Genius Invention

I love ingenious twists on mundane items. Especially the little ones that often go unnoticed and certainly go unheralded. I guess my question is why don't we love the people behind them.

Sure the flash of clarity behind - I don't know, say the spork - that brilliant light that went off in the mind of whoever invented the spork may have just that: one single wonderful brilliant spark of genius. Maybe that person never had another good idea. But I, for one, love them for it.

I wonder if it was the same person who came up with the name spork forever obscuring their own identity or if the name came from someone else unrecognized. If we had a clever name for the toilet right off then Mr. Thomas Crapper wouldn't be the funny little trivial pursuit answer that it is today.

Perhaps it was the clever porcelain design or just the nature of the invention, but crapper never really stuck or at least not in the right circles. In the end, his name wasn't heralded as it should be and only came to mean, well you know that already. But what about Susan. Her name stuck and along with it came Lazy. Why not the Clever Susan or the Crafty Susan? In the end, maybe it is better to be looked over by history.

So, I don't know whose ingenious mind gave us upside down squeeze bottles of ketchup and mayo, but they will have to make room on the genius shelf in my fridge. This year we have the salad spritzer. Spray on salad dressing. Genius. Thank you, whoever you are.

Weather Warning: Hurricane Cal Hits Land

Vancouver, CANADA. Environment Canada's Weather Office has issued a critical update. An isolated storm, Hurricane Cal, has hit the lower mainland. Although the eye of the storm is situated over Kitsilano, residents are not reporting the usual 'calm' associated with the epicenter of a storm like this. Daytime nappers are warned to turn off all cell phones, close back alley windows, and ignore both buzzers and knocks at the door. Most importantly remove and Canadian Club whiskey and/or Okanagan Pale Ale from your home as these items are known to prolong storm activity

Bard on the Beach

My friends, Stephen and Laura, are heading down to the Bard on the Beach to enjoy a little Shakespeare under a big tent. To them I say beware the wine. My mother-in-law would have you believe that they serve a potent glass (or two, or three) down there and while I won't share the details, things can get a little out of hand. Can't they Jane?
(Oh I wish your daughters had brought a camera. My kingdom for a photo.)

Camping with Donna

Just a word of advice for anyone ever camping with Donna - She thinks it's really funny in the morning, when she wants to get up and you might not quite be ready yet to get out of the warm cozy comfort of your cocoon of a sleeping bag, to pull out the great big rubber cork in the air mattress leaving you to sink gently to the cold hard ground.

Farewell Ian

This afternoon, more than three hundred people flowed into the Canadian Memorial Church to mourn the passing of our friend Ian. The church, which seemed, quite large at first seemed to shrink as more and more people poured inside. Ian clearly touched many lives.
Ian wasn't a close friend of mine, rather he and Cathie were friends of our friends John and Max. Like us, John and Max tend to host a lot and that's how we knew Cathie and Ian.
At parties, I tend to find a comfortable spot to hunker down. I gravitate towards similar people and with very few words exchanged I knew immediately that Ian was also one of those people. We would often chat leaning against the kitchen counter comfortable knowing that our better halves were out there socializing, confident that all the important news would make its way back to us sometime later that night. We would talk about meaningless distractions like Kobe and Shaq or nagging pains in his feet and my knee. We would talk about work and play, but nothing too serious. Then we would turn to coaching and Ian would come alive. He had a passion for it. He had hopes and dreams for so many of the young lives he touched. While those hopes may have been hidden beneath a layer of gruff sarcasm, it was a thin layer, and the excitement shone through. I saw so many young faces in the crowd today and it made me sad to think of their loss. I can't even imagine the loss his own two boys will feel over time.
I had the chance to talk to him not long ago, when there was still hope, and I marveled at his composure, at his refusal to feel sorry for himself, at his ability to find humour in tragedy. He was getting better then and yet he knew that the cancer could come again without notice.
Ian had been sick for so long now that most who knew him had a chance to say goodbye in some way. But gathering in one place was hard. It was hard not to feel how terribly unfair death can be. He was my age and we had a lot in common. My heart aches for Cathie and her children. I just can't imagine.

In a Pub, Slamming Back Poetry?

