ironically this belief gave me the central arc of my comedic screenplay, “If This is Heaven...”, where the fixed number of souls has created a way-station in paradise before allowing the soul to move on. Nietzsche has weighed in on this as well, but I think I have bandied about enough names and beliefs for now, I can sense your eyes, as mine, are glazing over.

Suffice to say, this is a time honoured and an ongoing debate and the only time the answer becomes apparent is when you die and then I figure you have to sign an Oath of Secrecy to never reveal this information to mere mortals. Well, unless you are Tom Cruise and then apparently the rules of the universe are thrown out the window, metaphorically speaking.

So what is the point of this article you may well ask? I was asking the exact same question about three paragraphs ago. You have to remember that my education was rooted firmly in economics and all of this philosophical stuff sounds like, well, greek to me. But I am sure many people say the same thing about economic theory (What you say? There is such a thing as economic theory?).

As mentioned, I am not sure where I fall in all this, but there are some very odd memories that have been with me for many years. Uncomfortable moments that for some reason cause the hair on the back of my neck to rise. One of the most vivid and dread inducing things I can see is a shipwreck of any kind. I do not know why it is, but if I see a lake freighter aground or even a pleasure boat upside down my breath gets short and I have a strong desire to emulate the figure in the Edvard Munch painting, The Scream. This is not a good thing for a guy who scuba dives. Acute anxiety does not play well a few atmospheres below the water. Encountering an underwater wreck? It feels the way I would image someone walking all over my grave. To quote David Letterman, there is just something hinky about the whole damn thing.

The other is the American Civil War. I remember collecting bubble gum cards in the early 1960's that had such a graphic depiction of the war that I am surprised they were even sold. Try to do that nowadays and you would be buried under a sea of sociologists, psychologists and every concerned parent for the normal development of a child breathing down your neck. But in my generation, they were just pictures a of a very, very bloody war, probably a good lesson to pass on. But I always felt somehow I was part of it. Which side has never really manifested itself, whether Union or Rebel, I don’t know. I just have this feeling I was in it somewhere and probably died in it somewhere.

I doubt I am the only one who has had this type of feeling, that somehow you have experienced something that was foreign to you but at the same time feels somewhat familiar. Maybe it awakened some long buried thought causing an avalanche of unexperienced memories to flow forth. Whether these are false memories as some claim or really are imprints from another soul, again we won’t ever know for sure and that kind of adds to the romance of the thing.

I found a paperback many years ago (Decisive Battles of the Civil War by Lt. Col. Joseph Mitchell) that listed all the Civil War sites and overlapped them with modern day maps and highways. I have a fascination with taking that trip someday to see if anything twigs. I wouldn’t quite say it was a compulsion, that brings up images of Richard Dreyfus in Close Encounters with the Third Kind, kind of compulsion. But I would like to make it an adventure sometime. However with my luck, I’ll go for a leisurely scuba dive and come across a Civil War sunken ship and from that double whammy my friends, it will spell the end of me. Well, until I park myself in some other body.. corpse... entity, well you understand.

The Seven Stages of the Dwarves

I was standing in line at the tobacco counter the other day. I had finished some grocery shopping and throughout my travels up and down the aisles I had this recurring vision of winning a lottery. Not one to tempt fate, I decided to buy a ticket. As I stood in line, I juggled the groceries around in my arms and fished some money out of my pockets for the tickets. There were only two other people in the line in front of me so I thought the ice cream I purchased should still be frozen by the time I got to the car. However, what I didn’t count on was the guy in the line in front of me being what could only be described as a lottery professional. He had a stack of tickets about the size of a deck of cards, and each one had to be scanned by the computer to verify his winnings or as it turned out his non winnings. In my estimation, and I had lots of time to do my estimating, maybe a quarter of them were winning tickets. My first thought was why didn’t he check them at home and only bring in the winners? But then I thought maybe the scanning of the tickets is all part of the entertainment for some people. Although, to give some educational credit, I now know the French for “No prize”. It was bored into my brain with the same cadence of a Gregorian chant.

By this time my arm was growing a bit numb from the ice cream and I thought that maybe splurging 5 cents on a plastic bag wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all. But I had renewed hopes as the cashier was finally done with the scanning and had totaled the man’s winning. Those hopes were dashed when the man began to buy more tickets with the grace and reverence of a wine connoisseur. I would not have been surprised at all if he had held them to his nose and sniffed them. As I said before, I had lots of time to think.

Finally, the next person ahead of me shuffled up to the counter and laid open a plastic folder on the counter. This was not a good sign. He had selections in Pro Line Sports, Pro Picks and Point Spread and was reeling off phrases that were as foreign to me as ordering a Timmies coffee is to an American. By this time my ice cream was about to start dripping onto the floor so when my opportunity eventually did come, I quickly bought my tickets and I scurried out the door, hoping not to leave a Chocolate Mocha trail behind me. It was then that I realized how quickly I went from being in an excellent mood into being grouchy.

I never really thought I would hit this stage, but I have become rather grouchy lately. Fortunately for all around me I haven’t quite made the leap to grumpy, but as it is, grouchy can be bad enough. I don’t become obnoxious to the people around me, it is more that I am grouchy to the rest of the world; politicians for one. I just don’t seem to have any patience for their rhetoric anymore. Conservatives, Liberals, NDP, Green it doesn’t matter what the political stripes are, I just don’t have time for their petty bickering of whose fault it is and whose fault it isn’t and whose fault it is that something isn’t being done quickly enough or whose fault it is that things are being done too quickly and recklessly. I am tired of hearing that our national troubles can be laid at the feet of a previous government 75 years ago, or 30 years ago or 2 years ago. If I was within earshot of a politician I would simply tell them to shut up, sit down, accept the responsibility of their action, their parties action and proceed accordingly. But that is about as likely to happen as a snake crawling back into its discarded skin. How is that for an apt metaphor?

