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.

Jip Dogg Runnin' For Charity

Let's give it up for the Jip Dogg. I understand that taking time out of his busy schedule to even run a marathon is extradition, let alone train for one. I was surprised to hear he was willing to make that commitment.

Then he took it one step further - he stepped away from the gangster lifestyle and in a move that may reflect a serious life change: he is raising money for a charity. I understand that he has joined Team Diabetes. (here is the link to his site: J-P Runs Dublin Check it out)

We're not sure just how fast a man of his criminal background can run the marathon, but if you saw episode 257 of cops, then you'll know that Jip Dogg (or - as his lawyer pointed out - quite possibly a man who wished to emulate the Notorious J I P) can sprint.

Some say that having a celebrity like Jip Diesel run a marathon only takes deserved attention away from the top runners and threatens to turn the event into a media circus. For one, I feel that's a sacrifice that is worth making. Especially when a 'former' gangster says things like,

"Y'all lucky though. The reason Jip Diesel ain't been doin' no tourin' lately is 'cuz he be doin' some runnin' and I's got lots of shit to talk about--stories from my trainin', messages of positivity for my peep's, and what it's like bein' a runna in these times. So put down that bottle of Haterade, pick up tha 4-0 and chill y'all. Respect!"

I think it shows that running can be a positive outlet for anyone. And if a wonderful charity like Team Diabetes can benefit then all the better.

And those top athletes don't need to worry to much. When I asked Jip Dogg how he expects to do in the race, he said,

"I told you one time already that I only have one rule on this so-called race. That is that I keep it real. I don't let the man tell me when I gots to go. If I ain't got nuthin', why I gonna run? A'ight? If I'm too tired to fly 'cuz I been up all night cold-lampin' then they ain't nuthin' you can do about it. A'ight?"

Happy 50th Williams

Kamloops

I'm just wondering if anyone else doubts the authenticity of Kamloops. I mean the whole area. Is it real? The first time I came down the trans-Canada highway into that dry dusty valley I was struck by a notion that has never left me. As you drive along the road you are framed in by hills whose soft folds and giant wrinkles that remind me of the folds and creases of a stiff wool blanket crumpled carefully. Beside you a river meanders its way down the valley. It looked fake to me immediately and yet oddly familiar. A feeling I couldn't understand, having grown up in such a different part of the world. I had never seen trees so sparse. These were not the thick woods of my youth.
And then the train appeared. Riding the rails between the highway and the river, it seemed to be heading straight for me. It struck me that this is just an oversized train set in someone's basement. They didn't have enough trees to cover everything and so they have spaced them out until they make more.

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.