Two nights ago, four of us decided to meet at Cafe Deux Soleils on Commercial Drive where they were hosting a Poetry Slam. As it turned out, it was in fact an International Poetry Slam. The cafe was overflowing when we arrived. I hadn't put much thought into what the atmosphere would be like - but in the way that you sometimes meet someone others talk about, and you don't think they look the way you thought they would, but can't offer a description of what that would be other than that's just, that's not it - and I was surprised to see people spilling into makeshift aisles, leaning against counters and newspaper racks lining walls, hanging on to patio railings trying to hear from outside. Nor did I expect the sort of crowd reactions we heard. Donna had been practicing snapping her fingers on the way there, half expecting that to be the appropriate response to the poetry - something artsy. And I feared she was right. In contrast, they were thundering applause and hooting and hollering their approval. It felt more like a sporting event.
And I suppose that's it. You see it turns out that this Slam element means to imply that this is not a poetry reading in a library, but a ranting in a pub. This is not a tea and cookies, but rather beer in pitchers. And strangest of all - it's a competition. Not in the way that the first day of school is a clothing competition, or the way some neighbours have a lawn competition. This is a judged events with score cards and winners and dare I say ... losers. Poetry losers. Wow.
The loser aspect didn't seem to get to them and I suspect that they are really just playing at competing. I say that because the judging was clearly unfair and at the end someone stood on stage and said something about how it is not really about the points but about the poetry. All of which isn't really any different than a little league game of tee ball. What was different was that in place of a few hockey dads and soccer moms dropping their heads and half heartedly mouthing some sort of agreement, this crowd roared it's consent.
The points didn't matter to them. It was just another form of encouragement. Take the only booing of the night for example. It was aimed at the judges whenever the crowd deemed the scores too low and as a result the scores steadily climbed throughout the night in a slow building frenzy that echoed the pitch of the crowd.
That's all sweet as pie, but like a true sports fan, I'm still a little choked that Anise lost just because he went up early in the night.

Break Glass in Case of Emergency

Donna and I nearly died a most un-glamorous death this Sunday - Death by Nachos. To be killed choking on a nacho may be far from glorious, but it pales in comparison to the blaze of lunacy that was nearly our fate. Burning our apartment building to the ground trying to make nachos would be an embarrassing tale to tell at the Pearly Gates.
Donna, who was making the nachos, would have you blame the oven itself. It being old and decrepit, it is unable to defend itself. I would say that human error may be at the root of the problem. Those who know us may ask what Donna was doing in the kitchen in the first place. Well, truth be told I was terribly hungover. Nachos, as you can imagine, sounded great.
Great until they caught on fire. Donna had gone in to check on them and then suddenly leapt out of the kitchen talking quickly about a fire. To my ears, she sounded calm. Of course, that's the hangover talking. If I were to guess, I'd say that at that point only every fifth word was getting through the cloud of lethargy that hung over my head.
Then Donna shouted. The essence of which was that we had a "real" fire in our kitchen. Her shout made me leap to my feet, an action for which I was ill prepared, and my head immediately started pounding.
In the kitchen, the nachos were indeed on fire. Opening the oven door caused two things: the flames to flare up and Donna to jump back. I grabbed the pizza shovel to take the tray out of the oven. Donna shouted, "Don't fan them."
While I didn't have a plan as to what to do with this little inferno, I must stress that fanning the flames had not occurred to me. I shut the door. "I'm not going to fan them." But what now. No thoughts of baking soda or salt or any other home remedy was fighting its way through my throbbing head and as time went on the flames just got bigger.
In her head, Donna wanted to run out of the building. Instead she said, "Is there a fire extinguisher?"
"Yes, in the hall."
Out we went together, although Donna did pause to express concern that I had no pants on. Somehow standing in the hallway in my underwear was, at least for a brief moment, worse than the fire in our kitchen.
There it was just outside our door. Encased in glass. Break Glass in Case of Emergency.
Donna thought, 'Is this a big enough emergency?'
I thought, 'Surely we can get that out of there without breaking the glass.'
And so we stood there for an instant before we realized that if we did indeed want to break the glass, we had nothing to break it with. While Donna went to get a hammer, I'll confess I tried to open the box without breaking the glass. Thankfully, Donna returned to smash it.
The glass is Plexiglas and I remember noticing that it broke so cleanly and easily and I thought how clever the designer was.
Into the kitchen we went. I pulled the pin and Donna opened the door. The flames burst to life and I blasted them with the fire extinguisher.
"It's not out," Donna shouted.
Again, with the extinguisher. I scuttled out of the kitchen, starting stooped and sinking further as I went. There was smoke and dust everywhere. I had tried to stay as low as I could, but I had still inhaled a lot of crap and I stopped for the first time to wonder what that crap was. I had expected white cold jet of gas and instead I got a sandbox full of greenish yellow powder. Our normally white kitchen was absolutely coated. In fact, the entire apartment has needed cleaning to get rid of it.
Donna called the fire department, but not until the fire was out. I think she just wanted to see firemen. And they came, even though she had said the fire was out. I suppose she didn't sound trustworthy. They didn't say much, except that we should get a CO2 extinguisher because they don't make such a mess.
In the end, I never did get nachos.