When I was a bit younger, I didn’t really notice the fine line between grouchy and grumpy. As an illustration, grouchy to me is using the greatest invention of the world; the mute button on my remote control. I can sit and mumble to myself, but happy in the knowledge that I didn’t have to listen to that crap on the TV anymore. Grumpy would be leaving the sound on during the news and getting all worked up over those aforementioned politicians and telling everyone in the neighbourhood my rather unrelenting opinion, because the rest of the world is wrong and only I am aware of its inanity. In talking with my wife and children, this is a phase they are not necessarily looking forward to.

In our propensity to always categorize and sequentially rate life and death just as Dr. Kübler-Ross did with her stages of grief, I think in life, we will all progress through the Seven Stages of the Dwärves. I have made my way through Happy (the 1970's, not surprisingly), Bashful (for most of my youth), Sleepy (the child rearing phase), Sneezy (during that one particular summer of hay fever) and Dopey (although a case for the 1970's can be made here as well). Still to come, I’m sure, will be the Doc stage where I will be analyzing every medical symptom as they are presented in my friends and myself as we keep aging and the ever popular Grumpy to carry me down the stretch.

I think grouchy is kind of like a way station on the way to grumpy. It’s a place you have to get through before moving on. Like being in the Little Leagues. I don’t want to deride grumpy as a state of mind, or an undesirable place to be. God knows I will probably reach that stage soon enough and in all likelihood I will probably revel in my grumpiness.

Tripping to Halifax

A few years ago my wife and I had a chance to fly out to Halifax for the weekend without the kids. Just a short hop out to the coast to visit with my wife’s sister and her husband. We thought we would move with the times and bought our tickets over the internet and paid for them in the same fashion. We received an email telling us our electronic tickets would await our arrival in Ottawa. Then I sent our hosts an email relaying the flight information.

On our drive to Ottawa, I kept wondering, how real were those electronic tickets anyway? I have been exposed to computers long enough to know that a) computers do screw up and b) the front line operators usually don’t believe that a computer can screw up. I had visions of an Air Canada attendant telling me that they had a seat for a Platrick Scott but nothing for a Patrick Scott.

Fortunately, we didn’t have to confront these problems, for when we arrived in Ottawa, our electronic tickets were there. However, they were also tantalizingly out of reach, until we started in a series of new procedures before boarding the flight. First, we had to show picture identification that matched the name on the tickets. That done, we were asked if we packed the suitcase ourselves and did we know what was in it. I suppose that questions of this nature could get a little uncomfortable, seeing how we were a married couple getting away from our kids for the weekend. We just smiled and nodded. We were asked if we left the luggage unattended anywhere. I said, “In our trunk”. Humour does not work well these days. We had to “affix” (couldn’t she have said “put”?) a label on our luggage. I thought about using a funny name, but the idea of spending my weekend in a small jail cell with rough looking characters instead of my wife and the contents of our suitcase in Halifax, eliminated that idea and I quickly wrote my name and address on the label. We then proceeded (couldn’t have I just said, “went”?) to the metal detector, showed our picture ID again then I had to turn the digital camera on and off, I had to turn the cell phone on and off, then had to turn my patience on and off. Finally, I emptied my pockets and as I stepped through the detector, the alarm went off. Then I really emptied my pants pockets, my sport coat pockets and even my outer coat pockets and still the alarm went off. They finally checked me out with a handheld unit and allowed me to go on. It was only when I was putting everything away that I realized I still had my wrist watch on. The scary part was all those security people staring at me and waiting for me to do something stupid (quiet out there) didn’t notice my watch either.

We went to the ticket counter and as we stood in line for our seating assignments, we had to show our picture ID again. Then, as we walked the 6 feet to the desk to get our boarding passes, we had to show our picture ID yet again. Now, I don’t know if they had mistaken my wife and I for David Copperfield and an associate, but for the life of me I don’t know how they thought we could turn into someone else in the space of six feet. But we dutifully showed them our ID and boarded the plane.

The flight was uneventful except for the guy right behind us who saw some vapour from the air conditioning unit start pouring out of the ventilation slots. There is something unnerving about racing down a runway at a couple of hundred miles an hour with a guy right behind you mumbling softly that the plane was on fire and that we are all going to die and blow up. Which, I guess, is preferable to blowing up first and then dying. He settled down quickly though, either that or he passed out from fear.

Our stay in Halifax was wonderful. We had some delectable meals, my wife got her fill of fresh seafood and I got my fill of smelling the saltwater air wafting in over the shoreline. The flight back was like all flights back. They seem a little longer than when you were leaving. Albeit, we did have two 18 months old twins with runny nose beside us, but compared to the death-wish guy, they were a bed of roses. The other thing my wife and I vowed to do when we got back was to have ID pictures that don’t make us look like inmates from one of our area penitentiaries. Heard that joke once too many times.

An Inate Sense of Direction.... What?

A long, long time ago, light years from where I am now. Way back before kids, before I was married, a time where my now wife was still in the throes of rapture over me, yeah, talking a long time ago. In those days, when my money was spent on me and time was always available, a group of us decided to chuck the February snow and ice and fly to Jamaica for 2 weeks. After getting used to the immediate surroundings, we decided to leave the villa in our little red Mitsubishi and venture into Montego Bay for some nightlife. We really didn’t know where we were headed but fortunately for us, our friend announced that we were not to worry as he had, “an innate sense of direction”. Three hours later, we were lost in the mountains and ended up stopping for directions at what turned out to be a local house of ill-repute. To say that we stuck out would be understating the whole situation. Some one there did recognize the description of our villa and offered to lead the way back. What we didn’t know was how quickly he was going to lead us there. As we were whipped back and forth over the bench seat of our little car, it bounced over mammoth holes in the road. On more than one occasion, we barely skirted a tumble off the cliffs which were a mere few inches away from the side of the road. The whole time our friend sat seemingly calm, clutching the steering wheel and trying to keep up with the speeding vehicle in front of us. The only trace of any tension in him were his white knuckles and his toneless, constant singing, over and over again, “just another day, just another day, just another day...” I didn’t know or care what the song was, I just wanted to get to our place, grab the neck of a bottle of rum and swish this terrifying ride out of my head. Obviously, we made it back alive and upon grabbing the aforementioned bottle of rum, it was there decided that our friend with the “innate sense of direction” would no longer be allowed anywhere near the front seat of our little red car.

