Bil Keane's Family Circus was always a favourite of mine. Who could get enough of those nutty gremlins "Not Me" and "Ida Know", or the dotted-line routes that Billy, Dolly and Jeffy would always follow? But what topped them all were the times when Billy would take over the strip as a substitute cartoonist for a day.
That's why I thought it would be fun to have Micaela write today's blog. I now turn the keyboard over to her. Take it away Micaela...(With editing from our friends at Spell Check).
Dada wants me to write something for him today. I don't want to, but dada thinks it will be cute. He always makes me do things I don't want. Like going to bed before I'm even tired. That's the worst. It's getting harder and harder to think of ways to delay him at night. Whatever I do think of, the next night he makes me do it before bed. So now I have to put on socks, drink water, go to the bathroom, choose a blanket, choose some stuffed animals, read a book, sing a song, and tuck my shirt in before he'll even leave the room.
It's not just bedtime either. Sometimes I'm not hungry and mama and dada make me eat. Sometimes I don't want to take a picture and they make me smile anyways. Sometimes I don't want to go to school, but that's exactly where they bring me. Sometimes I like being dirty. Sometimes I like to say "poop" really loud in the middle of a restaurant. I'm only 3.
When my sisters were here, they always took my side. But now they're gone and I don't know what mama and dada did with them. That's the only reason I do what they want most times. That's why I laugh when dada says stupid things. That's why I let him tickle me and pretend to like it. And that's why I agreed to write in dada's stupid blog thing. Rachele and Marisa if you're reading this please come home. And bring presents.
Signed Micaela, Age 3
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Thursday, September 20, 2012
The Passing of A. Stone
He was a renal calculus, a solid concretion no less,
Some called him a crystal aggregation too.
Din't see his face nor shake his hand, n'er heard e'en one demand,
Laying low, for him, was just the thing to do.
'Til one fateful Saturday, 'round 'bout 9 or 10 I'd say,
The little guy at last raised the inner will,
To lift his head and look around, pack his bags and with no sound,
Make a move that would some inner drive fulfil.
It's then I 'came aware of a mild ache somewhere,
Where achin' just ain't the norm for me.
It started like a pang, soon crescendo'd to a bang,
Making it close to unthinkable to pee.
'Fore long my wee friend's journey, had me laid out on a gurney,
Cracking wise while doubled up in pain.
Admissions called me stoic, my wife thought me heroic,
But not dyin' was foremost in my brain.
In ER I made no scene 'cause they pumped me with morphine,
As my pal continued on his lonesome course.
Weren't 'til morning the next day, after scanning an x-ray,
That we knew for sure his sojourn was the source.
So back home I was then sent with no more than a parchment,
To bring along to the local pharmacy,
Where they'd make me up a pill I could take for pain to kill,
While I drank and drank to force a lot of pee.
I sit here now today, out of bed and back in play,
Believing that the little dude has passed,
With a nagging doubt that's there, having never felt a hair,
Of the final pain I'm told can be quite vast.
Just the same, I'll say goodbye to that quiet-minded guy,
Who found the guts to say "I'm here!" (albeit late),
He pulled up roots to hit the road, fighting fears he never showed,
And bravely traipsed off towards his lonesome fate.
Some called him a crystal aggregation too.
Din't see his face nor shake his hand, n'er heard e'en one demand,
Laying low, for him, was just the thing to do.
'Til one fateful Saturday, 'round 'bout 9 or 10 I'd say,
The little guy at last raised the inner will,
To lift his head and look around, pack his bags and with no sound,
Make a move that would some inner drive fulfil.
It's then I 'came aware of a mild ache somewhere,
Where achin' just ain't the norm for me.
It started like a pang, soon crescendo'd to a bang,
Making it close to unthinkable to pee.
'Fore long my wee friend's journey, had me laid out on a gurney,
Cracking wise while doubled up in pain.
Admissions called me stoic, my wife thought me heroic,
But not dyin' was foremost in my brain.
In ER I made no scene 'cause they pumped me with morphine,
As my pal continued on his lonesome course.
Weren't 'til morning the next day, after scanning an x-ray,
That we knew for sure his sojourn was the source.
So back home I was then sent with no more than a parchment,
To bring along to the local pharmacy,
Where they'd make me up a pill I could take for pain to kill,
While I drank and drank to force a lot of pee.
