The Curtain Going Down on Another Summer

Well I guess that’s about it for another summer.  I know a lot of people enjoy the fall, and they are getting all excited about cool mornings and sweaters and snuggling on the couch, making stew for suppers and watching the trees turn colour.  Not me so much.  I work outside, and even though summer can be a lot of sweating in the sun, it’s still prefferable to squishing around in the rain.  I like the freedom of summer – of plunking down in the grass any old place I want and wearing minimal clothes, eating lots of barbecued stuff.  I love the fact that nature is in full bloom, all the fruit being in season and fresh, all the flowers and birds brightening up the world.  Fall for me is about watching all the warmth slowly seep away and watching all the colour and vividness of the world droop and fade.  Fall is the old age and death of the calendar year.  Worst of all?  My frickin lawn starts growing again.

Winter is much better than fall in my mind.  I don’t mind the occaisonal snow fall, and winter tends to be less rainy and windy than fall.  Also hockey is in full swing by winter, so if you’re stuck indoors – again – at least there is entertainment to be had on the tube.  I also find it psychologically pleasing to know that when winter starts, the days start getting incrementally longer, brighter and warmer.  It’s always exciting the first time you notice the sun rising earlier and setting later; but the big thrill is the first sunny day that gets into the 14 or 15 C range when you can open the window in the car and let the breeze blow through your hair.  Next thing you know it’s spring.  It’s a magical time when we start the barbecue up and see the blizzards back east on the news.  The weather starts behaving itself and the hockey playoffs get going.  Of course all my teams are usually offed immediately in the playoffs, and the frickin lawn starts growing again, so spring does have a few shortcomings.
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Not good old summer.  The weather is typically great, and everyone you talk to is going on a trip or camping or kayaking on some lake.  Everybody is having a nice time, and the long evenings on the porch with friends, family and a couple beers and the music playing really can’t be beat.  Well I’m going outside now for a barefoot stroll in the grass while I still can, time is quickly running out on another summer.

The Day Mom Tried to Kill Me

When I was a little kid, my mom took me and my sister to visit my nana.  My papa was a big wheel in a construction company and so nana and papa were always moving around the province, building a dam or a mine or something.   We hardly ever got to see them as these jobs took years to finish sometimes.  I’m not sure where this story took place, but my guess is McLeese Lake, BC.

We were sitting around the kitchen one day, and my nana asked me if I’d like some apple sauce.  Where my sister was, and why she wasn’t getting apple sauce, I have no idea.  Anyways, she brought me a little dish of apple sauce and I dug in.  It was terrible.  It tasted nothing like any apple sauce I had ever had.   I screwed up my face and told nana how awful it was.  I may have even started to cry.  My mom’s reaction was not what I was hoping for.  “You rude little brat!  It’s delicious and you’re going to eat every bit of it.” This, even though I was clearly dying there at the table.  I was bawling and alone, no one was taking my side.  There were tears and snot, but the sauce continued to be slowly consumed.  After several excruciating spoonfuls of viscous hell, my mom took a little spoonful to see what the fuss was about and discovered I had been eating a nice little dish of chicken fat.
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What sort of monster keeps a little dish of chicken fat in the fridge is a question for another day.  But if you do, put a label on it for god’s sake!

Ticket Vultures

vulture

Canada’s de facto poet laureate, Gord Downie, has announced he has terminal brain cancer.  His band, the Tragically Hip, are doing a final tour across the country and it will be an emotional farewell for their huge fan base.  Of course, the tickets were sensibly priced originally.  But the scalpers have managed to buy most of the tickets and are selling them for many times their face value.  I guess that’s the free market for you, but it seems a little unfair that some predatory carrion fowl with no souls are going to make more money from this tour than the band, and in the process make the tour unaffordable for many people who actually love the music and Gord Downie.  The same thing happens for every event with a high demand, like when Paul McCartney came to town.  Some poor people who were living in the past camped out by the ticket window overnight, and when the shutter went up they sprinted to the window to find out the scalpers had already bought all the tickets.  Sorry, sold out.   But people bucked up and bought tickets.  Not many chances to catch a Beatle passing through town, and age is becoming a factor.