As everyone knows, we in Kingston put up with wet, horrible winter months just for the sheer pleasure of living here during the summer. There is always something to do and usually you can find someone to do it with. Getting friends and family to come down for a visit is as easy as asking them. So it was no surprise to us when some friends from our university days called and asked if they could sail down to Kingston for a weekend visit. Now, there is only one thing better than being in Kingston in the summer and that is being in Kingston in the summer while on a boat. We casually leaped at the offer, arranged a mutual weekend that was good for all and then anticipated their visit. We had expected them to arrive at around 2:30 in the afternoon, we had heard from them via cell phone that they were just off the western tip of Amherst Island. Hours passed and we still hadn’t heard any word of their whereabouts. I wasn’t too concerned for their safety, as I knew they had all the required gear that was needed for a boat of that size. I thought that maybe the battery in the cell phone had died. A thought went through my mind that perhaps they missed the end of Amherst and continued on down the south coast of Wolfe Island, but I shook that one off as being too hard to miss the gap between the two islands. As early evening arrived, my wife and I went home and had supper. We were not surprised to get their phone call and now only mildly surprised to find out that they did indeed miss the gap. I doubt it would surprise you that our driver in Jamaica, the one with the “innate sense of direction” is the same guy who sailed right past Kingston.

Their voices were weary, a little stressed, but excited as they told us they were at the downtown Kingston marina and we made arrangements to meet on a patio for a snack and drinks. There was a slight delay getting together, believe it or not, they got lost walking to the patio where we were waiting (they were at the Kingston Yacht Club and not Confederation Basin).

To say their trip went smoothly after they rerouted themselves from Cape Vincent back to Kingston would be a little misleading. To go through their trip event by event is a little too painful to relate. Suffice to mention, unfolding a seldom used chart of Kingston and finding that mice had made dinner of the approach to Kingston and the harbor, finding a shoal that had no visible markings, and a few unexpected jibes that would rattle most sailors nerves. Like all adventures, we got the whole report in the tiniest of details, from the moment they cast off in Brighton to the moment they sat down beside us. A perfect summer night in Kingston, great company, stories to last all evening, a couple of jugs of cold draught beer and sitting on a warm breezy patio. As the evening wrapped up we had to ask Regina if Michael’s “just another day” mantra had resurfaced during the sail down. She just smiled and said, “No, no. He has become much more colorful in his language since buying the boat”. Ah, a true skipper emerges.

Everybody Loves A Mystery

Everybody loves a mystery. I am not referring to the mysteries of life, and we all know there are many of those. The mystery I am talking about are more in the vein of who-killed-Professor-Plum-in-the-library-with-a-wrench, type of mystery. The sheer popularity of this genre over the years as demonstrated by the number of novels, movies, television shows and newspapers articles that outlined the unknown, the unanswered and the unexplained can attest to that. Kingston has had its own share of mysteries over the years. We can look back to the earliest days of the city or examine the most recent of crimes in the pages of our newspaper to try and understand the unknown. I know I have played amateur detective when looking at some of Kingston’s most famous or infamous mysteries. The popularity of the Ghost Walk of Kingston, which takes people on a walking tour of some of the more famous ghostly stories of our past shows the fascination most people have about things they do not know the answer to.

The reason I brought this up is that I was faced with a mystery of my own just a few months ago and spent many hours analyzing the events to try and get some sort of understanding of what occurred. As I mentioned, everyone loves a mystery and I am no exception.

I awoke one morning after an especially unrested, fitful sleep, even before my alarm sounded at my usual time. I skipped my morning exercise, grabbed a quick breakfast and made my way into work. Like most people, first thing in the morning is not the time of day to be at the top of my game. It usually takes a little while before my consciousness catches up with me. I got into the office, mostly by rote, just following the car ahead of me. Once there, I had turned my computer on and starting going through my morning rituals, which mostly entailed of me shaking my head a few times to clear the cobwebs. I checked my email to see if there were any pressing matters to be attended to. I took a look at the time located on the taskbar of my computer and then glanced at the watch on my wrist, a gleaming new one I bought just a few short weeks before and saw that my computer time was off. That in itself is not surprising, most people have encountered a dying battery in their computer before or a situation where the system has re-booted itself to a different day and sometime year. I simply reset the time to match my watch. I continued on like any other day until someone asked me what time it was. I told them and was quickly corrected by virtually everyone in earshot. It turned out my computer had the right time and my gleaming new watch did not. After years of always having the latest advances in many things, I have settled back into old and familiar and this is true with my watch. No longer did I want or need a watch that could tell me where I was on the earth (and believe me, there were times that I needed that information), what time it was in any of twenty four time zones or even have the ability to change a television station. All I wanted was a watch that would tell me the time of day and maybe what day of the month it was. I had opted for an old style analogue watch by a well known manufacturer. It cost me about a week’s wages, which shows one of two things, either I paid a lot for it or it is a very cheap watch. But given the circumstances that the watch had not stopped before and I didn’t do anything to make it start going again, the only certainty was that I was out twenty minutes. Twenty minutes out of my life that were for all intense and purposes, unexplained. At my age, losing any time out of my life is a matter of note. Using the astute logic and reasoning I am known for, my only conclusion was I had been abducted by aliens. That would explain the bad sleep, the bad dreams I was sure I was having and the strange markings on my body. Of course, when I expounded on my theory, I was met with blank stares (a blank look that seemed frighteningly similar to those eyes I saw in my dreams) and the usual amount of disbelief from non-believers. My wife who throughout most of my life has rallied to my side in times of confusion was for the most part.... disbelieving. I was so absolutely sure of my experience that I had now started to sleep with a half-cocked eye, so I would be fully aware of any nocturnal events. I was searching my body for those tiny pinpricks you always read about in the Enquirer. My television shows of choice no longer surrounded comedy and even “24" took a backseat to the Space Channel as I tried to compare my own meeting of the third kind to that of others. It was all encompassing at times. Was I yet another chapter in the abductions that are splashed across the pages of some of the more noteworthy publications that grace our grocery check out line? Would my experiences come out in the middle of some hypnotic trance that would be so terrifyingly real that my hair would turn white? These are the mysteries that keep me going from day-to-day.