I sit here now today, out of bed and back in play,
Believing that the little dude has passed,
With a nagging doubt that's there, having never felt a hair,
Of the final pain I'm told can be quite vast.
Just the same, I'll say goodbye to that quiet-minded guy,
Who found the guts to say "I'm here!" (albeit late),
He pulled up roots to hit the road, fighting fears he never showed,
And bravely traipsed off towards his lonesome fate.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Some Dim Devouring of Childhood (Looking Back)
Sorry for the cryptic title, but you'll note that I respect your intelligence enough not to have spelled "some" as "s-u-m". (If you're still not with me, today I speak of a Childhood of Devouring Dim Sum.)
Only one food grips me with a deep-rooted compulsion when it's spoken of in my presence, or when a nearby scent triggers a connection, or when it crosses my mind for any other reason. That, my friends, is dim sum. (Just having written that sentence, I am now emotionally committed to securing at least some har gow and shaomai at lunch today. Probably some sticky rice. Seriously.)
Aside: In case you're wondering, I'm using Wikipedia spellings in the absence of any other 'right' way to spell the various dishes of which I speak. I would otherwise have used "stikee rhyse".
My family knows that when they really want to treat me - Birthday, Father's Day, every-day-is-Father's-Day, etc. - the destination of choice is our favourite (only?) local dim sum option: Summit Garden. But, on the weekends, if you're not there by about 11:15, you must wait and wait and wait to get a table. And if there's anything that I hate more than denying a dim sum compulsion, it's waiting.
My daughters will probably tell you that if you look up the word "inconsolable" in the dictionary, you will see a picture of me walking away from Summit Garden with an out-the-door lineup in the background. They will also tell you that when daddy is inconsolable you don't want to be around him. And when it's your fault that daddy is inconsolable because you didn't get out of bed fast enough, your best move is to silently weather the storm. I'm not proud of these times, but a compulsion's a compulsion.
So why dim sum? You know me as a pretty healthy eater and a guy who works out. Dim sum is hardly health food.
It's a childhood thing. I blame my parents (and thank them) every time the compulsion takes hold. When I was still in my fussy years - taking peanut butter and jam to school every day (yes, peanut butter - allergies weren't invented yet) - for whatever reason I would willingly eat slimy, unrecognizable dim sum delectables. Shaomai, char siu baao and spring rolls were my first love and over the years, with an increasing sense of daring, I slowly added the rest of it.
Dim sum with my parents and sisters was a weekly adventure: A long ride to downtown Toronto; a beautifully staged and executed dance between my parents as they navigated the menu and made our selections ("ARTHUR! You've got enough food here for 20!", "We can always order more if this isn't enough", etc.); my dad diligently mispronouncing dish names as he placed the order; our waitress slowly shaking her head back and forth saying "it's too muuuuch" (to which dad would inevitably reply with something like "watch us"); another dance when the food arrived, this time related to the pace of dining; my dad emptying bowl after bowl of chili sauce; my mom pulling tendons on her chicken feet so they made a fist; and little David taking it all in and developing a life-long love affair.
My mom and dad don't eat pork or shrimp anymore. I suppose they could still go for real dim sum and order chicken feet and bok choi (and use the feet to lift the vegetable to their mouths), but that would be sad. Instead, they've discovered a veggie dim sum restaurant that they love. My personal experience is that veggie dim sum is the Cinderella of food - if you don't eat it before it starts to get cold, you will suddenly find yourself chewing on something eerily similar to a slipper as it reverts to whatever gummy, foul tasting guck it started as.
So all I've got is my Field of Dreams: the family is back downtown enjoying dim sum when my dad appears from out behind a bamboo screen (surrounded by mist generated from steamed grease), lightly tossing a sesame black-bean ball up and down in his hand. My mom's there too - affectionately yelling at him that he's splattering his shirt...we sit down together and eat until we can't eat anymore.
Enough said. I love the stuff.
Only one food grips me with a deep-rooted compulsion when it's spoken of in my presence, or when a nearby scent triggers a connection, or when it crosses my mind for any other reason. That, my friends, is dim sum. (Just having written that sentence, I am now emotionally committed to securing at least some har gow and shaomai at lunch today. Probably some sticky rice. Seriously.)
