from my inbox this morning

What follows is an email exchange between Dad and I this morning.  Remember, he lives in Mexico.

subject line: Rotties

I  was walking near home today when a honkin big pick[-up] drives off the hiway onto the frontage road and rolls down the window and says "Art Wait." It's a lady vet friend of mine from Guad and she has a beautiful but thin 1 1/2  yr old Rottie bitch in the back of the truck and she's insisting she's gonna give me the dog right now because she's relocating the dog for a client who can't keep her and she planned to take her to a ranch as a guard dog but when she met her she said there's no way this sweety is gonna live where she doesn't get people contact. I took her out of the crate for little walk on the frontage road and she probably hasn't been on a leash more than a dozen times in her life but when she realized she was going to be okay she was more like a lap sittin' kissy faced golden retriever. So I convinced the vet to hold her for 2 days and tonite I'm calling in some markers hoping to find this girl a home. Couldn't help but share this with you after reading about the Budda. Hope spring has finally found you. Love Dad

Spring? What's that? Woke to snow again yesterday. Is it ever going to stop?


Enough wankin'. Hope you find a home for that very sweet sounding girl. If your markers fall through, you could deliver her up here. ;)
 
 
I'd take her in a heartbeat, she sounds like she's going to turn in to a really nice dog.

The Buddha, part 2

TFHU was married before we became roommates (again, we had lived together {as roommates} quite some years before) and he went and got himself a Rottweiller pup.  This was a pretty nice little dog and when he was about 4 months old he started to show signs of lameness beyond growing pains that dogs sometimes end up with.  He was taken to the vet and diagnosed with the canine equivalent of muscular dystrophy and had to be put down.  Turned out that out of a litter of 12, all 6 of the boys had it and had to be destroyed and the breeder ended up giving him a female which he proptly named Butch.  EEW, that's just a tacky name for a girl. 

When he and his wife split, the poor dog was farmed out to friends who left her in the back yard all the time and she didn't get a chance to develop any people skills (or any other skills for that matter).  All she knew was "If  sit, I get a cookie", and that the dish of food was slid through the sliding door which was immediately slammed shut.  Oh, and chickens are really stupid things that taste really good after they've stuck their heads through a hole in the wall of the chicken coop. 

Anyhoo, we had been living together with my 2 dogs, Harley and Pig (Pig's a whole 'nother story, that'll come 'round later) and every time we went to see Butchie, it broke my heart.  The people she was with weren't dog people and the wife was terrified of her.   So I started to work on him.  It took about a month, but I finally got him to bring her home.  The very first time that she met my cat Hobbes, she stuck that great big beak right in Hobby's face to say hello and ol' Hobbes let 'er have it with both feet.  She had a very healthy respect for cats after that.  And then she met The Pig who immediately grabbed her by the lip and hung on for dear life.  You've never seen anything quite as funny as a Pomeranian hanging off a Rotti's lip as she's back-peddling across the room.  (she weighed 1 pound from the day she was full grown 'til the day she passed)

The first night home he insisted that she wasn't sleeping in the house, even though my 2 did.  Well, she started to howl about 1/2 hour after we went to bed.  He got up, went outside and gave her a whack.  He went back to bed and it started again.  So he went out and hit her again.  Nice welcome to the neighborhood.  The third time she started, I went out.  And invited her in.  She slept on my side of the bed from that time on.

That night she chewed up a ball cap that had been hanging on the corner of the door and fell off when she rolled over and bumped it.  OK, bad dog.  My girls were used to being left in the house when I was gone and mostly they'd just sleep, so when we went to town the next day to do a grocery run we didn't think anything of leaving her loose as well.  Wrong.  When we got home she had chewed the toe off one of my boots.  Damn it.  The next time we left her, she started on the couch.  You know the ones with the loose cushions on the back that look real purdy but are totally uncomfortable.  She had torn a corner off one of the seat cushions and the went to work on one of the back cushions.  Do you know what's inside of them?  Little bitty pieces of foam.  You can't vacuum that shit up, you can't sweep it up, you pretty much have to pick up every little bitty piece BY HAND.  For. The. Next. Six. Months.  When she started on my laundy I finally had enough and told TFHU that he had to do something with her and off she went for 3 weeks to a trainer who had been with the RCMP canine unit.  We weren't allowed to go see her until she was ready to come home which was kind of hard for me as I'd become pretty attached to her even with her problems.