In this particular case, the mystery was resolved in the most scientific of ways. When I was pulling a T-shirt over my head, a string of thread caught on the winding stem of my new watch and pulled it out to the first stage position, stopping the watch. By pushing it in, the watch started again. There was my missing twenty minutes. The whole basis of this abduction experience was now more of a case of tossing and turning in a fitful sleep. The strange markings on my body? On reflection they were most likely from the vinyl lawn chair in my yard. Bad dreams? Could be anything from a pizza too late at night to dredging up the memories of a horrible alien abduction movie like,”Night Skies” which I watched with my kids a while ago. So there went my personal mystery and my hopes for immortality in the legends of alien encounters. Now back to drudgery of everyday life. That is, until the next mystery grabs a hold of me.

Generation S

It seems that every generation has some symbol that represents their ideals and dreams something that crystallizes their moment in time. Be it flappers from the Roaring Twenties or the image of a daisy being placed in the barrel of a National Guards’ rifle. The whole attitude and flavour of those times can be expressed with these images. Being a child of the end of the Baby Boom, I was not really a part of the boom itself just the trickle at the end. I was not a true child of the sixties and wasn’t really a child of the seventies, I was kind of floating somewhere in between Woodstock and Disco, not quite beads and peace signs and certainly not Italian slip-ons and satin suits. All in all, a very disconcerting place to be. A sociologist has recently labeled us as the Generation Jones, which is slang word meaning an intense longing, some how that doesn’t quite ring true to me. The only intense longing I had when I was in my teens, certainly can’t be written about here.

As with most things, as you think of these generational reminders they become more and more apparent to you as you become more and more aware of them. It seemed every thing I saw connected me with a thought or twinged a memory about someone elses moment of time.

A number of years ago my wife and I were musing over this at our dinner table, just reminiscing with the kids about the events of our time. Things that I thought may even finally define our generation. We talked about the music that we listened to, the cultural impacts that occurred and the entertainment we watched as we grew older. I thought the kids would be full of questions. We told them of some of the movies that we wanted to rent for them, among them maybe 2001, A Space Odyssey, maybe a Clint Eastwood movie or two. We played some tunes for them, but yet they seemed pretty blase about the whole thing, so we asked them weren’t they interested in some of our generational icons? Our oldest child, John looked up and said, “It’s not like we don’t care, but it is a little old news, Dad.” Then as a concession to us, John said, “What do you think about this?” And as he creased his eyes into a scowl, he did a good visual impersonation of Clint and said “Go ahead, make my day.” Then he did an admirable job of singing the main musical sequence of the title song of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly with the Steph and Cat weighing in with the wa-wa’s. I looked at the girls and said, “You know about this stuff too?”, “Yeah.” They said together. “And I thought the big black thing in 2001 was way cool.” Said Stephanie. “Yeah.” Replied Catherine, “I liked the way it made people smarter”. I looked at my wife and shrugged my shoulders. “Do you know this song?” I went to the computer and clicked on Won’t Get Fooled Again by The Who. They started to sing along and even attempted the best known scream ever recorded on an album. Feeling a little frustrated, I said, “Ever hear of Grand Funk Railroad?” John looked at me and said “We're An American Band.” “Jefferson Airplane?” I asked. “White Rabbit.”

This started a flurry of questions and answers.
“Jefferson Starship?”, “We Built This City.”
“Wings?”, “Ah, they were nothing after McCartney left.”
“Planet of the Apes?”, “The Statue of Liberty.”
“Psycho?”, “The shower scene.”
Finally, I threw out, “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida!!” With an almost sinister smirk on his face John sat back and said, “In the Garden of Eden, baby.”

Defeated now, I asked, “Where did you guys learn this stuff from. It certainly wasn’t from your Mom or I.” John said, “I dunno. We just know about them”. “Where from?” I asked. In unison, they replied, “The Simpsons.” I managed to say, “The cartoon show?” “Yeah.” Catherine smiled. “It’s got all sorts of things in there about people your age. You know, Homer is about your age.” I didn’t like the direction this was taking me. “Homer is about my age.” I said with humiliation. “Yeah and he drinks beer as well, listens to the same music as you do and he has three kids, the oldest is a boy also.” Said Stephanie. “But.” I retorted, “His wife has a pile of blue hair on her head, even I know that. Look at your Mom, not a trace of blue hair, at least not for a few more years!”. My wife trained her flashing dark eyes on me, making me realize what I just said. “D’oh!” I blurted out, quite by accident. Stephanie piped up, “That may be true, Mom doesn’t have Margs’ hair, but Marg is patient, loving and understanding of her Homey as Mom is of you, even if Homer is the stupidest person on the planet”. “So what you guys are saying is that my life is that of Homer Simpson?” John smiled at me and said, “Well, if those are the cards that were dealt to you, you can either play ‘em or fold ‘em.” Giving the option, I knew I had to play them. Looking around the table I saw my cards alright. A full house, two of a kind and three wild eyed jokers. So, that is it. My life, my generation is encapsulated in not something smart and sassy, but more like dumb and brassy. Not even a cool nickname, not Generation X , not an Echo Boomer not even the Me Generation, I stand before you as a Simpson Generationer or maybe in short a Generation S.

And one last thing before I go. Boy, go get me a beer, so I can finish this article.