Aside: In case you're wondering, I'm using Wikipedia spellings in the absence of any other 'right' way to spell the various dishes of which I speak. I would otherwise have used "stikee rhyse".
My family knows that when they really want to treat me - Birthday, Father's Day, every-day-is-Father's-Day, etc. - the destination of choice is our favourite (only?) local dim sum option: Summit Garden. But, on the weekends, if you're not there by about 11:15, you must wait and wait and wait to get a table. And if there's anything that I hate more than denying a dim sum compulsion, it's waiting.
My daughters will probably tell you that if you look up the word "inconsolable" in the dictionary, you will see a picture of me walking away from Summit Garden with an out-the-door lineup in the background. They will also tell you that when daddy is inconsolable you don't want to be around him. And when it's your fault that daddy is inconsolable because you didn't get out of bed fast enough, your best move is to silently weather the storm. I'm not proud of these times, but a compulsion's a compulsion.
So why dim sum? You know me as a pretty healthy eater and a guy who works out. Dim sum is hardly health food.
It's a childhood thing. I blame my parents (and thank them) every time the compulsion takes hold. When I was still in my fussy years - taking peanut butter and jam to school every day (yes, peanut butter - allergies weren't invented yet) - for whatever reason I would willingly eat slimy, unrecognizable dim sum delectables. Shaomai, char siu baao and spring rolls were my first love and over the years, with an increasing sense of daring, I slowly added the rest of it.
Dim sum with my parents and sisters was a weekly adventure: A long ride to downtown Toronto; a beautifully staged and executed dance between my parents as they navigated the menu and made our selections ("ARTHUR! You've got enough food here for 20!", "We can always order more if this isn't enough", etc.); my dad diligently mispronouncing dish names as he placed the order; our waitress slowly shaking her head back and forth saying "it's too muuuuch" (to which dad would inevitably reply with something like "watch us"); another dance when the food arrived, this time related to the pace of dining; my dad emptying bowl after bowl of chili sauce; my mom pulling tendons on her chicken feet so they made a fist; and little David taking it all in and developing a life-long love affair.
My mom and dad don't eat pork or shrimp anymore. I suppose they could still go for real dim sum and order chicken feet and bok choi (and use the feet to lift the vegetable to their mouths), but that would be sad. Instead, they've discovered a veggie dim sum restaurant that they love. My personal experience is that veggie dim sum is the Cinderella of food - if you don't eat it before it starts to get cold, you will suddenly find yourself chewing on something eerily similar to a slipper as it reverts to whatever gummy, foul tasting guck it started as.
So all I've got is my Field of Dreams: the family is back downtown enjoying dim sum when my dad appears from out behind a bamboo screen (surrounded by mist generated from steamed grease), lightly tossing a sesame black-bean ball up and down in his hand. My mom's there too - affectionately yelling at him that he's splattering his shirt...we sit down together and eat until we can't eat anymore.
Enough said. I love the stuff.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
What's the Internet Trying to Tell You?
For years now, the folks down at the Internet have been carefully studying each of us - our habits, the sites we visit, what we buy, who we connect to, etc. so they can deliver "personalized" content based on what they learn.
It suddenly struck me this morning (unlike the guy in the Audi who ran the light the other day) that I should be able to gain some interesting personal insights by paying attention to the ads I'm offered on Google, the e-mails I receive from Amazon, the uninvited spam I get from all over the place, and so on. Better than visiting a fortune-teller, right?
So, what has the internet apparently figured out about me?
It suddenly struck me this morning (unlike the guy in the Audi who ran the light the other day) that I should be able to gain some interesting personal insights by paying attention to the ads I'm offered on Google, the e-mails I receive from Amazon, the uninvited spam I get from all over the place, and so on. Better than visiting a fortune-teller, right?
So, what has the internet apparently figured out about me?
- Amazon is enticing me with "the Best Science Fiction Novels--Hugo Award Winners". I'm a nerd.
- Groupon thinks I might want (need?) "Age-Management Facial Treatments". I'm getting old.
- Starwood is wondering why I haven't been travelling lately. Aeroplan and Priceline seem to be wondering the same thing. I make my purchase decisions solely based on who's offering me the most points (guilty as charged).
