We Have a Winner

To celebrate my birthday, a few of my friends joined Donna and I for a Lions game. We had a few drinks before the game and a few at the game. So by the time we darkened the door of the Kingshead, we were all, well, gooned. In fact, gooned enough for Donna, with just a little push from Claudio Lopez, to enter a beer drinking contest.
Four people lined up on stage - two men and two women. I don't know if it was supposed to be two different competitions. Somehow I don't think it was, but as I've implied already, I'm by no means a reliable witness. Either way, Donna was convinced that she only needed to beat the other woman. The man with the microphone may have had other ideas. None of which needed to be very clear as this contest had absolutely no prize on the line.
Now, the two men finished their respective pints with relative ease. They were neck and neck coming down to the last second, but I can't tell you which one won. I can't tell you because as the host was trying to announce a winner, Donna feeling ignored perhaps, started kicking him.
I believe she was very proud of the tremendous lead she had on the other woman. So proud she demanded recognition and not wanting to even pause in her attempt to finish the pint, all she could muster was, not one, but several kicks. He seemed puzzled. Still drinking her beer, still kicking our host, she started pointing at the other woman's virtually full beer.
Our host tried to ignore her. He tried to announce a winner. He tried to get some distance between himself and this mad woman abusing his shins. Donna would have none of it.
In the end, all he managed to say was, "But your not even finished your beer."

Group of Seven

These men are a few of the members of the Group of Seven. If I were to simply stumble across this photo, I would have assumed them to be businessmen or bankers. Instead, they represent my favourite artists. (Of course, when I say they by no means do I mean to limit the "they" bit to seven. Even without Tom Thompson - the best of the bunch - they numbered more than seven)

Perhaps I'm biased by nationalism. Or maybe, it's that I've seen some of those same places and from the rugged, windblown and bare to the quiet views, twisted and dripping with branches, they captured our landscapes like no one had before. To see a canvas from across the room is stunning.

I forget about them from time to time. They aren't in my art history books. Yet clearly to me, it is not because they don't belong with the likes of Monet and Turner. So thank you Barbara, for reminding me once again how much I love their work. I love the book you sent.

(Oh yes, and mother, they are so much better than those English bed-wetting types. I fart in their general direction. )

Loius Garneau

Louis Garneau joins the sample sale!

Wet Dog Soup

OK, I know Miso soup has nothing to do with canines. And I don't mean this as some ill-informed slur. (Which I suppose implies that there are well-informed slurs.)
Anyway, it is just that I think Miso soup smells a lot like a wet dog. It doesn't taste like a wet dog smells, but a good portion of taste is smell.
So, I finally found a sushi restaurant who serves a miso soup that is remarkably wet dog odour free.
(It's in Kerrisdale, just west of the Run Inn and by the way, I understand you can order a Sparky Maki if you are so inclined)
Anyway it is fairly tasty and I was all excited by the dog free bit, so I took this picture. And well, I guess it is fair to say that Miso soup is also pretty gross looking. Without stirring it looks like brain soup.
I guess Miso soup and I aren't meant to get along.

Sample Sale November 25th and 26th

Reebok and Saucony are teaming up once again for their semi-annual sample sale here in Vancouver. It's on the weekend of November 25th and 26th at the Granville Island Hotel. Cash Only. Cash Only. Cash Only.
Here's a link to the website for more details: www.sample-sales.blogspot.com
Feel free to send out the link and bookmark the page, as we will use that site to announce future sample sales as well.

Once Again the World is a Safer Place

Finally the people of Attleboro, Mass. have come to theitr senses. (I for one have never met a sensible person from Attleboro) They have cautiously followed in the footsteps (not too closely mind you) of the visionaries of Cheyenne, Wyo and Spokane, Wash. At last, one more school is safe from the wreckless hazards of recess horseplay - "a time when accidents can happen." Or so said Willett elementary school principal Gaylene Heppe.

Well that was then. Gaylene has not just approved an anti dodgeball ban. No, that safety measure has been in place for years. Willett Elementary is now free of touch football and the always dangerous tag. (Well, actually any unsupervised chase game is banned. And well it should be.)