DB Tests: The Dumbness Quotient

The other day I ran across a list of Grade 9 math questions that was in one of the papers that I read. The writer found the questions challenging, so he threw out 4 or 5 questions for his readers to solve. Now to be fair, I do have a math background and the answers to the questions were pretty easy. I smirked and snorted as the questions were passed down the table to my wife. She laughingly grabbed the paper and started reading the questions. Her laughter gave way to titters and then to a furrowed brow. It was then that it dawned on me that she was struggling with the math and that I had stepped unhesitatingly into a looming pile of trouble. This was not smart of me at all. I tried to back track as best I could, but I knew it was game over as she raised her dark eyes toward me. “What makes you think you are so smart?” She questioned. I should have just packed my bags and said my goodbyes. There was no way out. So I made the smart move and apologized. This demonstrates the difference between intelligence and being smart. Smart is knowing when to do the right thing.

Measuring intelligence has always been a goal of scientists and sociologists as someway to establish a pecking order of organized thought processes. It gives them a concrete base to establish and give credence to whom they think are the humans with the most to offer society when it comes to thinking things out. Unfortunately, many of us tend to agree with them. We seem to equate brilliant thinking with attaining a high I.Q. score. Now, there may be some correlation between the two, whether a higher I.Q. demonstrates the ability to think outside of convention thought patterns and therefore allows the viewer to see things in a different perspective or having the ability to sift through more information and pinpoint the matters that are most significant. But that is not my point. I.Q. tests may be a wonderful way to evaluate the brain, but a terrible way to evaluate “smart”.

I was discussing this with a friend of mine and the name of Howard Gardner came up. In 1983, Gardner introduced his new theory of Multiple Intelligence’s. He stated that our usual Intelligence Quotient tests usually just rely on primarily verbal, logical/mathematical and some spatial skills. He theorized that there were many different levels of intelligence including visual/spacial, bodily/kinetic, musical, interpersonal, intrapersonal and most recently naturalist, spiritual and existential. This certainly makes sense to me as I have always thought there was a big difference between “book” smarts and “real life” smarts. So it seems to me, that in the Ying and Yang sensibilities of this world, there must therefore be an opposite to his theory, a kind of Multiple Dumbness Quotient. So, I now present my theory.

My proposed multiple levels of dumbness are;

The Uh huh Level: This is when the subject only stares at you without emotion and says, “uh huh” after everything you say to them. An example might be, “Ralph! You hair is on fire!” and Ralph replies, “Uh huh.”

The NIMBY Level: If it doesn’t exist in their own back yard, it doesn’t exist. If it can’t be touched and felt... it ain’t. This include any esoteric ideas about anything. Well, except God because they know that God is without a doubt, real.

The Sealed Path Level. Clearly is the most frustrating to most normal people. This is when even in light of the most overwhelming proof of something, the person at this level of dumbness will still fail to change their thinking. Two and two will never be four, even if you hold your fingers up to them and count really slowly.

The Disco/Kinetic Level: I am sure we all know people like this and bear the scars of their frenzied motions. No matter how out of wack with rhythm they are, in their mind they are as graceful as Astaire. This applies to not only dancing, but skating or any other physical activity that requires any sort of co-ordination.

The Death/Risk Level: Otherwise known as the How Dumb Can You Be Rule. You jump off a bridge with a rubber band around your feet. You jump off a cliff with some cloth in your hand a see how far you can fall before throwing your cloth in the air to stop you. These people have all lost the rationale of, “you risk your life, you lose your life”. Of course, something will go wrong, it always does. Death is not very picky. He will certainly select dummies as quickly as anyone else.

And last but certainly not least; The Beyond Comprehension Level of Dumbness: I was watching an A&E show about tornado's. They were interviewing people who had been through the trauma of a tornado and survived to tell the tale afterward. Most of us have heard survivors say that sound of a tornado is similar to the sound of a train rushing by. Well, one gentleman from the deep south, disputed this comparison, I’ll try to quote as best I can, “Didn’t sound like no train to me... there weren’t no woo woo’s. Just the sound of wind.”

Now excuse me for putting my neck on the line, but that is just beyond comprehension dumb.

Medival Times

A number of years ago we decided a weekend away in Toronto would be the perfect family getaway. We got a suite in heart downtown and pulled out all the stops. Dinner at fancy restaurants, shopping, swimming, with the crown jewel of the trip being an evening at Medieval Times. I am sure that most of you have at least heard of this event, but for those who haven’t, it is an evening that takes place in the 15th century Spain. We, as Lords of the Realm, eat a meal (without any utensils) and watch as our favorite knights at first perform games while atop their steads and then as the story progresses an ultimate battle of jousting and swordplay. It was jaw dropping, eye-popping, slam on your butt stunning and that was just how I reacted when the ticket teller told me how much the admission was for 5 adults. We paid what in real terms equaled our car payment for that month and made our way into one other lineup. There seemed to be lineups for everything. As we shuffled forward, we were assigned which knight we would be cheering for, ours, it turned out was the Red Knight. We all had a cape draped over us, a goofy hat placed on our heads and a picture was snapped standing beside the Queen.(felt strangely like I was graduating again). It was there when my picture was taken with the comely Queen that she turned and addressed me as, “m’lord”. I smiled over at my wife who simply wore an expression on her face that said, “Don’t get used to it”. Before I knew it, the cape whisked off and I was propelled in to the antechamber, where we encountered more lineups. It was good to see that their attention to accuracy and detail was well illustrated with 15th century Spain having draught beer. However, the kids were more thankful that 15th century Spain had Cherry Pepsi.

We were all led into the dining hall and arena area. It was quite the sight, smoke drifting over the floor and lights flashing and music blaring. As we settled in for the show we were introduced to our Serf and Wench and we were told to treat them as our slaves for the evening. I especially enjoyed booming out a, “Wench!! More ale!!” Glancing at my wife, I discovered that same don’t-get-used-to-it expression on her face. Turning to her Serf, she said somewhat sultry, “Slave, bring me my wine.” He blubbered something and ran off to grant ‘m’lady’ her wish. I tried the same look she gave me but she trumped that with a “I could get used to this” expression.