- ScholarshipsCanada is desperately trying to figure out why I'm talking to it about University scholarships while its good friend iTunes keeps delivering me pre-school television shows. EITHER I am nuts (or just careless) and have kids at both ends of the spectrum, OR I'm on my second marriage (can't be, Groupon would have known that), OR I'm secretly raising someone else's unhappy surprise.
- According to text-spam, I keep winning free iPads. I'm stupid and/or a Leafs fan.
- And not that it's the same thing, but Facebook has apparently decided that enough is enough and I'm moving to Timeline whether I like it or not. I must learn to conform.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Reflections on Bacon
It's been 30 years (give or take) since my dog Bacon was laid to rest, and I feel like I'm ready to talk about what she meant to me.
For those of you who never met her, she was a caring, playful, conscientious dog, who never really considered herself a dog. She was with me throughout my entire childhood - and probably my closest friend and confidante during much of that time. To her, I'm pretty sure I was the son she never had.
Bacon had her quirks. She liked to stand in the middle of the street sniffing moving cars' bumpers. She loved a good leg-hump. She was terrified of storms. She howled at melodica music. And she could not keep guilt off her face when she knew she had done something wrong. She would have been a terrible poker player (what with the tail-wagging when she had a good hand, and the looking-away - avoiding eye contact - when she was bluffing).
I used to lie in bed as a child, Bacon sleeping at my feet, calculating how old I would be when she ultimately ran out of dog-years. (I believe I estimated I would be 17, not far off). I remember taking consolation in the fact that by the time I was 17, I'd be ready for it. I wasn't.
My Mom very bravely did what had to be done when my youngest sister and I were away at camp. She warned us before we left that we should say goodbye to Bacon. I don't think I did because how do you really say goodbye to a dog? I know that I could never bring myself to make that long drive with a beloved pet, and yet my Mom did. I always joke about that deed (calling her at various times an "executioner" and a "murderer", but lovingly and with tongue in cheek), but I understand that what she did was necessary and heroic. At the same time, I sure won't be letting my Mom know if I ever start peeing on the floor for fear of what she's capable of.
But back to Bacon. My earliest scribblings in Grade 1 notebooks are about her (including a series about her periods). My fondest childhood memories include hugs and licks and magnificent displays of excitement when I came home from school (I get great welcomes - sometimes - from the daughters when I walk in the door today, but nothing compares to the unmitigated joy that Bacon brought to every greeting). And I still have dreams that include Bacon, alive and well.
I hope your little corner of doggie heaven includes unrestricted living room couches, urine-proof carpets, and hump-worthy legs as far as the eye can see. You earned nothing less.
For those of you who never met her, she was a caring, playful, conscientious dog, who never really considered herself a dog. She was with me throughout my entire childhood - and probably my closest friend and confidante during much of that time. To her, I'm pretty sure I was the son she never had.
Bacon had her quirks. She liked to stand in the middle of the street sniffing moving cars' bumpers. She loved a good leg-hump. She was terrified of storms. She howled at melodica music. And she could not keep guilt off her face when she knew she had done something wrong. She would have been a terrible poker player (what with the tail-wagging when she had a good hand, and the looking-away - avoiding eye contact - when she was bluffing).
I used to lie in bed as a child, Bacon sleeping at my feet, calculating how old I would be when she ultimately ran out of dog-years. (I believe I estimated I would be 17, not far off). I remember taking consolation in the fact that by the time I was 17, I'd be ready for it. I wasn't.
My Mom very bravely did what had to be done when my youngest sister and I were away at camp. She warned us before we left that we should say goodbye to Bacon. I don't think I did because how do you really say goodbye to a dog? I know that I could never bring myself to make that long drive with a beloved pet, and yet my Mom did. I always joke about that deed (calling her at various times an "executioner" and a "murderer", but lovingly and with tongue in cheek), but I understand that what she did was necessary and heroic. At the same time, I sure won't be letting my Mom know if I ever start peeing on the floor for fear of what she's capable of.
But back to Bacon. My earliest scribblings in Grade 1 notebooks are about her (including a series about her periods). My fondest childhood memories include hugs and licks and magnificent displays of excitement when I came home from school (I get great welcomes - sometimes - from the daughters when I walk in the door today, but nothing compares to the unmitigated joy that Bacon brought to every greeting). And I still have dreams that include Bacon, alive and well.