3 long weeks.  For me it seemed an eternity but finally the day came that we could go see her and I'd take a lesson with the trainer (I think he just somehow knew she was going to end up being my dog), and then another week before we could bring her home.  Our lesson went well, with me learning just how to use a pinch collar, how heavy, and at what times (now don't go all animal rights on me, a pinch collar is a tool, and you have to use the right tool for the job at hand and at that time it was the right tool to use).  The next week the lesson went even better than the first and we were able to bring her home with the recommendation that we crate her when we weren't home.  (BTW, that pinch collar never was put to use after she came home, didn't need it)

So we did.  After crating her every time for about a month, I had to run to the store for some little thing and left her loose with the girls.  When I got home she hadn't turned into destructo-dog.  YAY!  I started leaving her for longer periods of time without a hitch and nary a  problem.  She had even started sleeping in her crate during the day with the door open and we ended up taking it right off.

One night we had company stay over and when she got up to use the facilities she went in just fine, but when she was finished, the Bood wouldn't let her out of the bathroom which was right across the hall from the bedroom.  I heard Budda growling and the company saying "Butch, you're scaring me" and had to come to the rescue.  Good dog.  She's definitely not going to let anybody in while we're sleeping !  Another time, TFHU had to go to an early morning meeting and had gone out to start the truck and come back in the house and went in to the bathroom.  Well she heard the truck start and when the bathroom door closed (kinda), she came unglued, charged the door and slapped it back into the drywall and went after him 'til he said "Butch, it's me!".  Wow, talk about sheepish.  She all but turned herself inside-out trying to apologise.  After that one I knew that dog would go to the ends of the earth for me.

There's more Buddha stories, but that's enough for now.  Thanks for reading   D

Carolyn Dawn Johnson

A young lady out of Medicine Hat, Alberta called CDJ by her fans, who is very overlooked by mainstream radio, IMHO.  Her music reaches down and grabs me at my very core.  She's a talented enough musician that Keith Urban has appeared on a few of her albums.  Her latest, "Stop for Me" is just one example of her talent for writing.

... I didn't understand

    That you could have pockets

    Overflowing with determination

    You give it all you got

    With no congratulations

    And still be at the bottom of the hill...

...Sitting on a suitcase

   Crossing fingers counting the days til it arrived

   I was sure that it was coming

   But somehow it just passed me by

   Oh how could I be so naive

   I always thought this train would stop for me...

Says a whole lot to me, especially about the position of women in my chosen profession.

Another is this particular gem.

...You can't jump in the water

    With one foot out and one foot in

    I think I'd rather just be alone

    Than to try and love that way again...

One more crumb

That won't fill me up

One more sip

That won't fill my cup

Don't ask me for another night

'Cause baby I can't

I'm tired of calling cabs in the morning light

With my high heels in my hand...

Sorry if I sond a little maudlin today, Gentle Reader.  I must just be tired

Amazing Grace, Il Divo

Those of you on my personal email list have already seen this one but dang, it really is one of my personal favorites, done just right.  Enjoy   D

from my email inbox this morning

Thanks Dad

I've seen Mr. Rohn speak.  Always a pleasure and a bunch of great stuff to be learned from him.

I LOVE THESE SHORT AND SIMPLE MESSAGES




Some wisdom from J. Rohn



My first mentor, Mr. Shoaff, over a five-year period of time when I was age 25 to 31, taught me some extraordinarily simple things, before his untimely passing at age 49. He only went through the 9th grade in school. He never finished high school, never went to college, never went to a university. So he put his experiences and ideas in very simple language, which, I think for me—a kid from the farms of Idaho—was so important.