Food was dropped of at our bench as we listened to the introductions of the knights, and we were encouraged to cheer them loudly and often. Our main dish of ribs and half a chicken were presented and all of us tore into it with hands pulling and teeth gnashing. It is quite difficult to cheer on command when you have a mouthful of food. Looking at my son, he did look the part with a drumstick in one hand and a rib in the other, his face smeared with food as he cheered madly for our knight as he raced around the arena on his agile Arabian. Unfortunately, our son eats that way at any regular restaurant. I won’t go into the whole story but it was really an event an incredible night of adventure.

We had heard earlier in the day that among the seven other Medieval Times throughout North America at least one person dies as a result of the show. I just assume they are talking about the knights and not the heart attack victims at the ticket booths. The sparks really do fly as the metal meets metal, one miscalculation and you can easily see how people could get hurt. But as with everything, the evening had to end at some time. Alas, our knight didn’t make it all the way through, he was stab through the stomach and was eliminated in the rounds of competition. It was the other one who made it through the knight (sorry, I couldn’t help myself).

On the drive home one of our daughters thought it would be great to have a Medieval Times in Kingston, unfortunately all this did was bring up talk of consumer base and how our urban demographics would not lend itself to supporting such a tourist blah, blah, blah. Can you imagine how long a two and a half hour drive can be when talking urban geography? Here I was stuck in the middle and I was the one who opted out of high school geography and took Latin instead. It was finally resolved that if we utilized only one knight and instead of a plush arena, we would use the downtown core. We could just arm one of our “local colorful characters” from downtown, give them an empty gift wrapping tube left over from Christmas. Hail him, Sir Wackalot (please don’t take that the wrong way) and let him loose downtown. It may not be the real thing, but it sure would be a lot of fun to watch from a sidewalk patio.

Hats Off to Samuel J.

Like many parents, I had a curious and inquisitive band of children. They didn’t merely stop at the standard questions about planets, mathematics or dinosaurs. They often went off into the murky world of why things were named a certain way. Although I did pride myself on being a virtual fount (really, that is the proper word, not font) of information of weird and wonderful facts, they sometimes had me stymied on certain topics. Which is how I came up with my friend Samuel J.

It started out innocently enough. If the kids asked me, for example, why was a Hula Hoop called a Hula Hoop. Me, being at a loss for an explanation, replied it was named after Samuel J. Hula. To me Samuel J. just sounded right. They seemed to accept this at face value and would continue on with their activities. But after a few times of using Samuel J. Insert-Last-Name-Here, they started to catch on. “My, that is a popular name,” I started to hear. “It seems like every inventor has the same first name and initial.” It was time to elevate my game, so to speak.

One of the kids asked me why ketsup was called ketsup (or catsup depending on your geography). I think I stuttered for a second trying to think of some answer (I now know it is thought to be a derivation of the Chinese word kê-chiap a fish brine) and then started into a story that this product was invented by a Samuel J. Kets, a small town confectionery owner from the midwest of the United States in 1843. During a period of time when he was playing with different concoctions he would label them Kets 1 or Kets Good or whatever popped into his head. One day he labeled a bottle, "Kets - Unlikely Product" which he shortened to UP, as he didn’t like the texture or taste and left it on his work table. Later that day his wife saw it and decided to give it a try and surprisingly, liked it. When Samuel got back to his workshop she asked him to make more of that Kets UP because she really enjoyed it. Hence the name KetsUP. The kids were enthralled with this story. Even my wife, a foodie if there ever was one, put her fork down and said, “Really?” I took and long sip from my wine reveled in my brilliance and then admitted I lied.

This followed the basic law of baffle gab, that if you give more than enough detailed and useless related information, people have a tendency to believe the facts all the more. It has always worked for politicians and I found it also worked in parenting. The challenge I soon faced was the fact that the kids started to use me as some form of perverse entertainment, to see whether I would wilt under their barrage of inquisition. I swear, they would spend their waking hours just trying to think of something I couldn’t relate to my friend Samuel J.

It has been over 10 years now that this little form of white lie has made its presence known in our household and even though the kids have mostly grown and moved out, I do get on occasion to relive my moments. Last Christmas as we were all sitting around the table for dinner and one of them wondered why a charger plate was called that. For those who don’t know, it is a decorative over-sized plate that is placed under your dinner plate. I felt all eyes swivel towards me and facing up to the challenge, I put my fork down and related this story.

“Samuel J. Charger was a much beloved landowner in medieval England when, during the reign of King Edward, the Sloven, it was decreed that an additional tax would be imposed on the citizenry based on the per serving plate of food. Now Charger, who was a true man of the people, felt that this was unfair and to get around this tax imposed by the monarch, he issued to all his people a larger than normal plate to hold more food than the average person could eat thereby letting them eat less meals per day. This soon became known throughout the land as a Charger Plate. The people were thankful for this and even though the tax was soon repealed by the heir to the throne, King Edward II, the Not-so-Slovenly, they honored their land Lord by using a symbolic over-sized plate which was placed under the normal sized plate. Hence, our tradition of using a charger plate for our formal dinners.”

As I finished this story and placed my napkin on my lap, I felt if there was ever a moment to hang up the guns and retire Samuel J., that this would have been it. But who knows? He may make his presence known again. I do hope one day to have one of my grand kids scramble onto my lap and explain to me that the inventor of their crib was a man named Samuel J. Crib. It would make me proud just to hear that.

Crime of the Century

I have never been one to imagine myself as a master criminal who could outsmart the police at every step of the way. I got my taste of that through the thousands of novels, television shows and movies over the years to satisfy any craving for that sort of notoriety. When even that wasn’t enough, I came up with a game show years before the onslaught of reality based television shows became the staple of everyday entertainment. I had envisioned a show called Crime of the Century, where an individual or a team of people would try and crack a safe house that had security measures in place to try and prevent them from stealing the treasure held within. A heady combination of the Thomas Crown Affair and The Pink Panther. Their task was to out-squirm, out-smart, out-do, out-plan and bamboozle anyone in anyway to make off with the goods. I even had the theme song selected which was the title cut of an album by Supertramp (a great cut if you have never heard it www.youtube.com/watch?v=PdXU_M9t004 ).