I hope your little corner of doggie heaven includes unrestricted living room couches, urine-proof carpets, and hump-worthy legs as far as the eye can see. You earned nothing less.
Friday, September 7, 2012
The Pathetic Whimpering of a Toronto Sports Fan
It's just not fair. What happened to the Jays this year is not fair. The Harold Ballard era wasn't fair. The departures of Chris Bosh, Vince Carter, Tracy McGrady, ... weren't fair. The way the 1993 Leafs playoff run ended wasn't fair (Bad Kerry Fraser. Bad Gretzky. Boo). The fact that there is no end in sight to current Leaf futility isn't fair. I'm a nice guy. I'm a good guy. I'm a great fan. I suspect most people in the city are the same. WHAT DID WE DO TO DESERVE THIS???
I don't like people who say that the city's sports scene is so pathetic because the fans allow it to be. We go to games even when our teams are miserable. We buy merchandise. We support (and thus enable) losers. I ain't buying it. By that logic, if we stayed away, if we looked elsewhere, if we neglected our local heros...then voila! We'd be the winningest city on the continent. It doesn't work that way (except maybe in Tampa Bay). What would actually happen if we all turned our backs is we'd lose the local teams entirely because of empty stadiums, poor ratings, and a cycle of losing that keeps top players away. No, we've got the cycle of losing, but our teams are staying put (even prospering in some cases) because we're such good fans.
Now that's not to say that we're not collectively dumb, impatient, short-sighted, and for those reasons a little deserving of what we're getting. I cringe when I hear fans blaming John Farrell for the Blue Jays injury plight. I vehemently disagree with those who are trying to run Brian Burke out of town. I buy-into what Bryan Colangelo is trying to do. I believe in Alex Anthopolous. I can't remember a previous time when it's felt so much like the people running the teams knew what they were doing. And yet, the fans of Toronto don't seem to get it (even after decades of futility) - and would rather continuously seek out the sports Messiah who will fix it all in a year, rather than give smart people time to do what has to be done. As my father used to say (with a little less tact), a gestation period is a gestation period and there's no way to speed it up.
So I'm going to hold tight, continue to be a good fan, continue to believe that in each Leaf season the home side has a chance, continue to watch with interest as the baby Raptors emerge from their shell, pray that we've got this Blue Jays injury thing out of our system, and - for now - celebrate the small victories. Yay! We didn't get swept by Baltimore! Yay! Jonas Valanciunas gained valuable experience at the Olympics! Yay! The Leafs...the Leafs...the Leafs have a new President/COO!
I know patience is the answer. I know luck will turn our way at some point. I remember just how long we suffered through the Jays being pitiful, then young and talented (but losing), then on the verge, then seemingly further away than ever, then on the verge again, and then WORLD CHAMPIONS. It works. And when the winning happens, boy does it feel good. I'm biding my time baby - and all you other fans in other cities (and local fans of other teams) - you'll be watching my celebrations one day and wishing you were me.
It's been almost 20 years since any of my favourite local sports teams had anything you could accurately refer to as "success". (I knowingly exclude the Argos, the Rock, TFC and all the minor league teams from this list: My radar only tracks the big blips.) It could be another 20 years. It's not supposed to be only about the destination, right? 40 years in the desert isn't so bad. And after 40 years, imagine how good a shower's gotta feel.
Now excuse me while I resume the fetal position, clutching my Cujo puck, my still shrink-wrapped 1992 World Series VHS, and my commemorative Toronto Raptors 2001 Eastern Conference Semi-Finals First-Runner-Up ribbon. Wake me when (if) the hockey season starts.
I don't like people who say that the city's sports scene is so pathetic because the fans allow it to be. We go to games even when our teams are miserable. We buy merchandise. We support (and thus enable) losers. I ain't buying it. By that logic, if we stayed away, if we looked elsewhere, if we neglected our local heros...then voila! We'd be the winningest city on the continent. It doesn't work that way (except maybe in Tampa Bay). What would actually happen if we all turned our backs is we'd lose the local teams entirely because of empty stadiums, poor ratings, and a cycle of losing that keeps top players away. No, we've got the cycle of losing, but our teams are staying put (even prospering in some cases) because we're such good fans.