When I would say, “This is all the company pays,” Mr. Shoaff would say, “No, that is all they pay you.” I thought, “That is a new way to look at it.” I told him things cost too much. But he said, “No, you can’t afford them.” Well, that was a new concept for me. He promised that if I would improve, then I would qualify for more money. So I learned that we don’t have to work on the company, we have to work on ourselves. Now if it had been technical, I would have missed it. If it had been mystic, I would have backed away. But it was just basic, blunt “a-b-c” stuff that I hadn’t thought of before. For me it was the beginning of what he called “personal development.”

Mr. Shoaff also taught me that life puts some of the more valuable things on the high shelf so that you can’t get to them until you qualify. If you want the things on the high shelf, you must stand on the books you read. With every book you read, you get to stand a little higher.

And the “biggie” that forever had an impact on me: “Success is something you attract by the person you become.” That phrase changed my life. Success is not to be pursued, but to be attracted by the person you become. Put your energy into becoming a better you, the best you. Learn the skills. Practice the skills. Attract the success.

Finally

Having lived on the farm for the first 4 1/2 years of her life, Jazz was definitely not used to people walking by on the street.  (when you live on 33 acres for most of that life, there isn't anybody walking by on the street)  When we moved to the city she started taking up a position on the couch and 'surveying her domain' which didn't really bother me until she started barking every time someone was walking by, just about elevating me out of my chair here at the compute.  GEES LOUISE, would you knock that off?
At first I told her "Quiet, they're allowed to be there." (which worked well for The Buddha), then it was "QUIET", after that it was "QUIET and get off!" and then it was chase her around the house trying to kill her (just kidding, by the time I would have caught up to her she wouldn't have remembered what the heck I was chasing her for). 
Well, guess what?  Just 10 minutes ago I was sitting here and she had assumed the position when someone walked by.  All I heard was a low growl from her and when I turned around and looked her hackles were standing straight up and she was looking out the window but NO BARK!  Of course I told her that she was a good girl, that's what I was originally looking for.
It's only been a year and a half but yay, maybe we have that behavior changed.

I hate barking F$%&)%#@ dogs.  I don't mind if they're barking for a reason such as an intruder or while trying to get the other to play but they really don't need to vocalise for no good reason, even my Pomeranian was that way.  Like children, they should be seen and not heard.
Wow, it just happened again.  Shhhh, let's don't jinx it, ok?

from my email inbox this morning

Thanks Dad.

Be Committed to Keeping Your Personal and Professional Life in Balance by Denis Waitley


It is so important to be living in prime time, rather than watching TV in prime time. On your way to success make certain you grow friendships, not just bank and mutual fund accounts. Life is a collection of memories, not of material things. The Egyptian pharaohs were buried with all their treasures, and were mummified in hopes that they could enjoy their bounty in the next life. But we are only caretakers of possessions. There is a big difference between standard of living and quality of life. Standard of living is based on income earned. Quality of life is the enjoyment of the millions of minutes in between accomplishments.

Having money is only one aspect of wealth. To the sick person, wealth is health. To the lonely person, wealth is someone to talk to and share with. To the estranged person, wealth is hearing words of love and forgiveness.

Borrowing the free verse style from Brother Jeremiah's classic poem, I'd Pick More Daisies, here are a few things I'd do, the second time around.

I'd laugh at my misfortunes more. Spend more time counting my blessings than my blemishes. Spend more time playing with my children and grandchildren and less time watching performers in the arena. More time enjoying what I have, less time thinking about the things I don't have. If I could live my life again, I'd walk in the rain more without an umbrella and listen less to weather reports. I'd spend more time looking at trees and climbing them, less time flipping through magazines made from dead trees. I'd spend more time fully involved in the present moment, less time remembering and anticipating. I'd smile more, frown less.

And most of all I'd be more spontaneous and active, less hesitant and subdued. When some spur of the moment idea came up to go hiking, playing Frisbee, coloring Easter eggs, singing in a chorus, going kayaking, or watching an eclipse, I'd be less likely to sit in my chair objecting, "It's not in our plan."