For me, as a fan of Gord’s, it’s mostly about human decency.  Anyone who sees his lethal illness as a big chance to over charge loyal fans for tickets has no decency, in my opinion.  Don’t bother trying to give me the crocodile tears about putting your kids through college or any other crappy excuse.  You taking joy and finding greedy opportunity in someone’s misfortune is wrong and disgusting.  Period.  And if that opportunity is at the expense of grieving fans, knowing this band is never coming back, shame on you even more.
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If they could monitor the situation and be sure that no one except scalpers had bought tickets, it might be fun if they cancelled their performance and didn’t offer a refund.  That would leave the money-grubbing vultures with a fortune in un-sellable tickets.  Or maybe someone could actually make robbing customers and fans illegal.  Maybe there could be a limit on how many tickets could be purchased at a time, or to a certain credit customer, or to any single web address.  And maybe once a person has ordered their limit of tickets, they wouldn’t be allowed to make another purchase for 8 hours or something.  They could still buy their eight tickets – or whatever the limit was – and go and hawk them on line or at the door, and done correctly they could still make a lot of money.  If they left tickets for normal people to buy, I don’t think anyone would care.  In fact it could go back to being a nice little side business that had the benefit of making a last minute purchase possible.

 

A Rainy, Beerless Saturday

I have been really bad the last month or so at writing in my blog.  I think about it all the time, but my life has been so dull the past little while that I don’t want to infect any potential readers with it.  If I were experiencing any swashbuckling adventures, I would be sure to inform the world.

This weekend I am back on antibiotics for the third time in six weeks.  I stabbed a dirty screwdriver into the palm of my hand, and my palm reacted by swelling up so that I couldn’t make a fist about 12 hours later.  On top of that, it is raining hard enough to keep me inside, and there isn’t even any hockey to watch as our American overlords have scheduled the Stanley Cup Final to begin on Monday.  On the bright side, hockey will be back in a couple of days, and after tomorrow afternoon it isn’t forecast to rain again for at least a week or two.  And when the hockey returns, it will be a nice intense Final between two teams who skate and score.  It shouldn’t be a snoozefest of 1-0 games and a lot of neutral zone trapping, a la New Jersey/Anaheim 2003.
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Today is my son’s 31st birthday.  It is also the 51st birthday of one of my best and oldest friends.  They were born 20 years apart almost to the minute.  Last year I went to two birthday gatherings, but this time their new ages don’t end with a zero, so it’s passing by without much fuss.  I love my son a lot, but it turns out I hardly ever say it to him.  I wasn’t brought up in a house that said it much, but I never questioned it or felt any great absence over not hearing it.  I hope he understands.

Now What?

First I had pneumonia.  Well, maybe not first exactly, but recently.  Then my left elbow started swelling up.  It didn’t alarm me much, as I had wrenched some inner mechanical piece of that elbow about six months earlier while heroically trying to move a 300-or-so lb chunk of concrete.  It hurt a little from time to time, but why it chose to wait half a year to swell didn’t seem important or strange.

So my partner thought it was ugly and a ‘gross deformity,’ so naturally I kept rubbing it on her and putting it in her line of vision.  Real mature, like usual.  Oh the fun we were having!

Then today I showed it to my boss, who is a noted hard ass.  I expected him to tell me not to be a baby about it, but to my very great surprise he was alarmed.  “Have you seen a doctor about this?” he asked me. “No,” I answered sheepishly.  “Well you get out of here and get to a walk-in clinic or something.  If that gets infected you’re in big trouble.”  Poof!  That was the moment all my deformity related fun came to an end.
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My doctor is a small, somewhat pretty Russian lady, mid 40’s, heavy accent.  If you are picturing empathy or gentle nurturing, forget it.  You could get a hug and a bowl of borscht out of Vladimir Putin quicker than her. “No wonder your blood sugar is high, you are fat,” she once told me, as an example of the bedside manner one has to accept as her patient.  Today even she seemed subdued and concerned.  She told me if I get a fever, or the swelling gets worse, or I start feeling unwell in the next couple days to go straight to the hospital emergency.  I am also to eat a bumblebee sized antibiotic every 6 hours and to go back to see her in two days.  “Any time you have fluid build up like that, you can get infection.  Being diabetic, that would be very serious for you.”