Now that's not to say that we're not collectively dumb, impatient, short-sighted, and for those reasons a little deserving of what we're getting. I cringe when I hear fans blaming John Farrell for the Blue Jays injury plight. I vehemently disagree with those who are trying to run Brian Burke out of town. I buy-into what Bryan Colangelo is trying to do. I believe in Alex Anthopolous. I can't remember a previous time when it's felt so much like the people running the teams knew what they were doing. And yet, the fans of Toronto don't seem to get it (even after decades of futility) - and would rather continuously seek out the sports Messiah who will fix it all in a year, rather than give smart people time to do what has to be done. As my father used to say (with a little less tact), a gestation period is a gestation period and there's no way to speed it up.
So I'm going to hold tight, continue to be a good fan, continue to believe that in each Leaf season the home side has a chance, continue to watch with interest as the baby Raptors emerge from their shell, pray that we've got this Blue Jays injury thing out of our system, and - for now - celebrate the small victories. Yay! We didn't get swept by Baltimore! Yay! Jonas Valanciunas gained valuable experience at the Olympics! Yay! The Leafs...the Leafs...the Leafs have a new President/COO!
I know patience is the answer. I know luck will turn our way at some point. I remember just how long we suffered through the Jays being pitiful, then young and talented (but losing), then on the verge, then seemingly further away than ever, then on the verge again, and then WORLD CHAMPIONS. It works. And when the winning happens, boy does it feel good. I'm biding my time baby - and all you other fans in other cities (and local fans of other teams) - you'll be watching my celebrations one day and wishing you were me.
It's been almost 20 years since any of my favourite local sports teams had anything you could accurately refer to as "success". (I knowingly exclude the Argos, the Rock, TFC and all the minor league teams from this list: My radar only tracks the big blips.) It could be another 20 years. It's not supposed to be only about the destination, right? 40 years in the desert isn't so bad. And after 40 years, imagine how good a shower's gotta feel.
Now excuse me while I resume the fetal position, clutching my Cujo puck, my still shrink-wrapped 1992 World Series VHS, and my commemorative Toronto Raptors 2001 Eastern Conference Semi-Finals First-Runner-Up ribbon. Wake me when (if) the hockey season starts.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
A Plea for Human Interaction
When I started to write down my thoughts on how technology is undermining the basics of human interaction, I realized that a) my opinions will seem very archaic to some, and b) I can't put voice to all of my opinions without boring the pants off of you. So, I've distilled my thoughts down to 3 small bits of advice. But in exchange, I've decided to be preachy.
a) I'm communicating this electronically,
b) while I've been writing this I've also been checking my e-mail, making dinner and listening to music, and
c) I don't have time to read over what I've just writtin.
- Pick up the phone. Human interaction should be a sensual experience. Face-to-face interaction can play on all of your senses (if you're wondering about touch and taste, I concede that they're only sometimes part of the interaction). The phone - AT LEAST - let's you put your hearing to work. E-mails and texts stimulate exactly none of your senses. That's why people need emoticons, LOLs, BIG BLUE FONT, and all of the other artificial devices that are supposed to compensate for the sterility of e-mail and text (when all they really do is murder subtlety and insult intelligence). All that to say that if you can't be in the room with someone, and you have something of substance to say or to discuss, pick up the damn phone (and yes, I heartily endorse Skyping as an even better alternative sometimes).
- Give people, tasks, and all other important things your full and undivided attention. When you're with somebody, be with them - not the collection of people in your contact list. When you're studying for an exam, turn off the music, the tv, and the phone. When you're at work, work; when you're driving, drive; and when you're walking, walk. Don't assume that because you can multi-task, you should.