I'd be inclined to jump up and run out the door next time and say, "Yes, we can!" Although I can't live my life again, I'm still going to live the new way every day any way. I'll never have all the moments I've missed, but I do have all the time remaining.

Action Idea: Choose one activity this month that you really want to engage in, but that you have been putting off because it isn't a priority. Schedule that activity in your planner, as if it were a "must do" business or financial commitment. When you have done it, while you are still feeling good, schedule one for next month, and do it as long as you live

A good-bye to a rodeo legend

Rodeo legend an unforgettable Buddy




Old-timers will never forget the life of recently deceased Heaton



By Dwayne Erickson, For the Calgary Herald



Buddy Heaton, a legendary rodeo clown who rode a buffalo named Old Grunter in John F. Kennedy’s 1961 inaugural parade, died on Thursday at a Kansas nursing home.


He was 82.

Rodeo newcomers may never have heard of him; rodeo old-timers have never forgotten him.

Heaton, who performed at the Calgary Stampede in the early 1950s, was always known simply as Buddy. But, he actually had a registered first name. It was Harold, though most never knew it.

Stock contractors Harry Vold and the late Reg Kesler first brought him to Canada and in the early 1970s, Heaton rented and lived at a place in the De Winton area for about three years.

An outrageous individual known across the entire North American continent, he rarely lived by the general rules of society.

Most notably, Heaton never had Secret Service clearance to ride in Kennedy’s inaugural parade. He just fell in with a group from Fort Worth.

Near the end of the parade and at the tail end of it, Heaton swung Old Grunter around and, yelling and waving his arms, charged towards the stage where Kennedy was seated.

Stories say members of the Secret Service drew their guns but, after things settled down, wound up shaking his hand.

Demonstrating there were no hard feelings about his parade crashing, JFK later had Heaton perform for him on two occasions.

Heaton also performed in front of Queen Elizabeth II, Winston Churchill and Gen. Omar Bradley.

The imposing 6-foot-3, 217 lb. skilled animal trainer began a 33-year career as a rodeo clown in 1944 at the age of 15.

He also competed in professional rodeo’s three roughstock events and the steer wrestling in the 1950s.

Calgary’s Slim Weegar, now retired at 66, got his rodeo clown schooling from Heaton.

“We used to put on wild west shows in Alberta, B.C. and the U.S. Northwest,” Weegar recalls.

“We’d run three wagon chariot races and I was in one of them,” he said. “I’d be in front and closing in on the finish line when we pulled the pin.

“The horses took off, the tongue hit the ground, the wagon flipped, a wheel flew off, away I went and Buddy would win the race — always.”

Heaton not only trained buffalo, but Appaloosa horses and Texas longhorns.

“One of his Appaloosas would jump over a convertible car,” Weegar reported. “At midways up here, he sold tickets to show off a five-legged horse and a longhorn he claimed had horns that were eight feet long. Actually, I think they were six foot two.

“The horse had about a four-inch fifth leg that stuck out of a knee,” Weegar chuckled of the memory.

Heaton and Slim Pickins, a bullfighter who also worked the Calgary Stampede before going on to star in many Hollywood movies, often worked together.

“That’s how I got my name,” said Weegar. “They said I fought bulls like Slim.

“Pickins was a businessman, Buddy was all brawn, often undergoing enormous physical punishment.”

Heaton and his buffalo also appeared on the TV show Wagon Train in 1960, as well as the feature films Bus Stop, How the West Was Won and Desert Sands.

He put on two rodeos at De Winton and among his guests were a couple of stars from Wagon Train.

Heaton often staged outlandish pranks to garner media attention and on one occasion rode Old Grunter up a freight elevator at the Salt Lake City Tribune for a meeting in the newsroom.

Heaton was inducted into the Kansas Cowboy Hall of Fame in 2005 and spent his last seven years at The Legacy at Park View nursing home in Ulysses, Kan.