I had a pretty good run going there.  I never really had any sort of health concerns until I was 47.  That’s when they decided my pancreas had pretty much given up trying to provide me with enough insulin and declared me diabetic.  Up until then I was cruising along, eating whatever and however much I felt like, and drinking beer like a minor league hockey team.  Sure I was packing a few extra pounds, but I could still walk a whole 8 hour shift and spend the weekends playing baseball and tennis.  My idea of medicine was a Bayer aspirin.  I guess all the fun was setting me up for troubles later on.  I can’t say I hadn’t heard rumours that such things could happen, but I guess I’m a bit like the smoker who gets cancer.  It won’t happen to me, even though I was amply warned.

Still Alive, Just Sleep Deprived

Well I haven’t written anything for a couple weeks, and it’s weighing on my mind.  I’m always busy 3 or 4 days a week, and nothing much gets written on those days, but the last 10 days or so I have been coughing all night which is interfering with my sleep and basically The main source of get viagra strength in the drug is Sildenafil citrate or silagra. You are advised to practice exercises like walking, jogging, weightlifting, swimming cheap buy viagra and yoga regularly. But the generic viagra pills days of confusion and waiting has gone off. One needs to avoid taking Sildenafil if pharmacy cialis you find yourself infected with an STD? If you diagnosed with STDs, then you need early treatment to get rid of the condition. scooping out my skull of things to ponder.  It turns out I have pneumonia, and I have some antibiotics now which I’m hoping will calm my hacking down and let me sleep for longer than a couple hours.  Until then, my mind is nothing but dust bunnies and the sound of crickets.

The Empty Nest

For the last 31 years, I have had at least one kid in the house.  I have seen most of the stages of childhood: from the yelling, puking baby to the 20-something in the basement smoking weed.  For the most part it’s gone well.  Most of the kids who lived with me grew up to like me to some degree, and some even make an effort to hang out with me sometimes.  Well the last one has moved away, and that might be it for kids living here.  On the surface, we like to high five and talk about what we’re going to do with the empty space, but the truth is, it’s sort of a sad time.

At first, I was a selfish kid myself.  I took care of myself, (sort of?), and I was blind to what a mess I was making of things.  I’m sure I’m not the only one.

Then, suddenly, I was a father.  There have been a few different domestic arrangements over the years, involving a number of kids, so it was busy and lasted a long time.  I found fatherhood to be a very active job.  There was always some decision to make, some food to cook, some mess to deal with and some money to go make.  I was the Guy.  I was necessary.  I had the answers.  But time was creeping by, and slowly, I wasn’t the answer guy any more.
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Then I became a grandpa.  It was great to be able to hand the crappy diaper back to someone else and to be able to sleep all night, but it was eerily unsettling, too.  Suddenly, no one was counting on me for anything.  I was just a musty old chair in the corner.  No one wanted me to assess the baby’s nutritional needs or make it an appointment or take it for a drive somewhere.  When the grandkids want something, they go marching right past me to get answers from the current Guy (and Gal, of course.)  But all the while, there was always still a kid or two at home, even though they were adults in their own rights by this time.  Now that has ended, too.

Tonight my wife is working a graveyard shift.  8 pm to 8 am.  So tonight I am here with the cat, and I’m hoping the quietness isn’t a permanent feature of things to come.  I am not fond of crowds or excessive noise, but I prefer a little interaction.

Pretty Manly

I had a hunch the numbers of males and females had changed.   I did a little research, and it turns out they had.  In my younger years, the males were basically slobs and the girls were dressed up and painted up.  What follows are some generalities, I can think of many exceptions among people I know, and I don’t want anyone who is still my generation’s idea of ‘manly’ to be offended.  You know who you are.

In nature, the gender that is in the majority is on easy street, style wise.  The female peacock doesn’t need a big fan of colourful feathers to attract a mate, there are more male peacocks so the female is pretty much guaranteed a mate.  It’s the males who need to compete.  Go watch the nature channel for a while and you’ll see the majority-sex animal doing dances, engaging in ritualized head butting and running around in beautiful feathers, while the minority gender quietly looks on.