If you don't believe me on this point, try a simple experiment. Spend a full 30 minutes writing an important (and lengthy) e-mail while simultaneously watching something (with substance) on tv. Now spend 30 minutes writing another e-mail of equal importance in absolute silence, followed by 30 minutes watching the same tv show. Compare the two e-mails. You know which one will be better. And if your e-mails are equally good, notice how much you missed the first time you watched the show on tv. Now ask yourself, would I rather do two things in 30 minutes half-assedly, or two things really well in 60 minutes? Even if you'd rather have the extra half-hour to do two more half-assed things, ask yourself what you're doing to people you interact with when you give them only half (or one-third, or one-quarter) of your attention. - Don't be lazy about quality. Spellcheck is not the same as re-reading something before you send it. Capitalize words that should be capitalized. Capitalize names. Use punctuation. Make sure that your resume is not only pretty, it's also error-free. Take some time to ask if and how your e-mail or text can be interpreted by someone who wasn't in your head at the time you wrote it. I realize there are times when it's not worth the effort to worry about quality. But I don't believe it's something you can or should turn on and off.
a) I'm communicating this electronically,
b) while I've been writing this I've also been checking my e-mail, making dinner and listening to music, and
c) I don't have time to read over what I've just writtin.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Favourite Movies
In setting up my blog profile yesterday, I was asked to identify my favourite movies. That's tough. I have seen so many movies over the years - and since I enjoy the experience of seeing a movie so much, I tend to give the film the benefit of the doubt and like it (especially when I was younger, less discerning, and seeing movies in theatres more often). So when you ask me about favourite movies, the ones that float to the top of my list do so possibly because they were good films, but certainly because of the context in which I saw them (my age, where I was in my life, where I saw it, with whom I saw it, ...) That's really the only way I can name a few favourites.
(I expect the same is true for just about everybody if they are completely honest about "favourites" in anything. The Leafs are my favourite sports team, and they're far from being good - but I've got so much emotion invested in them... My favourite meal of all time was a hand-ripped turkey, swiss, and tomato sandwich - eaten with my two older daughters in wet suits on a surf board we had just pulled up onto the sand on a chilly Vancouver Island beach in the late summer with the sun peeking out from the clouds for the first time that day. In this latter context, if I had watched "The Master of Disguise" on that surfboard I expect I'd be identifying it as a favourite movie. Maybe not.)
So with all that said, and in case you still care, here are some favourites. I'd be interested in yours, but more interested in the context that made them your favourites:
(I expect the same is true for just about everybody if they are completely honest about "favourites" in anything. The Leafs are my favourite sports team, and they're far from being good - but I've got so much emotion invested in them... My favourite meal of all time was a hand-ripped turkey, swiss, and tomato sandwich - eaten with my two older daughters in wet suits on a surf board we had just pulled up onto the sand on a chilly Vancouver Island beach in the late summer with the sun peeking out from the clouds for the first time that day. In this latter context, if I had watched "The Master of Disguise" on that surfboard I expect I'd be identifying it as a favourite movie. Maybe not.)
So with all that said, and in case you still care, here are some favourites. I'd be interested in yours, but more interested in the context that made them your favourites:
- Heaven Can Wait. I first saw it when I was in the throes of my first childhood crush.
- Shrek. Loved it for all the right reasons AND it was cemented as a favourite when I saw it for the second time on a projected screen in Italy with my wife and (then little) two older daughters.
- Toy Story 3. Saw it around the time my older daughter was just packing up for her first year of University. Loved it and hated it. Toy Story 2 was my "birthday movie" with my wife and daughters during a really memorable stay in downtown Toronto that included an indoor/outdoor winter swim at the Sheraton. Any one of the three movies makes me very sentimental.
- Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Don't exactly remember the context, so I'll just chalk it up to Gene Wilder (if you pressed me to name my #1 all time favourite actor, it would have to be him, mainly for his performance in this film).
- Love Actually. I love good (and I emphasize good) romantic comedies - Keeping the Faith, Serendipity, Say Anything. This one stands out because of Emma Thompson and Alan Rickman.
- The Usual Suspects. No explanation required. Context irrelevant.
- Silence of the Lambs. Best book adaptation ever, and I loved the book.
- Lord of the Rings. Best book adaptation ever, and I loved the book.
- Rat Race. Saw it in the theatre with my parents as an adult. I have never seen any person laugh as uncontrollably as my Dad did during that movie. Actually, that's not true. On a red-eye to England, my Dad and I were both watching "Just for Laughs, Gags". We were both exhausted and giddy. The cabin was (otherwise) silent. And my Dad put on the greatest display of uncontrollable laughter ever. But we're talking about movies, not tv.
- 2001, A Space Odyssey. In the early Seventies I was in a hippie-designed and run "open concept" school. Students had a fully equipped tv studio at their disposal. We produced some sort of tv show about 2001. I never understood the movie, but my Dad always promised to explain it to me when I was older. I'm pretty sure he didn't get it either.