He is survived by wife, Laura Lee; sons, Ted and Tom; daughters, Rhonda, Linda and Cindy. He was preceded in death by son Buddy.

The funeral is scheduled for Monday morning at 10:30 at the Country View Church near Ulysses.



With files from Jim Bainbridge, PRCA (Professional RodeoCowboys Association)communications.

Good things happen to good people

This morning one of our service guys was in the office waiting to be directed as to where to go.  We got to talking and he told me about how he was told that he could go out and get any service contracts at hotels etc. that he wanted and that while he was in his interview he was told that the company wanted to be up to 20 service vans by next year.

Seems that the story has changed.  He's expected to go out and find the work and also to do it as well.  WTF???  How the hell can you be on the road finding work and DOING it at the same time as well as being dispatched out of the office to jobs here and there? (most of which have already been completed, somebody really needs to get organized)  I guess the boss (A L) told him this morning that if he couldn't find enough work to keep himself busy he wasn't needed here.  NICE.  Seems he's been working half days for a while and he has a family to feed so that just doesn't cut it in my eyes.

Well, I've been playing this game here in town for 10 years and I know which contractors to go to for what and I gave him a couple of names.  One of them my friend Andy.  He talked to the first guy and I shot an email over to Andy about him.  The first guy said to send in a resume, Andy said to come in for an interview.  Guess what?  HE GOT THE JOB!  Yippee.  Paolo is a great guy, knows his stuff and is a go-getter of the first degree.  He's been hired as a service manager and salesman at the company that Andy works for and is sooooo grateful for the lead that he's taking me to lunch Sunday.
But I didn't do anything other than send him over; he sold himself.

Seems like a rant day

Seems to be a whole lot of ranting going on all over the blogoshere today, so I might as well chime in too and get this off my chest before I 'splode.
It started to rain here last night 'round 8, and southern Alberta being southern Alberta, turned in to snow.  Yup, 8" of that heavy, wet, heart atack inducing white crap.  While Andy is putting up pics of flowers and making the rest of jealous, and Buck is showing off his nekkid feet, THIS is what I woke up to this morning.

The deck was clear of snow yesterday, Gentle Reader.

Someone make it stop!
Beer me!

Exes at the wedding?

So.  Prince William, eldest son of the late Diana, Princess of Wales is getting married to Kate (of who knows where or what).  Of the roughly 250 invited guests, there are reported to be 6 (count 'em, 6) ex boy/girlfriends on the list.  How very bizarre is that? 
This situation opened up a conversation this morning on the radio about if you would invite an ex to your wedding, which ended up being with most people replying 'NO'.
One lady called in and said that at her girlfriend's wedding, her future MIL had brought the groom's ex as a guest!  How much of a slap in the face is that?

And in other news we're expecting another 2" of snow over night.  Can someone please make it stop?  Any volunteers to do the world-famous naked sun-and-heat dance in the front yard to ward off the evil snow gods?  Anybody?   Anybody?

I've landed enough work so far this year to keep the guys in the field busy for the rest of the year.  I wonder if the lads will let me run at least one of these projects, at least that would keep me busier than I have been lately.  Funny how you get promised a whole lot of things during an interview that never come to pass.  They just finally (after 6 months) decided to order me some business cards.  YeeHaw, we be movin' to the big time!  Beware the coffee shop interview!

I still haven't got the hideous wall paper stripped in either my room or the second spare bedroom, bin too busy with the curling.  I guess as soon as the last bosnspiel (curling speak for tournament) is over this weekend I'll have to get after it, I'm tired of living in a half-done house.  But then the landlord is going to replace the fence this summer and then the flooring next year.  Wouldn't the flooring have been a whole lot easier before I moved in, lock, stock, dogs, and a lot of over-sized furniture?  He did the deck before I moved in.  Had an energy assement done, had the basement and attic re-insulated and got his 'guy' to replace the windows (which is still only half done and I can't replace the drapes that Jazz shredded and put the blinds up 'cause they'll just take them down to replace the windows and I hate doing any task twice!  I haven't even re-hung my artwork, the walls need an extra coat and they'll just take it down.  Again.  Sigh...)