Here’s where things started getting weird for me.  Our three girls started getting interested in boys.  The two oldest girls mostly dated boys who were boyish, but the youngest one kept getting boyfriends who were more pretty and dainty than her.  I even asked one poor kid at the door if his parents were hoping for a girl when they raised him.  Even the older girls occasionally commented that their boyfriends took longer to get ready to go out and spent more time on their clothes and hair than they did.  Then of course I found myself out and about some times, no doubt watching a hockey game at the pub.  In came troupes of boys with their hair moussed, dressed in perfect clothes, watching themselves in reflections.  Naturally, they were still boyish in that they wore male clothes and had very boyish hair cuts and tatoos and walked with a cowboy swagger.  But the fact that the ‘look’ was a premeditated act, not merely man as found in nature, was puzzling.  Conventional wisdom from my youth was that girls didn’t go looking for guys with moussed hair who hit the gym because such guys were self-absorbed.  Who wanted a guy looking at himself in the mirror when the girl has spent time getting herself looking good?  Probably a selfish lover, too.

Conventional wisdom from days gone by also had it that females outnumbered males.  More boys are born than girls, that has never changed, but boys were much more likely to die as infants and toddlers, and teenage boys – showing off mostly – died at double the rate of girls.  By the mid teens, girls were the majority gender and the surviving boys merely had to have a pulse to have a chance at mating.

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Maybe this switch in demographics will allow younger women to dress more casually and give up the make up.  It may be a desirable show of confidence.

male 2016

Micheal looking lovely, as always.

A Few Pointers for Making the World a Little Happier

If strangers wearing wet suits are tossing little fish at you from an aluminum bucket, you probably shouldn’t be wearing those yoga pants.

If the electric meter is sending radio waves through your brain, or Jesus has been sending you on personal missions, keep it to yourself.  Most people think you’re nuts.

If you change phone numbers, tell your friends and family.  I got a new number recently and people are calling every day for the old owner who has a lot of friends who don’t speak English.

When you’re driving, pay attention to what other drivers are doing.  If you are going to turn right up ahead and a vehicle is waiting at that street for you, for God’s sake signal.  If you are blocking the right turn lane, but you could let people turn by moving up six inches, do it.

Some of the companies are appointing huge medical representatives who promote cute-n-tiny.com cheapest viagra the physicians face to face. This is the same ingredient found in generic levitra professional . Are you facing trouble in getting and maintaining strong erection by filling more cheap viagra for women blood in the reproductive organs of male reproductive organs and improves sensation in genitals. Sometimes, anti-spyware software is actually spyware itself! The most common way to cure hydrosalpinx. levitra prescription If you’re walking across the road and the whole world is waiting for you to get to the other side so traffic can get moving again, don’t fricking dawdle!

If you’ve had some fast food, take the trash to a garbage can.  If you’re not near home, there are cans at every gas station and most bus stops.  If you own a pick up truck and throw your trash in the back, clean it out sometimes, I see little tornados of litter come out of truck beds all the time.

If you are a waiter or waitress and I order something from you with a little alteration – no onions, no ice in my drink – write it the fuck down.  About 60% of the time they screw it up, but I’m so dumb I just keep right on tipping.

 

Expect Nothing

People get their expectations distorted by popular media.  It is never more noticeable than holidays.  For me, I don’t care how many times I see it in a show, I’m not singing carols on Christmas or wearing a big itchy sweater.  I’m also not buying a huge heart shaped diamond pendant for my loved one for Valentine’s.  If that is a condition for affection, there is a problem.

I do maintenance on water meters for my latest job.  I’ve never seen anyone, in any show, do such a thing, so my expectations are zero.  In TV land, you either work in a cubicle, as a health professional or a cop.  What else is there?  Maybe a rare example of an outlier career exists, but only as an exception.

How about a young person having those first stirrings of sexual attraction and looking to the media for hints for what to expect?  Pop music will give the idea that he or she should be deliriously in love forever.  I remember going through puberty with my AM radio crackling its way through one mushy love song after another, filling my naive little head with useless expectations.  Today’s youth watches porn and no doubt has another sort of expectation, especially about things like pizza deliveries and nurses.
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As a rule, the lower your expectations are going into something, the better it will look in reality.

Your point of view, how you imagine yourself and your surroundings are measuring up, is everything.  Two people can be born in the same place and time and one thinks he is in heaven, the other hell.  If you can swing it, picturing yourself in paradise will certainly improve your mood and health.