- Titanic. I think going back to childhood, the story of the Titanic (and that song) was probably my first introduction to death and tragedy. The movie was everything my childhood imagination had conjoured up.
- Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Having written my final exam in my final year of University, I sat alone in my (then empty) rental house and had a really good cry. Anything by Frank Capra would have done that to me that night.
- Starman. First movie-date with my then future wife.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
First Post Ever
There's a lot going on in my life. I've got 3 daughters - two of whom are now off to University. The third one, being only 3, isn't close. That means that my wife and I are dealing with both "Empty Nest Syndrome" and first day of pre-Kindergarten at the same time. Whereas I thought having the little one around would blunt the trauma of losing the other two, it turns out that the opposite is true: The little one (let's call her "Micaela"), is a constant reminder of the other two as small children, and the other two make me very aware of how fleeting it all is.
On top of the dynamics of coming to grips with my own mortality, I've also got a new tv season to deal with, overcoming shin splints so I can get back to running Half Marathons, a business to help run, a Zombie book series to finish reading, and now - a Blog to populate with amusing content. So far, it's looking like tv and Zombies will win out.
So what brings me here? A few years ago I decide to start posting stuff to Facebook to see what social networking was all about. I found a bunch of friends, made a bunch of friends, and discovered (or re-discovered) how much I like attention. I never ever used my FB status to convey status. To me, it was always a "morning smile" (like we used to have in one of Toronto's newspaper when I was a kid). In fact, it took me many months to realize that you could read other people's postings too. (Sometimes - not often, mind you - I found others to be amusing. Usually, I couldn't figure out how I was supposed to react to the news that they were eating peanut butter, or to their cut-and-paste of song lyrics.)
People started to encourage me to use Twitter (yeah right, even fewer characters) or to start Blogging. It took me this long to try.
For those of you who don't know me personally, I'm not nearly as arrogant as I am making myself sound (what you can't see is that I just accidently typed the previous sentence without the word 'not' in it - I guess that tells you something). I have no idea if, when, or how I'll use this platform as an outlet for my stifled creativity. We'll see how it goes.
My guess is that while the title of the blog is about making sense, I'll be doing little of that. You're welcome to read along, but you have to realize that my focus is really on amusing myself. That said, if I amuse you too it'll make me happy to know it. (It'll make me a lot less happy to know if I piss you off or anything, so feel free to keep those thoughts to yourself). My daughters know that I'm understating my need for positive reinforcement, but those of you who've been reading my FB statuses also know that.
See you. The end.
On top of the dynamics of coming to grips with my own mortality, I've also got a new tv season to deal with, overcoming shin splints so I can get back to running Half Marathons, a business to help run, a Zombie book series to finish reading, and now - a Blog to populate with amusing content. So far, it's looking like tv and Zombies will win out.
So what brings me here? A few years ago I decide to start posting stuff to Facebook to see what social networking was all about. I found a bunch of friends, made a bunch of friends, and discovered (or re-discovered) how much I like attention. I never ever used my FB status to convey status. To me, it was always a "morning smile" (like we used to have in one of Toronto's newspaper when I was a kid). In fact, it took me many months to realize that you could read other people's postings too. (Sometimes - not often, mind you - I found others to be amusing. Usually, I couldn't figure out how I was supposed to react to the news that they were eating peanut butter, or to their cut-and-paste of song lyrics.)
People started to encourage me to use Twitter (yeah right, even fewer characters) or to start Blogging. It took me this long to try.
For those of you who don't know me personally, I'm not nearly as arrogant as I am making myself sound (what you can't see is that I just accidently typed the previous sentence without the word 'not' in it - I guess that tells you something). I have no idea if, when, or how I'll use this platform as an outlet for my stifled creativity. We'll see how it goes.
My guess is that while the title of the blog is about making sense, I'll be doing little of that. You're welcome to read along, but you have to realize that my focus is really on amusing myself. That said, if I amuse you too it'll make me happy to know it. (It'll make me a lot less happy to know if I piss you off or anything, so feel free to keep those thoughts to yourself). My daughters know that I'm understating my need for positive reinforcement, but those of you who've been reading my FB statuses also know that.
See you. The end.
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