I was flattered! TWICE

A couple of years ago, Dad called for my regular Christmas call and I mentioned how there weren't very many days that I didn't miss being on the tools as opposed to in the office.  He very kindly reminded me of exactly how many years, months, weeks and days it was until the big 5-0.  Gee, thanks, Dad, that's all I've thought of since!
Last week, a salesman that I've known for about 10 years or so was in my office and we got to talking about how long we'd known each other.  I first met Robert when I was working at one of the electrical distributors here in town.  He was in the warehouse picking orders and I was on the order desk and on the counter first thing in the morning.  He got promoted from the warehouse to the counter and I had the privelege of training him.  We kinda lost touch when I moved on and then it turned out that he's now the salesman for the company that I work for now.  He was sitting there, telling me how he must be getting old because his daughter can move him to tears by saying 'I love you' or 'You're the best Dad in the whole wide world' (she's 10) and we got to trading stories.  He looked over at me and said "You know, for somebody that's got to be 43... you look more like 35".  I asked him to seriously tell me what he was originally going to say and he told me again 43. 
This morning another salesman from a different wholesaler was in and we got to talking about how if we had known we were going to live this long, we'd have taken better care of our bodies.  I told him about my Dad, who lives in Mexico now, has trained prob'ly every horse in the vicinity and when  he ran out of horses, he started in on the dogs (and we all know there's no shortage of dogs in Mexico).  He has a regular trap-line of clients' dogs that he works with, walking each at least an hour and training on them and getting to each client's place by bicycle so I wasn't too worried about him having to replace a knee or a hip. 
To which Mike said "Your Dad can't be that old, you're only 42 tops."
When I told Robert that I had recently had my 48th, he said nah, 43 and you don't have to worry about the big 5-0 for another 7 years.  Mike had a hard time believing it and told me he would never have guessed.

Life is good!

From the Sports pages of the Calgary Herald

Love him or hate him, Don Cherry's got class.  (I love him and think he's hilarious)
Quit complaining about Don Cherry

The Stanley Cup playoffs are just around the corner — and you know what that means.



It’s time for that annual rite of spring: The self-righteous indignation and collective hand-wringing over Don Cherry and his mangling of the Queen’s English, among his other crimes against humanity and the easily offended.



It’s a funny thing — to borrow one of Grapes’ favoured and oft-used expressions. All this Cherry picking is not only misguided, it’s tiresome, lame, predictable and — sacre bleu! — so very Toronto.



If one were to go solely by what the sweethearts say about Hockey Night in Canada’s most — only? — colourful character, one could be forgiven for thinking Grapes is a drooling, knuckle-dragging troll who somehow clawed his way out of a cave somewhere on the Canadian Shield, leaving a trail of slobber and spittle as he dragged his way into that most holy of CBC shrines, the hockey broadcast centre. Installed in his corner, he sounds off with loud and reliable furor on the issues of the day, opposite that most earnest and righteous of hockey deans, Ron MacLean, even as CBC engineers tremble nervously over the kill switch.



Cherry’s crimes against humanity — including, but not limited to, his assertion late last year that newly elected Toronto Mayor Rob Ford would be the “greatest mayor this city has ever seen,” — take in a wide range of offences, his critics say, from his vocal support of “enforcement” on the ice, to his unwavering belief that Canadian hockey jobs should go to Canadians first, and non-Canadians second. That doesn’t make one un-Canadian, his argument goes.



“Protectionism” is not a word in Cherry’s vocabulary — “thinkin’ straight” is more like it — but neither is “philosophy.” He simply says what he feels, and tells it like it is, to his eyes. A pandering sap, he is not.



Grapes likes to keep it real, even when he knows it will get him into trouble. And it gets him into trouble a lot. The truth can hurt — unless, of course, one can’t or won’t hear the truth between the one-liners.