I don’t know if there is a similar show out there today, I started to look out of curiosity but stopped when I realized that there are literally thousands of reality shows on the air around the world. But if it hasn’t been done, now might be the time to do it. With the economy tanking, it seems more and more people are turning to the dark side when it comes to establishing an income stream. Some cloak their thievery in white collars and some just rob in plain sight.

After reading about the many investment brokers and advisors that have either swindled or willfully turned a blind eye to problems, I have come to only one solution as to why this happened. They are stupid, let me repeat that, they are stupid. I had always thought that if someone is making multi-millions on Wall St. or Bay St. there must be a gem of a mind behind that accomplishment. Now, it turns out that just like the wizard behind the curtain, there is no gleanable intelligence going on behind those whitened smiles. Their rise to the top of the wage earners of the country was a matter of RPRTRP (right place, right time, right parent). The Madoff sons appear to be prime examples of this. Their defense seems to be, “Sorry, we were too stupid to realize that there was this massive fraud occurring before our very eyes by our own father”.

I am sure I could pull hundreds of names out of the hat, the Madoff kids aren’t the only guilty ones, and point out that most of them would rather plead stupidity over savvy when it comes to market machinations and getting arrested. Rather than thinking with an independent mind, they would rather put on the blinders and focus on the pot of gold at the end of the bank vault. They seem to believe or maybe it was beaten into their heads that free thinking is verboten to the worthiness of any investment.

Of course, the in plain sight thief isn’t much better. With the Darwin Awards (http://www.darwinawards.com ) which among other things highlight the serial stupidity of most criminals and the reality television shows like Cops, America’s Most Wanted and The First 48 (I always wanted to do a Canadian version of this show called The First 24, where cops try and solve a crime before they finish a case of beer) which show us endless reels of the dumbest, stupidest criminals ever assembled. On that evidence we can easily formulate their thinking. Without a doubt, they all think they can outsmart the cops. They seem to think that every police force or intelligence operation around the world is comprised of deputies like Barny Fife and Enos Strates. The bubble only seems to burst when the cuffs hit the wrists and they then realize that cops are not dumb. The moment you start to believe you can outsmart someone, is the moment when you start to fail. That lesson is universal, from the street to the boardroom and from your marriage to your career, but unfortunately no one seems to acknowledge it, let alone appreciate it.

Food for Thought

I have been a picky eater all my life. If it wasn’t for peanut butter and jam sandwiches, I am quite sure I would have starved to death as a child. I always said that I liked what I liked and no one could tell me what I liked better than myself. I am not sure where this came from, whether I was born with genetically sensitive taste buds or somewhere along the line I learned not to like certain foods. The genetic argument has fallen by the wayside as my kids will eat almost anything put in front of them. However, I do have one child who is mortal fear of a “breach”, as she calls it. That is when one of her food items touches another on her plate. It is an exercise in civil engineering when we have any dinner that involves runny gravy.

Some people have no tolerance for picky eaters. Mrs Belcher, who was the nurse at the school I went to, was one of those. When we sat done for dinner (that being a hot lunch; as opposed to supper, which was what you call dinner), we had to eat everything on our plate. It didn’t matter if it was still moving, growing hairlike follicles out of it or just plain looked or smelled unappetizing. I think she lived through the Blitzkrieg or something and lived by the adage, “waste not, want not.” However, all it took was one well placed regurgitation on the table and that stopped her nagging. Unfortunately for a week or so afterward, I was forced to sit with a bucket at my side. It is kind of hard to carry out any sort of social interaction with a puke bucket beside you. People have a tendency to sit a little farther away from you at that point. Usually just out of projectile range.

Often my explanation took on a religious slant. “If God had meant a hotdog to taste like mustard, He, in all his wisdom, would have made it taste like mustard.” I would solemnly incant. Of course, what I didn’t realize was that God had nothing to do with the creation of a hot dog and that condiments were there to mask the horrible realization of what a hot dog was actually made up from.

I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I would studiously examine what the food item was and took many things into consideration before even deciding to sit at the same table as it. Smell, texture and appearance all were part and parcel of my testing. However, one of the biggest tests was also one of the simplest. What was it called? I guess this is why chefs often couch the name of something with a more pleasant sounding thing. Like calamari or escargot, these are things that in English would cause anyone a second thought. Squash was one food that needed a new name. Often food carries a descriptive nature to it. Mashed potatoes are one that comes to mind. What do you do with the potatoes? You mash them, hence mashed potatoes. Now think of squash. What do you squash? Bugs, of course. How in the world is a child to make that distinction? The same with yogurt. Yogurt is the sound your cat makes in the middle of the night when it is throwing up. A delectable taste treat? I think not. George Carlin famously said he didn’t eat tomatoes because they don’t quite look finished yet. Tapioca was great until a cousin of mine called them fish eyes. In my mind, if people could call squid, calamari, then I wouldn’t put it past them to call fish eyes, tapioca.

The marketing of food is one of the areas that had a profound effect on me. One time when I was quite young and had just watched a Popeye cartoon on a Saturday morning, it came upon me to try spinach. In all my youthful logic, I figured if I opened a can of spinach, poured a healthy amount of the green stuff in my mouth, like Popeye did, I would be blessed with the strength of a hundred men. I ran into the kitchen opened a can, popped the contents in my mouth and ran outside and tried to lift our house. All that happened was I covered the side of the structure with green vomit.

As I have aged, my taste buds seem to be dying off a bit as I now eat a lot of the things that would have mortified me in my younger days. But also as I have aged, I have found out that any food drenched in any combination of butter, salt or pepper or garlic will usually end up passing the gag reflex. I do now enjoy a good meal and I will often venture off into the unknown and untested culinary delights that is put in front of me. And I do this bravely without the puke bucket beside me, albeit within running distance of the washroom. You can never be too sure about these things.

