Fight Like Jack Black

For me, it was hard to say if I thought this movie was funny just because Jack Black reminded me of Al playing an out of shape Mexican wrestler. Who's to say?

Who Knew How Much a TV Could Cost?

At first I thought this blog was going to need, as a preface, a warning to all women in heterosexual relationships. You see I had a friend over one Sunday and while we were watching football, my wife had three complaints:

1. Our TV wasn't new enough.
2. Our TV wasn't big enough.
3. And finally, we didn't have Sunday Ticket.


Now, most men would put that conversation in the file of 'Must Have Been Dreaming'. Most men would count themselves lucky just to have a wife whose list of complaints includes even one of those complaints. Not only did my wife have all three, it stopped there.

Or so I thought.

In hindsight, perhaps Future Shop or Best Buy would have been the place to go. Even rogers.ca would have been a better first step, but somehow on the way to buying a TV we found ourselves stopping in to look at a brand new townhome. And that shouldn't have been a big deal. We've been to many open houses - shopping without intent. But then I guess we never needed a TV before. And that's the catch. This townhome came with a TV.

Sure, we loved the huge open spaces, tall ceilings, great layout, gorgeous kitchen, blah, blah, blah. But at the end of the day, it seems we've bought the one of the worlds most expensive TVs. Of course, it does come with a new townhouse.

Now conspiracy theories will likely start popping up all over the net about how Donna knew about the townhome's built in flat screen and how really she was just after the townhome when she complained about our old TV. Some will even speculate that the end game was actually a dog, which was not allowed in our current apartment.

Not me. I know my girl. She still wants to get Sunday Ticket.

JMac

In the foreground of this photo, someone is taking a photo of their friends. Four of them. In the background of this photo is JMac. He almost looks like he is part of the group around him, but actually he doesn't know them at all. Just another JMac moment. Thumbs up buddy, thumbs up. You crack me up.

Only His Hairdresser Knows

This photo isn't proof of intelligent extraterrestrial life. Nor is it documentation demonstrating the existence of Yeti. It is blurry, out of focus, poorly framed, and taken a moment too late. And so for every crazy fool out there that has submitted a blurry, out of focus, poorly framed photo taken a moment too late, I apologize for doubting you.

I'm sure you did see the Abominable Snowman, or little green men, or something that went bump in the night. Just as I'm sure I saw my friend Claude sitting in a salon (not the barber shop as he'd have you believe) getting his hair dyed.

I'm sure you meant to get a better picture. One that would definitively reveal the truth. I'm sure you fumbled for a moment - just a moment - and in that moment your chance was lost. And maybe all you were left with was an ordinary photo of say huge footprints in the snow, or perhaps bright lights in a distant sky, or maybe your friend having his hair washed.

Sure I can send this second photo over the SB-1 to have it analyzed for evidence of dye. Maybe it would end up on the front page of the newsstands and we could debate the minutiae. But all I really have in the end is my word. I was there. I saw it with my own eyes. The man is fighting it every step of the way. Why? Cause he's worth it.

Two Little Beer

I understand that there needs to be rules around how much beer one can have at a stadium. I get that letting people get completely hammered in a confined public space isn't drawing the "family" crowd that owners are looking for.

I just think that two beer per person is a boring way to limit people. I'd like to see the following slight change. As many as you can carry - No trays, No lids, No pockets, No holders of any sort - hands only.

If, as Chris demonstrates here, you can handle carrying three at a time, when then so be it. If, as I've seen Sparky manage, you can wrap your fingers around four cups simultaneously, then have at it.

If for no other reason, when you consider the flimsy nature of those disposable cups and the jostling nature of public crowds, it would be very entertaining watching those two run the gauntlet without spilling a precious drop.

The Pussy Cat Dolls vs. Andrea Wardrop

One of my pet peeves is the tendancy people have, myself included, to be ridiculously critical of celebrities. We sometimes talk about them as if they are ordinary run of the mill, in a way that may not be true, but somehow helps us feel like we are on the same level. That somehow, me, in my ordinary pedestrian life, would not only have the chance to brush of J. Lo, but given that chance wouldn't be awed by her obvious charms.

Maybe it is sometimes easier on ourselves to think that we would see through the mystique that is celebrity and not see the beautiful charasmatic person who rose above so many others and instead see, like the wizard of oz, an ordinary run of the mill everyday person. And with Paris Hilton out there, I can admit that this could happen. Just not as often as we might like to think.

So when I say that the Pussy Cat Dolls aren't doing it for me, please understand that I am well aware of the reality: Were I to meet them on the street somewhere, it would be a red letter day. I mean look at them, they are hot. Uberhot. So why don't I dig them. Skinny, good looking, young women gyrating to music in seductive outfits - What more can I ask for?

I really didn't know and I feared being kicked out of the club - having my men's membership revoked. Then the Georgia Straight came out with this cover of Andrea Wardrop. On close examination she is no match for the Pussy Cat Dolls. Sure there are lots of reasons - she's missing an army of people: stylists, personal trainers, makeup artists, and airbrushers to name a few. But that's not the point. The point is that cover is hot. Really hot. It caught my eye in a way that the Pussy Cat Dolls and their ilk have failed to do.

I don't believe that I'm alone either. I think there are plenty of men out there who think I'm nuts, but I also think there are plenty of men who get it. I think we are tired of perfect. Well, at least in the media. (Actually, probably only in the media. But maybe that's where the trend starts?)

My guess is that so much of our desire is about rarity. And with the proliferation of plastic surgery and magazines obsession with photoshop, some of us are subconsiously bored. Bored with the covers of Maxim and Stuff and well, most of them. It has got to the point, at least for me, that the Pussy Cat Dolls are a dime a dozen.

Ironman Weekend

This is what I love about Ironman. Doctors tell my friend, Barbara Dortch, not to exercise too much. She doesn't listen. This year she pushed herself too far. She finished the Canadian Ironman in 13 hours and 46 minutes.
(For those who don't know, that is a race composed of three legs - a 2.4 mile lake swim, a 112 mile bike ride over two mountain passes, and a marathon run of 26.2 miles)
Barbara finished second in her age group of 55-59 year old women, but that couldn't have been much of a motivation. I say that because she pushed herself so far and so hard that when she crossed the finish line, she had nothing left. Not enough to stand. Not enough to talk. Not enough to recognize the faces around her. She sat down and passed out.
So how can I say that second place couldn't have been the driving factor? Because third place wasn't breathing down her neck. In fact, she was an hour and a half behind Barbara.
Donna had been handing out medals in the finish chute. When she saw Barb coming in, it was clear she was running on empty - listing to one side so much she was nearly falling over. All Barb could see was the finish. And when she crossed it, she let go.
Medical staff are on hand at these events, prepared for just this sort of thing. A race this long takes a toll on the human body and one slip in nutrition can leave you delirious on the road unable to finish. Two paramedics picked her up and while Donna stayed by her side, I cleared a path to the medical tent.
An hour later she was up and walking, but the next day she still suffered from spells. She nearly missed receiving her award for second place.
But here is what I love about it. After all that, she didn't talk about pushing herself too hard. She didn't talk about what an accomplishment she had just achieved. She said that next time she had to get her nutrition right. Good on ya, Barb. You are an inspiration to us all.

Ah, Laura. We'll miss you too.

Laura got a little sentimental at her going away gathering, er party, er thing - well whatever it was. That's our spiritual guide.

Cute?

See, the thing is, I'm a bad person. You all see a cute little dog, while I see a drunk old man thinking he's all wild and crazy hitting on chicks at a party.