Grapes’ argument for keeping fighting in the game is, like most of his arguments, simple and basic: High-stick artists will take liberties with the game’s star players, unless there’s somebody on the ice with the burliness and brawn to show them the error of their ways. Wayne Gretzky was great, Grapes’ argument goes, but even Gretzky might not have become the Great One without Dave Semenko out there to keep “the other guys in line.”



Common sense is easily lost in the translation, whenever Cherry starts sounding off on such no-brainers as the need for no-touch icing; the real reason behind the game’s recent spate of concussions (players’ growing lack of respect for other players); the wonky safety glass in some hockey arenas (‘I tell you, one day, somebody’s gonna get killed”); stanchions that jut out onto the playing surface in some arenas (“I’m startin’ to sound like a broken record here, but somebody’s gonna get killed one of these days”); over-priced hockey equipment for middle-class families struggling to get by (“Now, you kids out there, you don’t really need that $3,000 pair of skates, just because your friend has them; give your mom and dad a break, OK?”); how only weenies, pinkos and the International Skating Federation call it “ice hockey”: and, perhaps, his most criminal offence of all, taking the time at the end of each Coach’s Corner to remember — and mention by name — those who’ve fallen in the service of their country in unknown, faraway fields.



Cherry’s penchant for loud suits and even louder ties makes him easy to ridicule, though even here he has a simple explanation: When he was younger, he’ll tell anyone who’ll listen, he attended a function for a friend and was badly underdressed for the occasion. He still remembers the hurt and embarrassment in his friend’s eye, and he vowed to overdress rather than underdress in future. It’s a rule he’s stuck to, ever since.


He may not always be right but he always, without fail, says what he believes, and says it with heart and conviction. It’s a rare trait, both on TV and in real life — especially during a federal election campaign that’s long on hot air and short on character.


Say what you will about Grapes, and many have said plenty, but it’s difficult not to like a guy who once riffed at MacLean: “A million comedians are starving to death and you’re trying to be one.” A guy who, following one particularly lousy game, remarked that the game’s three stars were, “No. 1, the Zamboni driver, No. 2, the usher and, No. 3, the guy selling popcorn.”


Or this more recent kernel of wisdom — this, remember, from a supposedly knuckle-dragging troll who glorifies hockey violence: “You can call it a cheap shot, blind shot, a late hit. You can call it what you want, but it should have been a suspension as far as I’m concerned. It’s unbelievable that that’s not a suspension. What it did was it gave meat to everybody that’s against the National Hockey League.”


As Grapes once said — and it had nothing to with his ratings, though it could have been: “I think the people, the working-man people, made a statement here, that you don’t have to be a college graduate to be a good Canadian.”


Oh, dear. That wouldn’t have gone down well with the liberals and sweethearts in a certain town near Lake Ontario.