Happy Birthday!

Sixty five years ago today the world was shaken to its core as my mother gave birth to the oldest member of my family; my brother Michael. He has lead a very interesting life, if such a mild adverb could ever be used when talking of Mike. His experiences as a member of the famed Special Forces in the US Army in both the U.S. and in Vietnam are the things that stories are written about. Many times he has kept us transfixed with a strange combination of humour and horror as he recounted some of the events of his life.

When we spoke yesterday, he asked me if I could post a poem I wrote a little over 33 years ago. For some odd reason it resonated with him. Given his well known lapses of memory which is not always 420 induced, it was remarkable he recalled it. So in honour of his birthday, I did dig out an old volume of things I wrote when I was a mere lad. Although the mates and spouses may have changed over the years the sentiment still remains today.


LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,
I'm writing this will, I know I must,
Soon to leave not even a tracer,
I know I'm going to meet my maker.

Don't argue with me, I know it's time,
(This sentence is here to fit the rhyme,)
Of sound mind and sound body,
Nothing I leave is ever shoddy.

To Brother Micheal and his wife Linda,
A package for you I doth senda,
My satin sheets I give are free,
But understand they're C.O.D.

To Sister Jane and you too Norm,
What I leave you will keep you warm.
They're in the corner - take a look,
All for you, my paperback books

And now to Vicki and Brother Dunc,
Do not feel that you are sunk,
Although the biggies are now gone,
I leave to you my new brass john.

To Geoffrey who I hold so near,
I give to him all that's dear,
To you a person who always walks,
I leave to you all my socks.

Last but not least, to my Dad,
Who stayed in tune, never sad,
I leave the important part of the will
I leave to him, the funeral bill.

Still Looking for My Warhol Minutes

If we embrace Andy Warhols’ idea that every person will be famous for 15 minutes, then I should be getting worried. At last time check, I was getting to be older than ideal for being famous. Let’s see, the athlete me was years ago; same with being a member of a rock band. The potential for great discoveries in science disappeared when I changed my major to economics, and a Noble Prize in Economics went out the window in one of my last exams at university. The course was the scintillatingly titled , “Mathematical and Statistical Applications in Micro-Economics”, where my answer to most problems was, “Huh?” I truly only have one last kick at the can before I will have to turn to infamous instead.

While at this time, my 15 minutes have eluded me, I have had the opportunity to meet many famous people, mostly just through the course of life. The school I went to during my early years were sprinkled with the offspring of many recognizable names. Among them, for example, were the Molson and Seagram families. One of my dorm-mates at the time was Reid Willis, the son of actors Kate Reid and Austin Willis. The school population was liberally sprinkled with a number of Bay Street and political families. But probably the most memorable encounter with someone famous was during my art class that we had every two weeks.

The artist in residence at the school was David Blackwood, who, even in those days had a name for himself, but today is even more renown for his moody landscape paintings of life in Newfoundland. On this particular day he was moving around the class giving us encouragement and pointing out how to use colour to achieve a certain effect. He stood beside my painting of the Rockies with 2 majestic mountains rising up in the air. A soft pink glow of the morning sun was bathing the rocks. “Very good. Now try to get the shadow on this side of the mountain.” It was then that I notice a kind of round man beside him looking at my painting. Because I was reading Lord of the Rings at the time, he reminded me of a Hobbit. He was maybe my height, bushy red hair and beard, and smoking a pipe. He stood beside me for a few seconds then tapped the painting with his pipe and said, “Nice boobs.” My first meeting with Farley Mowat and he thought my mountains were boobs. (And I am using a nicer word than he did.) I didn’t know what to do. I felt a little embarrassed that here I was in art class drawing what he perceived to be half a naked woman before I had even seen a real half naked woman. I hastily tried to make them more mountainous-like so I capped them off with a snow covered peak. When he returned he said, “Even better. Much more life-like.”

It was at that early age that I decided that my creative outlet should not be in art but writing. So I guess I could fudge my resume a bit by saying that it was Farley Mowat who after seeing my earlier work, encouraged me write.

One time I did get close to being famous, famous by proxy, I guess. When I was younger I had a passing resemblance to hockey great Bobby Orr. One night I was with friends at The Pub at the Townhouse Motor Inn, when a local N.H.L. hockey player asked me if he could introduce me to some girls as Bobby Orr. He wanted to impress them with someone famous. Hmm, free drinks and a chance to meet some fawning female fans. For that, I even threw in a free gimpy knee.

More recently, I was at a place I often go to after work. It gives me time to relax, read the newspaper and have a beer before heading home to pandemonium. This time, I noticed someone sit down at the table across from me, facing in my direction. A quick glance up and I saw it was a young guy, kind of scruffy looking, a skull cap pulled down over his forehead even though it was a very warm day. Every so often I could feel him looking up at me and I steadfastly kept my eyes on my newspaper. This internal alarm was from my days as a prison guard . Quite often, if you glanced at an inmate the wrong way, they would often spit out a “What are you looking at!”. So I avoided locking eyes with this guy altogether. It was only after he left and paid for his meal that the waitress came up to me gushing that Gord Downey of the Tragically Hip had just left. Now I knew why he kept looking up at me. He just wanted to say hello. We have crossed paths many times over the years and his sister is a dear friend of my wife and I. He’ll probably never try to say hello again.

There have been many other famous people over the years. I spoke to NDP patriarch Ed Broadbent at the liquor store one afternoon and chatted up Christopher Walken at the same place when he was here shooting Vendetta. Nice guy and not nearly as scary in real life as he is on the screen. (I was talking about Walken, not Broadbent, there). But you know there is one person I have never run into. One of my brothers actually pitched him a story I wrote and another brother has been to his house for dinner. It is amazing how many people I know who have a Dan Aykroyd story or two. Yet I have still to meet the man. Maybe one day when I sell one of my screenplays and have my 15 minutes.