Sure there are nay sayers. Debbie Laferriere thinks that "playing tag is just part of being a kid." Clearly this woman has no regard for the safety of her children let alone everyone else's. Reckless fool. She probably encourages running with scissors.

Celeste D'Elia has a much better head on her shoulders. She said that her son feels safer because of the rule. (He has a bright future, that kid. Next step: Hall monitor - Then: The world.) You see, like many sensible parents, she has "witnessed enough near collisions."

NEAR COLLISIONS. And for what? So a few kids can have their fun? That's not the kind of world I want to live in. Thank you Celeste for standing up for all of us.

Sleep Over at Timmy's

I recently found myself waiting in line in a Tim Hortons. It was downtown Toronto and very early in the morning. I was there to buy a breakfast sandwich and I won't be back any time soon. In part, because I don't live in Toronto. In part, because I don't really like Tim Hortons. In part, because the breakfast sandwich left a lot to be desired. And in part, because the other patrons kind of freaked me out.
I'm guessing that they were, after a long night of clubbing, waiting for the subway to open. What they looked like was a group intent on catching a ride on a nearby comet. Creepy.

Mouse Control?

Do we need an International Office Games? What sort of everyday mundane tasks would that involve? Perhaps speed dialing. Who knows? Anyway Sparky sent me this link for this time wasting game that tests mouse control. Maybe he's in training now for some future games.
Keep it up, Sparky, Keep it up!

The Final Borthwick?

(Note: for those not familiar with the Borthwick see this link - Borthwick )

As written on the back of a postcard:

"Dear Paul + Donna,
I saw a herse (is that how you spell that
word?)drive by the other day. A white one
with a light on top and I presumed it was
carrying a coffin. In the backseat window was
a computer printed sign - nothing fancy - that
said "BORTHWICK". And so I got to
wondering. If Borthwick were actually in
there having snuck off to his final slumber
without having said goodbye, but then if I
saw him or his hearse, would that mean in
the end he had actually pulled a

WANLESS??

...Laura xx"

Kiss My What?

Despite the overwhelming weight of an upcoming down payment and the subsequent mortgage payments (or perhaps because of that same weight), we got away this weekend. Nine of us rented a cottage on Bowen Island. It's a small island that sits in our harbour. Only twenty minutes by ferry and yet a world away. It is a quiet island that reminds me a little of cottage country in Northern Ontario. Or it did until we arrived.

The view from the cabin's large deck was spectacular. We looked out over a steep wooded hill into a bay and out to the ocean. Several islands broke up the horizon and there was a nautical map on the wall inside the cabin that let us take a decent guess as to which island was which.

Al noticed, in the middle of the bay, a clump of reeds or brush. It was hard to say what it was. All that Al could say for certain was that it was moving. Funny enough, all that Claude could say for certain was that it wasn't moving. And the first of two fine wagers was made. Island or flotsam: loser to do one hundred push ups in increments or in full at the winners behest.

If it was moving, it was moving too slowly to be sure. At least at first and we immediately postponed the judgment till morning. But, before dark it was clear that the island was gone. Claude's only hope was for the flotsam to get caught in some kind of eddy and be slung back into the bay.

Morning came and in the clear light it was even clearer who had lost.

Then came tennis. They had a nice court. It was in good shape, with a decent net. But it was the most beautiful tennis court I've ever seen, because of the view. It also looked out into the bay.

Now what goes around, comes around and the tennis court was complete with what might be a royal box or perhaps a press box. In our case, it was simply the peanut gallery. It was from this box, maybe 14 feet above the court, that we lobbed our comments and snide remarks. It was from there that we were able to goad Al into betting Donna: the loser to kiss the winners feet five times.

Al struggled trying to avoid kissing Donna's feet for so long that the moon came out. Ah, getting back to nature. Isn't it great. Thanks M. for that little bit of nature.

Whitecaps are the Champions

That's it. Season's over. We're the Champs. Here's to the Whitecaps. Here's to the Southside. Well done.

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.