astrachanpostmedia.com

From the Op/Ed pages of the Calgary Herald

Sadly, hugs have replaced handshakes

By Bronwyn Eyre, Calgary Herald April 5, 2011
We really don't do greeting and departing very well, do we?
Used to be, a brief, firm handshake was near-universal and seen to be classy and, in subtle ways, versatile. It worked between the sexes, required no awkward embrace and demanded a certain skill -a confident extension of the hand meeting the other's halfway for a two-or three-pump exchange. Simple. Satisfying. Sufficient.
I say the handshake "worked," past tense. Of course, it still does. But, alas, the venerable handshake has given a lot of ground to a variety of hugs: Half-hugs, kissy hugs, air-kissy hugs, gropy hugs, reluctant hugs, gratuitous hugs, inappropriate hugs, held-too-long hugs and just plain awkward hugs -especially those shoulders-together-bumsapart ones.
Where, oh where, did this wave of huggism come from? When I was growing up, I don't recall any great amount of hugging in any context -parents with children notwithstanding.
The handshake was the standard interchange and hugging, when it did occur, was pretty much restricted to -for lack of a better way of putting it -natural moments, such as between long-separated family members, funeral condolences, athletic victories and the like.
My parents say that, beyond babyhood, there was little if any hugging in their respective families. In fact, even family members shook hands -think young Prince Charles with the Queen. It just wasn't part of the mainstream culture.
Some say hugging in contemporary North America is our answer to the European double-cheek kiss. (In the Netherlands, by the way, the quadruple cheek-kiss is standard; and in Belgium, it's commonly six!) That's as good a theory as any, I guess, although I sometimes wonder if the hugging fad isn't a kind of awkward overcompensation among the texting tweeterati, who spend so much of their time in virtual one-onone communication.
But whatever its genesis, hugging certainly has taken hold.
Teenagers hug when they meet in shopping malls. Middle-agers hug when they meet for lunch. Dinner guests hug both when arriving and leaving. Even business people hug at business luncheons. I've seen newly introduced men and women hug each other.
Those people who offer official, on-the-street hugs to passersby strike me as the urban equivalent of the animated team mascot who offers huggie-wuggies to anyone who's receptive. It's all harmless enough, I suppose, but the neediness out there doesn't say much about our robustness as a people.
How interesting it would be to see the results of a survey into how people -by age, gender, ethnic background, etc. -regard the practice. I suspect that many who commit to the social embrace do so more from a sense that it has become socially obligatory than from a personal inclination -with men especially. After all, how many men really like doing the air-kiss thing?

I hasten to note I don't find all hugging offensive, improper or excessive. Obviously, it has its moments -ones that can be sweet, consoling, joyful or appropriate beyond words. But as with so much in life, it comes down to Aristotle's wise counsel of moderation in everything.

Handshaking itself can get excessive. I'll not soon forget the handshaking protocol I learned while in Germany visiting relatives: Handshakes first thing in the morning. At mid-morning snack time. At midday lunch. At mid-afternoon torte break. At dinnertime. And last thing before bedtime. At least, they did it well -neither the knucklecrushing vice grip at one extreme nor the limp finger tips at the other.

Doubtless, our enhanced awareness of germ transfer has made the handshake less common, and that's understandable. The fist bump would be an excellent and hygienic substitute. But for now at least, that knuckleson-knuckles interface lacks the gravitas often required in the moment.

Another greeting/departing model is the oriental bow. It's hard to quarrel with the classiness and dignity of that one. But let's face it, the bow -especially with hands closed in front of you while you do so -is way too alien and formal for us in the western world.

As for me and my house, I think I'll persevere with the handshake convention, if and where possible. It's got us through centuries of interpersonal relations and I hope it doesn't disappear entirely.




Bronwyn Eyre is a columnist with the StarPhoenix in Saskatoon.

Bizarre

I opened my email program at work first thing Monday morning just like always and there was a message from Zoosk mail from a person that I know (a little) who wants me to write a 'testimonial' on him.  (Zoosk, is that short for Gadzooks?)
We met the Christmas before last when we happened to be out with a mutual friend and her husband who were celebrating the husband's birthday.  We kinda took a shine to each other and he ended up spending the night at my place.  He was over a couple of times for dinner and stuff after that and it was non-stop whining about 'the shoulder'.  He had done some sort of damage or other to it and just wouldn't stop whining about it.  If I heard about 'the shoulder' (his term, not mine) one more time I'm sure that I was going to go into a screaming fit.
And we tried to, um, do the nasty.  A great big ol' non-performance there!  Shall we say 'Glibido'? (see previous post from Nobbs)  Or should he make sure that  there's a great big ol' hydraulic hoist at the ready?  Or maybe a steady supply of those little blue pills?  Most definitely had a bad case of 'willy-nilly' (refer back to Nobbs again)
You know, I'm not usually a mean person, but since when do you ask an ex-girlfriend to write a 'testimonial'?  (even though I wasn't really ever a girlfriend)  Now that's definitely stepping into very dangerous territory especially when you have 'performance issues'.  One of my co-workers was speechless that he had even asked me to do such a thing.