Busts on Wreck Beach are Nuts?

With heroin flowing through our ports, property crime out of control, and organized crime on the rise, I for one am glad to see that our boys in blue have not taken their eyes off our balls. The VPD rated an impressive 4.5 cruisers out of 5 cruisers last weekend at Wreck Beach. (Three points for the three marked cars parked in the no parking zone at the top of the hill and another for the less than subtle unmarked car parked immediately behind the others. The remaining half point is for the two park rangers who walked the beach trailing just behind our boys in blue.)
Now, don't think that this posse of law enforcement took a stroll along the beach for their lunch break. They hadn't just been at the top of the hill safeguarding all the unattended vehicles and thought how much better a Stormin' Norman's veggie burger would be than another round of doughnuts.
Instead, it's clear that some ever vigilant high civic official has realized that Wreck Beach is such a danger to the fabric of our city that a constant and impressive police presence is required. If marijuana leads to harder drugs, imagine what naked pot smokers can get up to. I for one feel safer in my neighbourhood knowing that the VPD is cracking down on Wreck.
Harmless, Disorganized Crime you say. Pot smokers are lazy? You haven't seen what these little beavers have been up to. They have built entire neighbourhoods out of driftwood and deadheads. They have make shift restaurants. Even a library. What's worse is they have cold beer (or at least it is cold tasting). Like mad pirates they dig up buried coolers of icy beer throughout the day. Who put them there? Disorganized lazy hippies or Kingpins of Crime?
Get em' boys. This city ain't supposed to be fun.

Da Bears

I liked the orcas. It was new. Different. They didn't seem, for the most part to be just painted in themes. Many of them took their themes much further. There were physical differences in so many.
The bears just aren't as good. At least not on the whole. They seem to be a me too project that lacked the inspiration, commitment, and ingenuity of the orcas.
That said, there are two on Robson that I do like and I'd like to share them with you.

How About the Hooligans?

Three cheers for city council as they give the resounding maybe to the stadium proposal. I understand that some people were riled up about at least five points regarding the stadium and its impact on the neighbourhood.
* Provision of an adequate street network.
* Resolution of risks & liability associated w/ dangerous goods in the rail lands.
* Reconfig of stadium structure /site to ensure a better "fit" with Gastown.
* Resolution of impacts on the livability of residential uses in area
* Resolution of impacts on future Port Lands development
And while some of those points are all good and dandy, they are not my concern. I'm also not concerned as to whether the stadium "blocks" waterfront access in an area that is already blocked off from the water. I have to agree with Richard in the City's take in general. That is except for one thing.
Why so many seats? What about us hooligans? What about this man? All he wants to do is: stand behind the opposing keeper and berate him with offside remarks; belittle opposing would-be strikers with questions rearding their wish for much higher nets; sing about our dream of a team entirely composed of David Morris'; and shout instructive remarks to opposing teams who came all this way just to lose, just to lose.
Where will he drink beer, shout and swear, and bang the boards? Will there be room to throw his empty beer cups in the direction of the keeper and still have them land safely behind the net? Or will they just sail out on to the pitch? (See: safety conscious)
So worry about your business owners, and your land holders, and you poor and impoverished all you like. But what about him? But what about us? We happy hooligans. We need less seats. Give us a place to stand.
Or does that bit come later, when they have agreed to the whole thing. Ooops, my bad. Too soon. Carry on. Never mind me.

Sing Paris Sing

As a culture, how low can we sink? How little do we care about talent? Well somewhere out there, I believe, a record executive was having this conversation, give or take. Then that same executive made a preposterous statement. Someone else called "Bullshit." And I like to believe a bet was wagered. I hope it wasn't money. I hope it was more about pride. I want to think that that same record producer said, "I could make Paris Hilton a hit single."
"No way," said his friend. "Can she even sing?"
"Who cares? It's not the point."
"Won't work."
"Care to bet."
"Winner mows the losers lawn in a dress."
Now wanting to see her embarrassing herself pornographically makes sense to me in a Paparazzi/traffic accident kind of way. (For those who can't resist: graphic stills from One Night in Paris) Even her "reality" TV show makes sense in that same way. But we've gone too far when this vapid, stick creature who offers nothing more than having inherited a vast hotel empire is celebrated for "singing" a pathetic song she neither wrote nor played.
My only hope, is that somewhere some guy is mowing a lawn in one of her outfits.

Sudoku

According to the Metro, the free daily newspaper, I am living with a genius. It would seem that if you can finish their Sudoku puzzle within a certain allotment of time, well you're a genius.
What strikes me as odd, is that Donna has a mild allergy towards numbers. Taxes being the worst irritant, she breaks out into a cold sweat just at the thought of filling in little numbers in little squares and following the results down the page in a systematic and driven fashion. Well except for Sudoku.
Somehow these little squares within squares are special. She is drawn to them like an accountant to loop holes. As are so many people lately. Sudoku is sweeping the nation. Perhaps Revenue Canada should look into a Sudoku tax form. That's right. Who's the genius now? Eh?

Oranges

This is simply a picture I took some time ago of some oranges sitting in a bowl on our table. That's it. Oranges.

Warning: Claudio Lopez is Loose

Lyon, France - Interpol is once again on the lookout for "Claudio Lopez" An uncharacteristic mistake, he recently was filmed performing his infamous mating ritual. The footage was deemed to raw and graphic for this site, but we were able to release this still photo in the interest of public safety.
Sources indicate, he is trying to reach South America. If you see this man, he may appear lost and confused - repeating half understood Spanish lyrics again and again and again - remember to approach him with caution: that's not a flower in his pocket, he's just happy to see you.

Fight Like A Girl

Sally Spitfire says
the Fight is On.
August 17th, at the Phoenix.

Real Name: Katrina
Age: 26
Day Job: Office Manager for Digital Editing Company
Home Town: Toronto
Height: 5' 9"
Weight: 140lbs
Measurements: 36C, 28, 40
Status: Active

See www.gopfl.com for details.

SD 300

This is a picture of a picture of an SD 300. Some would say we, in the digital world, take too many images.
Sparky would say its the best camera in the world and I for one have not debated the issue. (Note: he also drives the worlds safest car)
I like my SD 300 a lot. Stephen likes his SD 300 a lot (even if he is abusive with it). My mom likes her SD 300 a lot. But Sparky, you are the King of the Club.
I think that you'd agree - this man could use an SD 300. I bet his shoulder is sore.

Ing Ga Lind Ing Ga Lind Ing Ga Lind

We have been misled. Hoodwinked. Duped. And by MacLean's of all people. It would seem either their people or the fine people at BBC have got it wrong. They said, England would play this Friday. Or at least they did in a little chart full of G1's and SF2's and Group E winners go to's. Donna, being English, has strong feelings about when they play.
Alright, you may have a point in that McLean's magazine is far from the best source for sports, and that trusting a publication from a country unable to qualify for the World Cup, well, may not be the wisest of choices. Still, it was there. In black and white, with little red fine print.
What is the big deal though? So they play Saturday and not Friday? Well, we have a wedding to go to. No problem, they play the first game. Oh, except that it is an early wedding and a ferry ride away so as it stands we are booked to board the ferry just in time for kick off. Can you believe it? Can you believe that someone would plan their wedding during World Cup? I know. Crazy. Like it's their day or something.
So maybe we'll just go to the wedding and watch the replay. No radio, that's key. Then all we have to do is make an announcement at the beginning of the wedding as to our dilemma and how we would appreciate it if all the guests were to kindly refrain from discussing the results. I'm sure no one would mind. Then we need to get out of town without seeing a fan waving a flag or some other tell tale sign. Anyone know - what's are chances of making it out of Victoria without seeing an Englishman?

Missing Flip Flops

These are not my flip flops. They look an awful lot like mine. The same brand. Same size, give or take. Same worn in foot impressions. Just not my foot impressions. They are different too. Mine are black, these are green. My straps are fabric, these straps are plastic. That is my rug. It sits at my front door, where my flip flops usually sit.
Did you - stumbling out of my apartment Saturday night, drunk, tired, trying to make your way home - climb into my flip flops? Trade ya?

Retirement?

We interrupt this Blog to bring you late breaking news.

What's that Spike?
Hold on ... Apparently Donna is retiring from racing. In fact her recent half iron in Victoria will be her last race ... well, ever.

Hold the phone ... no, wait, it looks like Donna is coming out of retirement. No official plans yet, but 2.4 minutes into her golf season and she's talking about racing Penticton.

Thank you Spike, and we now return you to your regularly scheduled blogging.

NBA 3on3 a.k.a. Hoop It Up

What used to be called Hoop It Up is now NBA 3on3. A legal battle can be the only reason for such a downgrade in a name. Still, while the name isn't as good, the tournament was better. Particularly enjoyable was the 'King of the Court' contest and the show put on by Joey Heywood a.k.a. 'King Handles'. I wish I'd had a better camera with me so that I could share some of the insane moves he had. But truth be told, he's just to fast for a camera phone. Here's a shot from the 'half time show' instead.